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Champagne, Bread, and Scissors, or How to Find Your New Year’s Traditions

posted 31st December 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, What I've Learned

New Year’s Eve is never much of a thing in my mind. It tends to sneak up on me, so I forget to make resolutions. I also don’t like crowds – especially after doing the Times Square ball drop thing in 2001 – which seems to rule out a lot of typical December 31 plans.

Mostly what this means is that I attempt to spend the evening with a small group of friends. We’ll eat, drink, and be merry, and then we’ll count down to midnight, champagne, and kisses. (Unless, of course, we get distracted by board games or conversation and miss midnight, in which case we’ll count down to a random time at which we yell “Happy New Year!” This has happened to me more than once.) So basically, it’s just like many other nights with my friends, except that we’re usually drinking wine instead of champagne, and high-fiving instead of kissing. I do my best to avoid straying too far from my apartment on December 31, because the last thing I want to do is commute home on the subway at some crazy hour with a bunch of crazy drunk people.

Some of my friends have New Year’s traditions that I really like, so in the past, I’ve tried to incorporate some of those into my own life. One of my best friends makes her resolutions at Chinese New Year. The holidays are her busiest time of year at work, so she doesn’t have a lot of time for reflection in December. When I considered doing that, I inadvertently let Chinese New Year slip by as well and avoided making resolutions yet again. Another friend always says, “Start as you mean to go on“. I guess I kind of do that now, as I described above, but that saying always makes me nervous. Since I already get a little stressed out about making plans that won’t involve the subway or spending a lot of money, I don’t want to add any more pressure to the night. Another tradition that I tried last year with a friend was throwing pieces of stale bread – each one representing something negative that we wanted to toss away – into the Hudson River. We used a loaf of bread that I’d baked with dough that had been in my fridge a little too long, and I found the motion incredibly satisfying. As 2010 involved my break-up and other challenges, I had a lot of things that I wanted to release. The whole process felt cleansing, though I wished I’d brought more bread.

It felt like I was Goldilocks trying all of these out, and nothing fit quite right – until I read about someone picking a word for the year. When I first saw a blog post about doing that, though, the person picked a word at random from the dictionary. Of course, I only had a French-English dictionary at home, and I ended up with words like scissors and hydraulic. Would you theme an entire 365 days around scissors or hydraulic? Hell no. I decided to declare the following 12 months my Year of Awesome. And it was. I traveled somewhere every month, saw friends and family, had a great roller derby season, blah blah blah. I was sold.

…until the next year rolled around and I completely missed choosing something in time for January 1. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

That moment confirmed that in my mind, New Year’s Eve is just another night. There is one day each year that does feel significant to me when it comes to making life changes, though: my birthday. These days, I select the word that will carry me through the coming 52 weeks by August 4, my new year’s eve. Beginning on August 5, that’s what guides me. As I mentioned way back when in my very first post, courage inspired me to make big decisions from August 5, 2010 through August 4, 2011. I dug deep to find the strength to follow through with that, and it was well-worth it.

At the moment, I’m approaching my halfway mark for my year of flourishing. Today and tomorrow, I’ll spend some time reflecting on that…

…or, if we’re being honest, I’ll likely just have a few drinks and spend time being silly with my friends.

Wherever you are, Happy New Year! May 2012 bring you love, joy, and the strength to follow your dreams – and flourish.

[photo credit: me!]

Psst! Hey, you! Gorgeous girl! Down here!

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Blue, Blue Christmas

posted 26th December 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

I didn’t think this would be as hard as it is.

I’ve drafted countless posts about why I decided to spend the holidays in Europe, about not sticking with my plan to arrive in Australia in time to spend Christmas with my cousins there, about my family’s holiday traditions. I’ve been trying to slap a smile on my face about spending my first Christmas away from my parents and my brother. Everything that I’ve written so far felt false, and that’s not why I’m here.

