The High.

It’s the hustle and bustle at the departures drop off point.

The moment I show my passport.

It’s the never-ending queue, the overpriced shops, and uncomfortable seat I curl into whilst waiting at the gate.

It’s handing my ticket to the check-in agent, the breeze I feel as I make my way down the long corridor, the sardine seating, and the click of the belt across my lap.

It is the high of travel I can never. get. enough. of.

I want my feet to wander across new and old ground, my eyes to marvel at a thousand cityscapes, and my heart to quicken — and stop — at a million rich sunsets.

My home is everywhere and nowhere at all.

I wander, I look, I live, I learn.

I travel for the moments, the memories, the high.


Live like a local.

I’ve been in England for a little more than two months now, and whenever the “why are you here?” question inevitably pops up, it’s also tied in with this qualifying-statement-meets-question-that-we-hope-is-not-true: “I don’t mean to be rude; it’s just that — don’t less than something like half of Americans even have a passport?”


It’s mostly asked with complete innocence. A few people have even defended Americans: “But America is so huge that you can travel your own states and have covered as much ground as Europe.” Others are noticeably disappointed, suggesting that many Americans live in an imperialistic bubble, because they’ve never ventured out of their safe zone.

When you’re in the U.S., there’s a false sense of security. Millions would like to think it’s the safest, cleanest, freest, bestest, most awesomest place ever. To challenge that is entirely un-American. That’s why this clip resonated so intensely with people around the world. Internationally, there were cheers because someone — even if it was on a TV show — finally validated that there are multiple amazing, safe, clean, freedom-filled places to live on this planet. Americans with a more expansive worldview appreciated that. Those who are decidedly less so, pretty passionately did not.

I love America. I love that country roads still have pick-ups and that we all patriotically sing the Star Spangled Banner whenever the familiar tune is heard. I love that we fervently support the causes we believe in, that gas station nachos are still a thing, and I really love that the entire autumn season is a celebration of comforting nostalgia: fall trees, cool breezes, pumpkin spice everything, baked apple pies, knitted sweaters, corn mazes and hayrides, time with family and the introduction of cheesy holiday-themed Hallmark movies that just make you feel good.

What I’m less fond of is the fear that is etched into us from the time we are born. The fear that tells us we are the only good place, the only safe place, the single best place. I guess I want to have my Red, White, and Blue slice of cake and eat it, too. I want to sing about how great and awesome we are, but I also want to feel the awesome robustness of many places around the world. I don’t want to live with the belief that the American Way is the Only Way.

So I suppose it is fitting that my latest life lesson came in the form of a haircut, the second time a haircut has taught me something this year.

I’ve been eyeing my roots for the last week. They’ve looked horrendous. I tried a box dye in desperation, which wound up giving me passable chocolate roots that blended into my dyed black hair. My cut had grown out almost three inches in two months. It was time. It was just time.

I knew the day would come, but it’d been a little fear in the back of my mind. Will they understand what I want? Will they do a nice job? Will I look stupid? It doesn’t matter how many times you travel — comfortable or not, there is a sense of foreignness, a realization of cultural nuances that are — and should be — there.

The thing is, you can tailor those nuances to be a benefit or a detriment. You can embrace them, have fun with them and go with the flow or you can be fearful and resistant. I had to be brave and choose the former.

So, appointment made, I went into the small, local salon with slight trepidation and confirmed my arrival at the front counter. I was led to my seat. I was asked what I wanted. I was welcomed. I became an active participant in the conversation. I laughed, I asked questions, answered questions, and made a friend. By the end of it all, I’d enjoyed a nearly two hour salon experience alongside lovely British ladies, our heads all wrapped up in caps like the 1950’s while we relaxed and chattered and did nothing of particular importance.

It was a human interaction and one that left me humbled. Not only do I now have an adorable black bob, but I have also conquered a social fear and can’t wait to go again.

If there’s one, single lesson I hope I can convey through my blog and Instagram, it’s that people are people, and the more you see of the world, the more you realize there is beautiful diversity but also a strong, common thread of humanity that unites us all.

What’s in your fridge?

When I kissed my luxury condo goodbye some time ago, the most time wasn’t spent on sorting clothes or knick-knacks. Strangely, it was the food that took forever.

Did you know that poppy seeds can go rancid?

According to the internetz, nuts — like seeds — are high in oils (duh), and thus can get bitter/go rancid, and otherwise end up pretty disgusting and useless. I had a five year old jar of poppy seeds in my cupboard. Suffice it to say the poppy seeds didn’t come with me to England.

Months later, here I am in Manchester, and do you know what I have? A mini fridge, folks. I’m talking college-freshman-in-a-dorm mini fridge. And do you know what’s so amazing about this? It’s enough. To Westerners, and Americans in particular, that’s a pretty foreign concept. I think my adaptability has surprised even me.

But, here’s the thing: you can only eat so many calories in a day (assuming you want to be a generally healthy person), and grocery stores are not yet going out of style, though I do suspect Amazon’s proposed takeover of Whole Foods will be a game-changer for the industry.

As it sits, I consume roughly 1400 calories per day. This amounts to a simple breakfast of tea with yogurt or muesli, some sort of grain, protein and fruit for lunch, and typically a protein-heavy dinner. None of what I just described requires an “American-sized refrigerator,” as the Brits and Aussies call them, or a Costco membership.

All it requires is a mini fridge.

I don’t have my poppy seeds anymore. Or my two year old packages of pasta noodles, 5lb bag of flour or that rotting cucumber I bought last October. Instead, I have a two to three day supply of fresh food, as well as a small shelf of longer-lasting items like Hobnobs and tea.

And let me tell you, that fresh food supply is glorious. I savor every single thing in my little mini fridge, because it was purchased with a purpose. I no longer meander through the grocery loading up a cart. I think strategically about what can fit into a bag or two, how long those items will be good and where I can use those items over the course of a couple of days — sliced avocado in a salad for dinner one night; mashed avocado on toast with a boiled egg for lunch the next day, for instance.

This idea, this theory — The Mini Fridge Theory, if you will — is a metaphor for my life. Five years ago, all I wanted was a bigger home — more curb appeal, more grass, more bedrooms, more granite counter tops…more, more, more. Two years ago, I wanted more luxury, more prestige, more respect from society.

But today?

Today, all I want is my mini fridge. My freedom. My statement to the world that my place on this planet isn’t about how much space I can take up but how little space I can consume while seeing how much of the world I can explore.

Blueberries, plums, yogurt, cheese, Charcuterie meats. That’s what’s in my fridge right now.

What’s in yours?