On Darkness, More Darkness, And Dawn. And Epic, Epic Gratitude.

This time, three months ago, you found me curled up on the bathroom floor sobbing my eyes out for an average of 6 hours a day, and I'm not exaggerating. Reason being that lover boy and I have split, which was so painful that even your favorite attention seeker didn't tell most of her friends. I don't want to go into detail because emotions are complicated, and personal, and I'm by no means over anything yet. I just want you to know that a couple weeks back, I thought life was an asshole whose sole purpose it is to punch me in the ovaries, because we all feel like that sometimes, and I personally find it easier to deal with when I know everyone else is going through it as well.
So, what I did after the break-up, was to sit around my mom's house in sweatpants and oh, by the way, finish that screenplay that was due. What I also did was starting to meditate.

Whatever sparked it. I'd been doing it on and off for months, but then, with the images haunting me and my thoughts going in circles, I decided to become a mind ninja. I sat down on that pillow bawling, and I didn't fucking get up until I stopped. (Then I went to bed and cuddled a teddy bear. Yes.)
And now it's been two months that I've done it every night before bed, and I'm calmer, and more understanding, and happier, and just... more zen. There's a bagajillion if resources on the internet that will tell you all the benefits, I just wanted to say that it pretty much saved my sanity. Mademoiselle I-had-a-burnout-at-age-20 actually no longer sweats the small stuff, and when someone tries to stress me, I shrug it off. PRETTY AWESOME.

Then I went out of town for a job that I'm still on right now. Change of scenery? Awesome. People asking you how your darling is and making heartbreak impressions with your hands over and over again? Eeeeh.
But somehow, somewhere, unnoticed, a little spark of light appeared at the end of the tunnel, and it grew, and then it punched me in the face. Sunshine straight up punched me in the face.

I decided to do what I wasn't able to in my relationship - take crazy trips of crazy length to crazy places whenever. So missy planned a trip to Ghana. And then a friend of her called and was all like TAKE ME WITH YOU, and I was all like YES, and this weekend we met to discuss details and record silly videos and laugh and hug and be happy.

Which is how we get to a BIG FUCKING THANK YOU to those who were there.
Friendship is when your friends take you on a ride in the middle of the night to get a break-up milkshake (tradition of mine) and then drive through roundabouts backwards, which could get them fined or arrested but they know it makes you giggle like an infant.
It's when you get off stage, and it was awesome, and you're in a great mood, but you still listen to your friend sob into the phone and tell her that she has every right to feel like the poorest sucker in the world, because being a mining victim in Cambodia sucks but at least the sun is shining! Which is wrong and tasteless but makes your friend feel so much better about feeling so, so tragic when there's people who are off much worse.
And it's inviting your friend to Munich, and planning a life of travel and documentary filmmaking, and just goddamn hugging her like you mean it. I came back yesterday and honestly couldn't care less about how many actors scream at me this week, because I have amazing loving supportive people in my life and my life is awesome.

There are so many things that I'm grateful for, and they shine even brighter in contrast to the death wish depression that I, and all those wonderful people, have pulled me out of. Like the fact that I can just pack my bags and go WHEREVER. Seriously, sometimes when I travel, I want to break down crying out of gratitude for the magnificence I'm allowed to experience. Or finding yourself in a car with someone you really like, who's 10 years older, and they tell you that you're an inspiration to them. I damn near fainted.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is that (while you'll feel like a massive asshole for trying to be happy post-breakup) even when you're convinced, straight up convinced, that your life is over, and nothing is ever going to be less than horrible again, and what's the point of ever getting out of bed anyway? - The sun WILL rise again. And you might watch it rising from your exercise mat at 5.30 in the morning, because you are much stronger than you think, and you get up an hour early to do pushups and high knees. Because you're still awesome, and the world is still awesome, and people are still awesome. And it might be sooner than you ever thought possible that you decide there's been enough crying and heartache, and that it's time to grab life by the balls again.

Here's to you.

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On 8 vaccinations, 2 visas, and how I'm going to IRAQ... in a good way.

I'm telling you people, if you need half a bagajillion vaccinations, DON'T GET THEM IN A SINGLE DAY. My arms are still mad, but they're useable again. And it's so worth it! Because guess what! I am now an Africa-ready superhuman.

I'm also doing something I don't usually do when traveling - I'm taking people with me. Gasp! A friend of mine joked "Why you no take me to Ghana with you?" and I was like "Dude, join me?" And I won't even admit how much safer that makes me feel because not-so-deep inside, I'm a major sissy. I also think that it bears epic potential for hilarity that we're both really excited about eating roasted spiders. Videos to follow.

