D Travels 'Round

Love, life and loss … again

No one said being an expat is easy. No one said it is all unicorns and rainbows and glitter (damn). In fact, being an expat means missing out on the lives of those who are important to you and not expats. The friends who get married, who have kids, who celebrate happy and mourn loss. It’s about not being with your family in the time of need.

When I am on my career break, I lose my grandmother to ALS. Two days before my scheduled flight home. I fly from Zadar to Frankfurt to Dulles in a veil of grief, my cheeks consistently tear-stained. Her funeral is the day of transit. Being in Croatia, alone, is one of the most heart-breaking things I have ever gone through. There is no one to sit with me, to take my hand, to hold me as I sob.

Losing my grandmother is one of the hardest things of my life. We all know it is coming, but I am so close to being home. So close to seeing her one last time, to holding her soft, wrinkled hand in mine and telling her the final time how much I love her and how grateful I am to have her in my life.

Let me tell you something — losing someone and being so far from home is NEVER easy. It cuts you to the core. It takes your world of security you have created and stabs it you over and over and over until you think you can’t breathe. Thankfully, as an expat (versus solo traveler), the community created is one of the most important things when dealing with grief.

On Wednesday, October 9, I once again experience death. This time, my grandfather passes away. Like his wife, my family knows it is coming.

The e-mails start over the summer. Little updates from my mom informing me he has a heart attack, or has fallen, or he is retaining liquids. Then, they start to get worse. Leaving his apartment and being admitted to the hospital. Moving into a nursing home. I dread opening my e-mails during the summer. Dread the words being written in front of me that something has happened. And, once again, I am thousands and thousands of miles away.

When I return to home to the USA at the beginning of September, it doesn’t look good. My first day with my parents, outlet shopping in Rehoboth, my mom gets a call from my aunt saying he has days.

Days.

I stand in the parking lot watching my mom’s reaction — stoic, prepared — as she relays this information. My mind shoots back to Croatia. To crumbling against the ancient stone wall and sobbing.

I’m not there. I’m here.

I do the only thing I can do. I grab her hand and let the tears fall from my face.

“Thank goodness I am here,” I whisper, choking on my words. “I’d rather be here than anywhere else.”

At first, we plan a trip the next day to Pennsylvania to go and see him. I have a sense of urgency. I have to see him again. I have to say “goodbye.” Then, we get another phone call saying he seems a bit better. He isn’t going to get better. These are still his last days, but he is OK. For now.

Instead, we postpone going to see him until my last day with my family. I fly from Philadelphia, and his nursing home isn’t far from there, so we drive up on a Tuesday morning to go and see him.

The entire drive up, I mentally prepare myself.

It’s time to say goodbye. This is not a “see you soon.” I know this is the last time I will see his twinkling blue eyes look into mine.

When we arrive to the home, he is in a wheelchair, wrapped in a blue blanket. It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him, and in that year, his frame has shrunk. His 91 years have caught up with him.

I walk up, smiling as big as I can, and wrap my arms around him and tell him “hello.”

He asks me briefly about Thailand, asks if I am happy, and then begins to rattle off about the food at the home.

There’s one thing about my papa — he is a picky eater. He likes his soup boiling hot, his meals filled with flavor. This nursing home falls short. Way short.

A few minutes later, after we question what he is eating, he produces a single cookie from his breast pocket in his shirt.

I can’t help but laugh at the adorableness of that one gesture.

Then, it’s time to go. I want to leave, but I don’t. I want to get the pain of letting him go beyond me, but don’t want to actually let him go.

When I stand up, I can feel myself tense. I can feel the tears sting my eyes. I can feel myself choke on the words.

I walk up to him and bend down, wrapping my arms around his bony shoulders. I hug him tightly.

“I love you,” I say into his ear. “I love you so much.”

How can I convey 34 years of gratitude for having him in my life without admitting to him I know this will be the last time I see him?

