Freckled Freedom

When you arrive home from an epic journey everyone immediately wants to know one thing: How are you doing? It's the number one inquiry on everybody's list. I've been analyzing the usage of this question throughout my arrivals back to New York and I've noticed major similarities in the inquiry. When most people ask, their tones tend to resemble the way people apologize for a death. I'm so sorry It must suck to be home How are you holding up?  You must be miserable People expect distress, depression, and debbie-downers. They look for the drawn face, vacant eyes, and melancholy Facebook statuses. The adventuring has ceased and home is Purgatory... or so they seem to think.  Well, without further ado, I grant you my well being, my thoughts, my feelings, and my response to the age-old question...  How are you doing? Since I've gotten home, I must admit, I've been a bit lazier than I expected to be, especially after being a CocoBaby. I pictured myself coming b...

When I first kissed the ''Silent Man,'' I thought I had found the ideal situation: a beautiful man that I enjoyed being with that could barely speak English. I assumed goodbye would be simple, no tears would be shed and my thoughts would steer clear of 'if onlys' and 'what ifs.' How hard could it be to leave behind a fling you could barely communicate with, right? I could not have been so wrong. Never would I have thought that the Silent Man would be the first person I'd say the words 'I love you' to. I remember the moment I first saw him; there we sat, the four surf students, cramming in pizzas and fresh juice before grabbing the board that would inevitably leave my teeth swimming in the sea. I sat in the corner, flipping through magazine photos when out of the corner of my eye, a burst of color flash by. My eyes followed and my heart skipped two beats. There he was, a Portuguese man filled with tattoos, piercings, and sense of style comple...

On the sixteenth of May, a few hours after my shift ended, Anika and I set off for a holiday of sunshine, spirits, and surf. At 6 pm sharp, me actually being early for once in my life, we meet in Central Station, Lola getting some fresh air for the first time since we arrived at Cocomama.  -> If you are just tuning in, Lola is my backpack, my one and only travel companion. She's been through it all with me.  We load the train, Schipol bound... so we think. Moments later a Dutch voice comes over the speaker informing us that there are no trains leaving the station heading to the airport. And so begins the series of unfortunate events.  We shuffle off the train to find another destination to transfer at. After much ado we arrive at the airport. We scour Schipol, devoting every last minute to buying duty-free gadgets, endlessly contemplating which of the five food options will satiate our hunger: Bubbles & Seafood, Wox Box, Mediterranean Sandwich, Sbarro, or B...

Just the other day I led mission of rediscovery. I rekindled a few joys that were put on the back burner for a bit. I forgot the pleasure aroused from getting pleasantly lost in a city. Forgot how lovely it feels to just journey and find your way; to be okay not knowing the specifics of everything, not knowing the details and directions. Everything is beautiful and in the end, the way will be found and all will be okay.  I ride along the canals, feeling for the first time that I am a car. My bicycle and I are a dream team, following the rules of the road. My arm extends to signal my right on red. My bell dings, alerting the tourists about to stumble in the bike lane that they shouldn't dare to step in my way. My balance is steady and for two seconds I loosen my grip, uncurl my fingers and let my hands drop to the side. My bike and I are in complete unison. Glorious. As we tip to the left I grab the handles, the seconds coming to an end. My grin is two-chubby-cheeks wide.  My...

Hear ye, hear ye.  Please make way for the biggest street party of the year. Prepare ye livers and lungs for the time of your life: QUEENSDAY 2011 Koninginnedag, as the Dutch call it, is celebrated on April 30th and is unlike anything you've ever imagined. The streets turn into a sea of chaos. All are raising a glass for the birthday of Queen Juliana. Before continuing on, let's clarify a few thing first. Juliana is not the current queen. Her daughter, Beatrix, is the Queen of the Netherlands. Now the problem with Lady Beatrix is that her birthday falls is the dead of winter and let me just say, Dutch winters are NOT pretty. Certainly not the opportune time to hold a massive street party. So rather, let us wish a happy birthday to Juliana and thank her for giving the Netherlands one more excuse to celebrate.  Picture this: Everyone decked out in all shades of orange imaginable. Shirts. Shorts. Shoes. Socks. Paint. Balloon hats. Feathers... galore. The streets are packed, cra...

I never thought I'd spend Easter Sunday on my own, laying in the sun in a park in Amsterdam. So far, in this lifetime I've spent birthdays in Perth, Copenhagen, and hopefully my 23rd in the Dam, I've had Thanksgivings in Perth and Barcelona, the 4th of July on a plane to Costa Rica and Halloween in Fremantle. Crazy, ain't it? And today I blast my Dave Matthews as my freckles congregate, darkening into a cluster of ginger tan. It's so odd celebrating holidays abroad. Being so far from the family festivities and dysfunctional dinners make it feel like just another day... apart from the presence of the "Easter Tree" rooted at reception. There are no eggs decorated, no baskets to wake to full of mini Cadbury eggs and overpriced-edible bunnies. There is no mid-morning chocolate overdose (midnight is another story). I woke this morning to the ladies of the love cave staring in my direction. I rolled over in hopes that the 10am internal alarm would turn itsel...

The windows of Amsterdam have a completely different connotation than most places. Naturally, there are those that most people associate the Dam with, the windows of the Red Light District. From all hours of the morning until all hours of the night, tiny alleyways are lit up, lined with pink and purple lights. The purple clue you in, informing the street dwellers that the ladies inside are not actually not women. Within each, you will find women of all shapes, sizes, and colors, decked out in the skimpiest of lingerie. They perch on stools chatting on their on their phones or they press themselves against the glass, leaning themselves in prime- viewing stature. Their gaze remains focused, looming over the mixture of tourists strolling through for the spectacle and distinguishing their victims. They lock eyes with you, extending their fingers and urging you to let them open their windows for you. They are on the hunt, preying upon the horny men and women of the streets. But there is...