And then, at my mom's birthday dinner, the most amazing thing happened. Her best friend hasn't been to her home in Iraq for 21 years, and is now planning to visit her family there in July.
My reaction: HYPERVENTI - omg take me - LATION - with you - ATTACK - please?
She was all excited I was so interested and invited me and now I'm applying for a visa to Iraq and I already learned to hold a basic conversation in Arabic and I currently look like this:

Seriously, I've been through some real shitty weeks, but HI, LIFE, I ACCEPT THE APOLOGY.

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Sometimes, Travel Makes Me Feel Like An Asshole

It's not like I'm trying. But there is a case to be made that maybe, the non-traveler can't understand the need to stuff a few shirts in a backpack and set off on a short - yes, short - 4 week adventure in Africa.
Cause that's what I'm doing.

I'm going to Ghana, man. Ghana is nice and peaceful and awesome. It's not like I'm planning to run around Somalia naked. I got all my shots yesterday. Yes, ALL of them, YESTERDAY, which equals six vaccines and arm pain robbing me of the ability to take of my shirt for two days, true story.
I was just on the phone with my Dad complaining about this, and when he asked whether I was "Sure about this", I'm pretty sure he was a little choked up. In the history of the universe, this has only happened twice so far, and it was always directly preceding a long trip of mine.

I'm an asshole.

I make so many people worry and lose nights of sleep and years of life. I hate to inflict pain on people who love me, and some of them can not understand wanderlust. I really hope I don't induce a heart attack on anyone once I move past "nice and peaceful and awesome", because I'm planning to. I'm planning to because of this:



BOOM DE YA DAH! Seriously, I get goose bumps every single time.


Why do we travel? I can't pin it down to one thing. All I can tell you is that I've burst into laughter watching the Northern Lights dance in Alaska, that I've sang while riding a Jet Ski too fast in Hawaii, fell off four wheelers in the woods and slept under a diamond sky in Australia.
This is life for me. This is what makes life worth living, what makes me want to cry out of humility and gratitude for the opportunity to witness such beauty. While travel friendships can be short lived, there is no feeling like meeting a stranger on the other side of the world who understands you more deeply than a lot of people at home.
And it gives me perspective, it shows me how much incredible stuff exists out there, it allows me to make experiences that change my outlook forever, and it enriches my life with memories worth remembering. I look back at my travels and I go "HOW WAS I BLESSED WITH TIME THIS AMAZING?!"

Please tell me I'm not a bad person for that.

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Places I'm Lusting To Go

Iran. Despite it all. The people seem to be so incredibly warm and welcoming and interesting, the whole country looks beautiful, their filmmakers are badass and I'll admit - a little bit of "What am I even doing here?!" mixed with adrenaline makes me tingle in a good way.
Hoping to go after I gained some more travel experience. I don't feel ready to backpack Iran alone at age 20.

Marrakech. Photo by Conor MacNeill

Morocco. BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS COLORFUL AND BUSTLING WITH LIFE. Also, I like oriental.

Madagascar. Ahhhh! I was planning to go this summer but couldn't work up the cash, and I really want to savor my trip there. Wildlife, man! Crazy monkeys and whales. Whaaaales. I don't even need to get started on the incredible scenery and probably uber-awesome people. People are at least 50% of an amazing traveling experience.

Haiti. Because I like cajun culture and I'm into witchcraft and voodoo. Also, clearly, I have a massive desire to get raped while dying of cholera. Hi, I'm crazy.

Photo by Eric Lafforgue

Papua-New Guinea. Because they catch sharks with their hands. Plus the witchcraft thing.


And more stuff that's definitely on my bucket list but not that urgent right now. Join me? Sponsor me? (I'm still unsure whether Haiti is that great of an idea, though.)

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My Irrational, Hilarious, Horrible Fear of Sharks

The truth is, my friends, that all the sharks that have ever been alive anywhere exist for the sole purpose of  KILLING ME. I mean look:

Photograph: Amos Nachoum/Corbis via The Guardian

ANY MORE DOUBTS?

Seriously though.

I can't remember what inspired it. When I was little, my parents would take me to Croatia for the holidays. There is nothing in the whole wide world that would make me believe that I could get eaten by a shark on a tourist beach, in 6 ft deep water, in the Adriatic Sea. Nothing. But guess what? I still didn't swim out.

When I was really young, I was even scared in swimming pools. Of sharks and octopuses. Right.

Then, Australia. Twice. Magnificent beaches. Who didn't go swimming? This girl. In fact, when I was on Hawaii for two months, the only time I went past waist-deep water was with a marine biologist who explained to me in scientific detail why it was physically impossible for a shark to be in there.

Point made?

I get that sharks are misunderstood and that they're actually pretty awesome peaceful fascinating creatures and yadda yadda but when people try to tell me that I should totally jump into that ocean because Mr. Jaws might have other things on his life bucket list than "destroy Ivy Jelisavac in the goriest most terrifying way imaginable" I have a hard time not thinking they're addicted to virtually every mind altering drug in the cabinet of mankind.