Instead, I manage a “take care of yourself, Papa,” and tell him once more I love him before I have to turn my body from his so he doesn’t see the pain resonating through me. I don’t want him — for even an instance — to think that he is the cause of my tears.

I take one last look, smile and wave, and my parents and I head back to the car and the late summer afternoon in Pennsylvania.

Nearly one month to the day later, I get the message from my mom.

But, I am prepared. I know it is his time to let go and be reunited with my grandma.

That day, I can’t sit still at work. My mom is staying in Pennsylvania, keeping him company. I send him a voicemail, telling him I love him and how grateful I am he is in my life. In the late afternoon, I can’t sit in my room anymore. I can’t sit and wait for the e-mail I know is coming. Instead, I message my friend, Hollywood, and ask him to please meet me for a beer.

He obliges, and we head to a tiny bar on the moat and talk about what has been going on in our lives. I look at my phone — it is nearly 8 a.m. in Pennsylvania and I haven’t heard from my mom yet. I send her off a quick e-mail and then return to the bar.

My phone lights up with a Vox message from Mom.

I look at Hollywood and already know. I excuse myself and listen to the message.

“Hey D,” Mom begins, sounding weary. “I just wanted to let you know I am driving home. I just got a call from my brother, and Papa just passed away …”

I listen to the rest, but don’t. My stomach turns. I can’t see anything anymore because salty tears are overflowing from my eyes.

I knew this was coming and yet it doesn’t stop the pain. At all.

I walk back in the bar and Hollywood knows immediately. He wraps his arms around me as I sob into his shoulders.

“I know, I know,” he says in my ear as I just let go and cry.

I don’t want to be in the bar anymore. I want to be home.

In a daze, I wander back towards my house, making a few calls to friends in town who know what is going on and tell them the story.

Stacy, one of my closest friends here, meets me at Smith. Before I am even up the stairs, her arms are around me as I cry. Then, a few other friends there all take turns hugging me, holding me, offering their condolences. I don’t have to tell anyone there what has happened — they all know.

We sit together at Papa’s, the local hangout for Smith residents and former Smith residents, and I try to wipe my face, but more tears erupt every few minutes.

“Let’s go light a lantern,” Stacy suggests.

“Yeah, I think that is a good idea,” I say, handing her the keys to my house so she can go and get them.

In Thailand, lanterns are lit for many things. In this case, we decide to light one to honor my grandfather’s life and the new “life” he is about to embark upon.

A crew of us go upstairs and prepare the lantern. We light it, but we don’t let it fill up with heat long enough, and when we let it go, it teeters over the edge of the eight-story building and crashes down into a tree, lifts up for a moment, and then hits the street below.

“Did your grandfather like to fly?” A friend asks me.

No. He didn’t. Not at all.

I burst into giggles and explain that after he served in the military, he only flew once more in his life and that he hated flying.

“I guess it makes sense that the lantern didn’t make it,” I offer, and then we decide to light another one.

This time, it does fly.

My friend, Kirsty, holds my hand as I watched the golden flicker of the lantern rise, rise, rise and then fade into the black sky after a few minutes.

“I love you Papa,” I whisper to myself. “Thank you.”

I cry a little more during the night, but am surrounded by people who care. By people who hold my hand. Hug me. Offer their support. It isn’t the first time in Chiang Mai I have felt so connected, so grateful for the people in my life, but it is the first time I am so deeply appreciative and moved by it.

The next morning, I look at Facebook and see Stacy’s status update, along with a photo I posted the night before of the lantern and flame. Her words said it all:

“Something magical happened tonight. Tears fell, but somewhere in the tears magic happened. What was meant to be an amazingly spiritual moment turned into an amazing way for her to say goodbye. We lit the first lantern, and it didn’t float. It fell, and the door guy had to put out the fire. We had a great laugh. We lit the second lantern, and it too started to fall, but as it fell between the power lines, then around the tree, it lifted. It floated, and it went back between the power lines, and around the tree, and up in the sky it went. It went into the stratosphere, and out of sight. She said goodbye. Together with friends and loved ones. It was magic.”

