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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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Feeling the Disconnect

posted 18th December 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

My old routine in New York involved a lot of time online. My apartment had a pretty rockin’ wifi connection, and I was able to be online eight hours a day, five days a week at my desk job. G-chat, twitter, and facebook provided a necessary break from work emails and database entry – and naturally, I had a fancy internet phone that was like an extension of my arm. I had a love/hate relationship with all of the connectivity; I liked being in the loop, but I also despised when people would get annoyed with me for not responding immediately. Sometimes I wanted to be at dinner with friends and not checking my phone constantly, you know?

Honestly, I was pretty excited about heading out to travel and taking a step back from the internet. Though I blog, tweet, and facebook up a storm, I also enjoy not feeling chained to a constant stream of updates. I had prepared myself for potentially not having internet on farms for weeks, and I’d also acknowledged that I would no longer have the 3G connection on my phone. I was ready for my data detox…

…until my first few days in Iceland. Sure, I had a SIM card for my phone, but I didn’t have a data plan. Tweeting in real time? Not happening. Sending photos to friends so they could see Reykjavík along with me? Nope. I spent a lot of time at coffee shops to cope with my withdrawal symptoms and get my internet fix. I found myself unable to keep up with feeds, but at least I could chat with my friends. I started panicking at the thought of heading to farms with little to no internet connection.

Of course, we all know how that part of the tale ends. I met amazing new friends on the farm(s). I was having such a great time that I’d log on for ten minutes a day – if I bothered checking. When I was hitchhiking, facebook and twitter couldn’t have been further from my mind. It was cleansing, refreshing.

I wish the story ended with me saying that because of all the awesome people that I’ve met and all the fun I’m having, I’ve broken my internet addiction. It’s gotten better, for sure. I don’t feel like I’m missing a limb when I can’t check my email on my phone every ten minutes, and while I miss my rad twitter friends, I don’t mind that I sometimes go days – or weeks – without it. It feels like a much healthier life balance for me.

There’s a catch, though: I’ve found the one pitfall of traveling long-term, and it’s that I feel really disconnected from all of my friends and family on the other side of the globe. After a few weeks, the emails and comments from people back in the United States diminished, and that’s been really hard. Sometimes I worry that people are forgetting about me; other times I wonder if they think they’re bothering me if they’re in touch frequently. In a conversation with an expat friend recently, we pondered whether friends think that because we’re living in another country, our lives must be so! awesome! all of the time! That’s not exactly untrue – I’m having amazing adventures and meeting interesting new people – but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss them, too. I do. A lot. A really lot.

I’m still working on finding the right balance of connectivity and being away from the screen, as I think so many of us are. For now, though, I’ll continue to take advantage of the internet when I have access, because it’s the link to the people I love, and I want them to be a part of my current adventures. Since I can’t fit everyone in my suitcase, at least I can share stories and photos.

How do you balance your online and offline lives?

[photo credit: my friend and travel buddy, Jenni]

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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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The Kindness of Strangers

posted 27th November 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

The day that my friend Emily and I left Morocco, we were on a very tight schedule. We had 3:05 p.m. train tickets from Algeciras in southern Spain to Madrid, so we had to plan the Morocco end of our travel around that. Missing that train wasn’t an option: if we weren’t on it, Emily wouldn’t make it back to Madrid in time for her flight the following day. We opted to depart from Rabat at 6:42 a.m. on a train that would put us in Tangier around 10:30 a.m., leaving us with merely half an hour to catch our 11:00 a.m. ferry to Spain. (Is this starting to feel like a strange math problem to anyone else?)

We had settled on this plan simply because the alternative was a 2:00 a.m. train from Rabat, and arriving in Tangier at 6:30 a.m. seemed…unappealing. We already knew that the train station there was far from welcoming, and getting a bit of sleep seemed like a good idea. Perhaps our initial priority of maximizing our time in Morocco hadn’t been the best one, but there was no way to change that now. We needed to make the best of this new, rigid schedule.

When we boarded our train in Rabat, our assigned carriage had the lights off and a man sleeping, so we decided to sit in the next carriage that had open seats. We passed the first few hours of the ride napping and chatting with each other. About an hour before our arrival, the older Moroccan woman sitting across from us asked us about the henna designs on our hands. So began a conversation with her – in French – about our time in Morocco, her experiences in France, and politics. With the help of the other girl in our carriage, who spoke both French and English, we carried on a lovely and lively multilingual dialogue.

As our train pulled into the station in Tangier, Emily and I nervously eyed the time on our cell phones. We had under 30 minutes to get to the port, purchase our tickets, and board the ferry. Things didn’t seem promising, and if we missed that boat, there was no way we could make our train. Our new Moroccan friend saw our concerned looks and asked about our ferry. As we climbed down the stairs of the train, she signaled for us to follow her. My hopeful assumption was that she was going to help us get a taxi, and I knew that transaction would go much more smoothly – and be less expensive – with her assistance.

When we exited the station, she led us through the hoard of taxi drivers trying to get fares and found us one off to the side. She told us to get in the back, and she hopped into the front seat. I heard a flurry of Darija (Moroccan Arabic), and we were off. She asked which ferry company we were using, and we told her the name – and also that we still needed to buy tickets. More conversation in Darija followed.

Ten minutes before our ferry’s departure time, we pulled up to the ticket seller, thanked her profusely, and hurried up to the counter. She watched until we were in the process of purchasing our tickets before the cab drove off.

Every day of this trip, I am thankful for the kindness of strangers. Without this woman’s help, we never would have managed to find the ticket counter and make it to our ferry in time. I wake up every day full of gratitude for the life I’m leading right now, for the amazing people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had. I hope that someday, I’ll be able to offer the same generosity to others that I’ve received: the places to stay, the rides, the shared meals, the companionship.

For now, I’ll continue giving thanks and not taking all of this for granted.

[photo credit: me!]

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