So in the interest of speaking my truth, I’m here to tell you: it’s one week before Christmas, and I’ve been growing increasingly sad as December 25 draws nearer.

I didn’t think I would be. Christmas, though I have many fond memories and associated traditions, isn’t my favorite holiday. (In case you were wondering, that title goes to Thanksgiving, the day of eating all of the food and spending time with people you love.) I’ve grown accustomed to only seeing my parents once – or maybe twice – a year, and I saw them in May, shortly after I gave notice at my job. Also, I’m spending the holiday season in the best place in the world to do so: Central Europe. Lordy, do the people of this region love their Christmas markets, and I am all for that. Give me glühwein (mulled wine), cinnamon-crusted bread tubes, and glittering lights in cobblestoned squares. It’s magical, truly.

And yet, here I am, choking back tears as I think about how I won’t be baking cookies with my mom this year. (In fact, she was doing that while we were skyping yesterday.) I won’t be watching bits and pieces of A Christmas Story throughout the day, while it plays for 24 hours on TBS. (Does anyone actually sit and watch that movie the whole way through anymore?) I won’t be decorating a tree or carefully wrapping gifts for my family, including our labrador retriever, Max. (After you give him a new toy, he insists on taking it out into the back yard immediately.) I won’t be eating my parents’ homemade pierogi (the Polish equivalent of ravioli, stuffed with potato and cheese), my mom’s delicious Christmas Eve and Day feasts, or fried catfish and hushpuppies from Fred’s Fish House. (I love my mom’s cooking, but I’ve also got to take advantage of the fact that they live in the south now.)

Don’t get me wrong: I know that there are going to be awesome things about this Christmas. But right now, I want to acknowledge the sad parts. The missing-my-family parts. The things-changing-as-you-grow-up-kind-of-really-sucks-sometimes parts.

* * * * * * * * * *

By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be celebrating Christmas with my friends in Graz. I suspect baked goods and tasty drinks will be involved, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ll skype with my parents and grandparents, and send holiday wishes to friends who are far away. I hope that some of today’s sadness will have passed as I create new traditions with friends and enjoy my adventure.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you enjoy the day, however you celebrate. And if it’s just another Sunday, let it be a good one!

[photo credit: me!]

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I Left My Heart in Prague

posted 11th December 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

Nine years ago, I stepped off a train in Prague and proceeded to get scammed by a taxi driver. He charged me over three times what I should have paid – and I knew it – but there was nothing I could do at the time. I was a 21-year-old girl who didn’t speak a word of Czech, and I was trying to bargain with burly men who knew that. The alternative, though, was attempting to maneuver my large, unwieldy suitcase on an unfamiliar tram system, though, and that didn’t feel like much of an option.

I was already regretting my decision to spend four months living in this city. When I chose to go there, I didn’t really know anything about the city or the country. I only knew that it was in Eastern Europe, close to my family’s homeland of Poland. (And when I arrived, I found out that it was actually in Central Europe, so I hadn’t really known anything.) Colleagues from my internship who had been to Prague told me that it was incredibly beautiful, and that I would love my time there.

I arrived in Central Europe two weeks after devastating floods. I flew into Berlin with my ex-boyfriend, who was studying there for the semester, and then I took the train to Prague. After hours of riding in silence, the man sitting next to me told me that we were nearly there. I looked out the window and I wanted to cry. It was ugly. All I saw were tall, concrete apartment buildings – panelaks, built when the former Czechoslovakia was under Soviet rule – and I couldn’t believe it. Where was the beautiful architecture? Where were the charming cobblestone streets? What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

I don’t remember the drive through the city to my dormitory, which was up on top of the hill past the castle. Later, I would notice all of the incredible details on the buildings, the orange tile rooftops, the stunning towers and churches, and the cobblestone streets – things that would become fixtures of my daily commute to my university. Later, I would see all of the damage caused by the floods: the crumbled walls of buildings near the Vltava River, the piles of garbage by metro stations, the closed streets and trams running irregular routes. That afternoon, though, I didn’t process any of that. I arrived at Kolej Komenského, my home for the next four months, and wondered what I was going to do.