And it was the perfect moment of pure peace. Even when my blood family was on the other side of the world.

In loving memory of Louis Lindenbaum. Thank you for your love and support. I am so blessed to have had you in my life. I love you always. Ruff, ruff. Meow, meow.

Escape of the Week: Rehoboth Beach, Delaware

It’s 4 a.m., and I am awake in my bed, heart thumping in my chest with excitement, because I know in 30 minutes, my dad will be knocking on my door, telling me to wake-up, and then I will be bounding down our creaky, carpeted steps into the kitchen to pet Flash, our black and white English Springer Spaniel who resembles a small cow, and then with brother and mom in tow, we will pile into the 1987 Ford Taurus wagon and embark on the three hour drive from the DC suburbs to the Eastern Shore.

It’s a ritual I go through my entire childhood. A day or a week at the beach.

I can remember vividly the drive there, the countless “are we there yet?” questions being hurled at my parents in the front seat. The awe of driving across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The flat expanses of farmland as we headed toward the Atlantic Ocean and Rehoboth Beach.

The sticky salt air when we got out of the car. The McDonald’s breakfasts, the Dollie’s lunches, the Grotto’s Pizza for dinner, followed by cotton candy that turned crunchy and being scared witless as we took the black cart through the Haunted House, and the sadness as I saw the sun sink into the sky atop the Paratrooper ferris wheel.

Rehoboth Beach is one of my fondest memories.

And when my parents decided to sell the house I grew up in last year, I was heart-broken. But, they moved just outside of Rehoboth, and this trip “home,” I am able to relive my innocent youth, packed with Thashers French Fries …

Cotton candy …

and that gorgeous, humid salt air.

It may not be the sprawling suburbs of Washington, DC, and there may not be a Whole Foods, Target or shopping mall within an hours drive, but this is my new “home” away from “home,” and damnit, it sure is pretty.

In the mornings, we hop in the car, head from Lewes traversing down tiny roads lined with corn fields and old homes to the main street of Rehoboth. With the fresh air blowing off the ocean, we sit on the painted white benches facing sea grass, and beyond, the ocean.

It’s magical and whisks me back to being a kid in the flash of a second.

We walk down the boardwalk I remember from my youth being more massive, past the rides, to where the wooden planks end.

From there, Dad and I let our toes sink into the sand and the foam from the Atlantic kiss our toes.

We walk back towards Grotto Pizza, which always tasted far better as a kid, and to the hotels lining the shore, but not before I stop and marvel at the beauty of the tide lapping along the cliffs of sand.

My parents and I stand on the sand as the sun sinks behind us, casting a pinkish glow over the little main street.

I look back one last time at the popular haunts of my youth, Dolles and Candy Kitchen.

By night, we scope out the games.

Then, I take a moment to stand, facing into the darkness of the world to my east, and think of my life as an expat in Thailand, so very far away.

But, in this moment, I am here.

In Rehoboth. Reliving my childhood one Thrasher’s french fry and fluffy piece of sugary spun wisps of cotton candy at a time.

Getting there: From Washington, DC: Take 495 North or South to US-50. Head east on US-50 and cross the Bay Bridge to Route 404. Go east on Rought 404 to Route 16, then east on Route 16 to Route 1. Head south on SR-1 toward Rehoboth and Dewey Beaches. Follow Route 1 for about 20 minutes, then take exit 1A (Rehoboth Beach-Henlopen Acres). Route 1 ends at the boardwalk. Travel time: 2.5 hours

From Philadelphia: Take I-495 to I-95 South, then Route 1 south. Pass Milford, De. and go towards Rehoboth and Dewey Beaches. Take exist 1A and ends at the boardwalk. Travel time: 2 hours.

Directions from Rehoboth.com.