Does anybody else do this? Like, if the water isn't crystal clear I won't even go past knee level. If I'm actually in - say chest deep - and I close my eyes - to, say, try to keep your contact lenses in even though they burn like an expletive because some idiot rando just splashed you with water, I see fins and jaws and blood and horror.

And now that I'm meditating all over the place I could probably get rid of the images with my hulk like mind control but NOT THINKING ABOUT IT WON'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT SENOR SHARK IS ONLY WAITING TO DIG HIS TEETH INTO... I have issues.

You know, I love the ocean. I love swimming. I can't die happy until I went scuba diving, and not only once. I want to experience the breathtaking beauty of underwater worlds and tell everyone how it was the most amazing thing ever.

So guess what my ingenious master plan is? You, my friends, are going to sponsor me a trip with a shark diving adventure. (I can haz cage diving, though? For starters.) Press people! Do this! I'll write about how it changed my attitude and it'll probably be true. Alternatively, I will videotape myself freaking out like a girl and it will be hilarious.

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Why I'm Not Going To Iran And Why It's A Pity

So my plan for this summer was to go poke around Iran for a while because Persian people seemed pretty awesome and I liked their film scene.
Also, I was a major fan of their architecture and art. But then I did some research.

Tehran.

1. NO COUCHSURFING, HONEY

What? Yes. They not only censor the living daylights out of the internet, they will also find out if you found accommodation via a social network and kick you back out so hard you'll be like woah.

And for you, the only alternatives are 3 star hotels that have so sense of atmosphere whatsoever.

2. NO MONEY WITHDRAWAL, HONEY

Nobody wants your credit card or travelers checks and forget about getting your hands on any sort of money inside the country. You have to bring everything you'll need in cash. Given the inflation, that means you'll have to cart a wheelbarrow around. Have fun.

3. NO SOCIAL CONTACT, HONEY

Foreigners are mostly spies. Foreigners with cameras are always spies.

While the people will be excited to chat, if security officers see a westerner talking to an Iranian, both will get into trouble. (But chances are the westerner will be accused of harassment and be busted worse.)

Also, if you're an unmarried female talking to a man, expect to get stoned to death.

They will also monitor every email and text you send home, and probably destroy your post cards.

It's a shame. Because the Iranian people seem to be incredibly interesting and far more open-minded and hospitable than their current government allows. And just look at places like Shiraz and especially Esfahan, they seem breathtakingly beautiful. IT MAKES ME SAD.

I'm not saying that Iran is entirely off limits for travelers - go prepared, and you'll probably have a blast. But at my level of experience and my current travel style, it doesn't seem like the perfect choice. The political situation doesn't seem to be loosing up, exactly, either. But given the revolution going on in many Muslim countries right now, I have hopes... Someday. Someday.

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Venice Is Overrated

What you imagine it will be like

You arrive with your special someone. The city is beautiful and flatteringly lit. You book a nice hotel, have a candlelit dinner, and spend an unforgettable night between the sheets.

The next day, you stroll through the beautiful ancient streets, over bridges, to the canal. You get onto a Gondola, Michele offers his hand, and you enjoy an amazing boat ride. Another nice dinner.

Everybody is gorgeous and sensual. You take hundreds of pictures and everyone back home gets jealous.

What it's really going to be like

You arrive with your special someone. The city stinks like a dead sewer rat and someone steals your belongings before you get to your nice hotel. Said place has leaky roofs and an extremely unhappy front desk lady. You realize your lost wallet wouldn't have made a difference because there would have been no way to afford a room here anyway. 

You remember there's a couple hundred bucks in your shoe (smart, you guys) and you manage to find a place where you don't dare to indulge in any sort of nude physical activity because the walls are about to collapse. You hope you don't die and question the purpose of travel in its completeness.

The next morning, you buy yourself a piece of pizza for eleventeen million bucks, and try squeezing yourself through narrow streets whose layout makes no sense whatsoever. Everybody is a tourist and the very few locals are NOT friendly. Or gorgeous. Or sensual. You step on a rat.

At the canal, you spot the gondolas. Michele is a dick and his boat is leaking. He charges you a price I won't even repeat. You try holding your breath the entire 20 minutes you're on the water.

You try finding a cozy spot to have some coffee or gelato and just relax, but that place doesn't exist. There's only more tourists. Gasping for air, you contemplate the importance of a "personal space bubble."

Back at the hotel, realizing how broke you are, and that entrance into a museum or church or ANYTHING requires superhero amounts of patience, you decide to get on a goddamn ferry and go home.

And there you will tell everyone about how you arrived, and the city was beautiful and flatteringly lit, and that candlelight dinner, and the sensual people, and the tourist nightmare called Venice will continue...

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