That night, I met all of my fellow students as we went to dinner a few blocks away at a Czech pub. I ate smažený sýr (fried cheese) and palačinky (Czech pancakes, which are like crepes) while having introductory conversations with the people I’d grow to know well over the next four months. When things started winding down, I left the restaurant with my roommate and two of our classmates. We walked to the top of the hill – a route we would grow to know well over the coming months – and when we got to the top, something caught our attention.

There was chanting. After a minute, we realized that it was coming from the monastery. It was entrancing. We walked around the building, trying to see where it was coming from, but we couldn’t see anyone inside. While we stood there, listening, I turned around and looked down the hill.

Prague was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.

As I gazed over the glowing city – especially the domes and spires of churches lit up at night – I was certain that by the end of the semester, I’d take that view for granted. I figured that once things became routine, the city wouldn’t feel so incredible anymore. That never happened. Prague’s beauty and magic stayed with me that semester, and my creativity soared during that time. Something about being there feels electric to me, inspiring and powerful. If you can fall in love with a city, I did so with Prague that night near the monastery.

* * * * * * * * * *

Three weeks ago, I stepped off a plane at Ruzyně airport in Prague, and I bought a transit pass. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and hopped on a bus to the metro. I listened to the announcements in Czech, catching a few words and phrases that I remembered. When I exited the metro, I easily navigated familiar streets and headed to a favorite cafe to meet some friends.

This was my fourth visit back, and it still – always – feels like home. Each time I’ve visited, I’ve returned with my roommate from that semester abroad, and we have a list of old favorites that we try to be sure to see. This time, we spent a day walking through Petřín Park, a place where I spent many hours wandering, reading, and writing nine years ago. As we exited the park near the top of the hill, we passed that same monastery that gave us pause our first night there. Dusk was settling over the city, and looking out over the church tops and orange tile roofs, I fell in love all over again. As my friends and I walked down the hill toward the restaurant where I spent my first night in Prague nine years ago, I knew that the magic of the city will stay with me.

Though this last visit was entirely too brief, I’m not worried; I know that I’ll keep going back. We may have started off on the wrong foot, but Prague and I, we’re connected.

Have you ever fallen in love with a city, or visited a place that took your breath away?

[photo credit: me!]

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Self-Care on the Road

posted 4th December 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

It’s been over two months since I left New York and a “normal” daily life behind. When I was there, I dealt every day with the stresses of my job and commuting – the high level of hostility emanating from people on the subway and the streets really got to me sometimes – and so I had particular self-care tactics that I used regularly to keep myself sane.

Now that I’m living one of my dreams, traveling Europe, and spending my time doing things that I love, my self-care system – and any routines, really – have fallen by the wayside. I eat my meals according to what’s typical in the countries that I visit, and it’s not necessarily the most balanced diet. I occasionally take yoga classes, but haven’t been practicing at home. I don’t talk to – or email – my friends and my family with any regularity. And sleep schedule? What sleep schedule?

I hadn’t thought much about it for my first six or so weeks; it didn’t really bother me. And then, I visited Fes. I loved Morocco, Fes, and the medina. Loved. The medina – or old, walled city – in Fes is the largest contiguous car-free area in the world, and it’s a giant maze of trinkets, delicious food, and stunning handicrafts. My friends and I spent two days exploring, bargaining, taking photos, and eating. It was a beautiful and fascinating sensory experience.

And that’s when it all caught up with me.

We stopped at a shop to buy scarves, and after a long sales pitch from the proprietor, my friends picked theirs out. I, on the other hand, froze. I couldn’t choose. The owner of the shop was saying how sad he was that I didn’t see anything I liked, and he kept putting different scarves around my neck. It took everything I had left not to burst into tears on the spot. (As a side note, if you want the price of two silk scarves to drop by 100 Moroccan dirhams – the equivalent of about $12 or 10 euros – look like you’re going to cry.)

All I could think about for the next few days was escaping. I was desperate to find a city where I could go and get a reasonably-priced hotel room with free wifi. My idea was that I would go to that place and camp out in the hotel bed for a few days, leaving only to find delicious, inexpensive food. I even asked facebook and twitter for suggestions about what that city would be.

Then I realized: I didn’t need to go somewhere special. Sure, I might miss some of the sights in my next stop, Barcelona, but who cares? Isn’t my health and sanity more important?

I spent the morning before I left Madrid looking for yoga studios and nail salons in Barcelona. I found a few different studios with reasonable prices and good class times, as well as a place to get a pedicure. I did some yoga before breakfast. I picked up some healthy snacks at the Mercado San Miguel later that day, so that I wouldn’t be tempted by gluten-filled train station food the next morning.

And you know what? Just the action of recognizing that I didn’t have to run around trying to do Barcelona made me feel a little better. That acknowledgment helped remind me that this – exploring and experiencing Europe – is my life now, and that I get to choose how I do that, and when to take a step back.

Look, I’m not saying that having shiny purple polish on my toenails fixed everything in my life, but it sure as hell reminds me every time I see them that this is fun – and that taking care of myself wins over seeing all of the sights.

[photo credit: me!]

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Is Home Where the Heart Is?

posted 20th November 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

When I arrived in Paris, the acquaintance with whom I was staying apologized for his sparse apartment; he’s going through a transition and doesn’t have very much stuff right now. I pointed at the bags I’d placed on the floor a few minutes earlier and said that I understood. He replied, knowingly, “That’s your home.”

I’ve been thinking about the concept of home quite a bit recently; it was hard not to after I closed the door to my Brooklyn apartment one final time. I hadn’t – and still haven’t – signed a lease on a new flat; all I’ve got for the foreseeable future are friends’ couches, hostel beds, and the two carry-on bags referenced in my bio below. It’s an interesting place to be.

For years, I’ve been the type of person who will refer to wherever I’m sleeping that night as home. I remember being on a trip – to Paris, in fact – in high school, and when other people would say something about returning to the hotel, it was just “going home” in my mind. At the time, I thought that I phrased things that way for the sake of being concise; however, as I look back, I think there’s more to it than that.

That trip to France at age 15 marked my first time on an airplane, as well as my first trip abroad. (Other than to Canada. And actually, when my family visited Ontario, we didn’t need passports to go. In other words, it doesn’t count.) I knew from the moment I set foot on the streets of Paris – well, except for an unfortunate incident involving a croque monsieur, which did not taste delicious when I was feeling nauseated and jetlagged – that I wanted to visit more places. A lot more. In fact, I wanted to be a fancy international businesswoman so that I could traipse all of the world and get paid to do it.

I’d caught the travel bug.

Though that initial dream of corporate-funded globetrotting never really materialized, I became a traveler. My mom even started calling me her little nomad. Since that first time in another country in 1997, I’ve lived* in 16 places and crashed in countless others – hotel rooms, hostels, friends’ apartments, camps, farms, etc. Each of those has been home in my mind, even if only for a night. I’m happy that I developed that perspective, because without it, I think it would be very difficult to take this trip.

We all hear from a young age that “home is where the heart is.” I wasn’t sure until now whether that was true for me. I mean, if that quote is correct, shouldn’t my heart be with my family, or best friends, or…something invariable?

And then it hit me this morning: that is exactly where my heart is. It’s on the road, with my loved ones scattered around the globe. It’s in cities where I found inspiration and new life. It’s in experiences shared with friends and family, in meals and memories. Home is transient because I am, and my heart is with me as I go.

What makes somewhere home for you?

*In this instance, I’m defining places I’ve lived as anywhere I’ve paid rent (dorm rooms included) or houses where I’ve stayed rent-free for more than one month.

[photo credit: me!]

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