Hayarkon 48: the beach hostel to chill at in Tel Aviv

Normally, beach lodging is made up of pricey, resort hotels. However, in Tel Aviv, if you’re looking for a place to rest your pretty little head and meet other backpacking travelers, you can find one a quick walk from the beach.

Tel Aviv's beach — A quick walk from the hostel and guests are treated to this!

Hello, Hayarkon 48.

This hostel, with a rather nondescript exterior, is anything but once you are buzzed in. After three nights in Tel Aviv already, I just want a place to chill out and get some beach time in. The days in Tel Aviv in August are blazing hot and a relaxed vibe, air-conditioning and wifi are all I want when I arrive.

When I enter through the doors, the staff immediately greets me and is super friendly.

“We have a Shabbat dinner tonight, just sign up and you can join our hostel and another for a big dinner,” the staff at the front desk informs me. I swing my head to the right, and there is a huge board showing all of the different activities going on each night for guests, including this dinner and a pub crawl the following night.

While I’m not in the mood to be social, if I was, this would be the perfect place to greet other travelers, swap stories and make friends for a night, a day or a lifetime.

I sidle up to the bar/front desk and give them my information. My room isn’t ready yet, so they take my belongings and tuck them safely into a locked storage area.

After an afternoon shopping, I return and am given instructions to my room. A cool three floors up. With no elevator.

If I had a backpack, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But, this Tel Aviv visit isn’t a part of a backpacking adventure, it is a stop-over en route to America, where I need a proper suitcase. So, hot already, I lug my suitcase and backpack up 60-plus stairs to my room. It isn’t anything I haven’t done before, after all, there are plenty of hostels in Europe where elevators don’t exist. But, at the end of a hot day, I want to magically be whisked to my room with my heavy suitcase, not drag it up flights of stairs. Again, a backpack would have been a lot easier in this situation.

Private digs

I’ve got a private room for three nights — my first truly private room ever — and when I open the door I love it. In the late afternoon, the sun casts a golden glow through the multi-colored curtains opening up to a private balcony. A. Private. Balcony. Granted, when I step outside, I don’t see the Mediterranean, but I still love the fact that I can step outside without having to haul it down to the main floor.

The room is huge. Bigger than what I expect in any hostel for a private room. And, there is a flat screen TV that rivals my TV in Thailand, hanging from the wall. I hop on the bed, and it is hard. Thailand hard. But, I don’t expect beds in hostels to be plush and perfect. Hostels are a budget option, and I cannot recall a bed in a hostel that hasn’t had coils, or a hardness to it. But, it isn’t bad. I pop on the air-conditioning and check out the bathroom.

It’s clean, with a shower curtain separating the little shower from the toilet and sink. The hostel provides soap and towels, which for me is a definite bonus since I’m traveling sans these things.

The view from the roof of Hayarkon 48

I head upstairs to the top floor, which is a gorgeous rooftop terrace with a spectacular view of the sea. I can imagine plunking down here and enjoying the breeze and sunset. Apparently, they used to have a bar upstairs, but it stopped because it was difficult to lug the stock up all of the flights of stairs (yeah, I can imagine). But, it is still a fabulous place to chill out and relax above Tel Aviv.

What’s included

With my stay at Hayarkon, I get complimentary breakfast each day. While the sign at reception tells guests it is toast, it is a far nicer breakfast than just that. The full kitchen offers up eggs you can cook, veggies and yes, toast. With Nutella. Of course, I’m happy. Israel is expensive, and not having to shell out the sheckels for breakfast is nice.

Wifi is also included in my stay. However, at three floors up with the router on the first, the wifi is anything but good. It doesn’t even get acknowledged on my iPhone, and the signal goes in and out on my laptop. While I can get the general stuff done while in my room, if you’re staying on the third floor, don’t expect the wifi to be up to par … unless a stronger signal or more routers get put in. Sometimes, late at night, I can go out on my balcony and pick up a signal for my phone, but it was only on occasion. If I want to send someone an iMessage, I have to go downstairs to the first floor to be able to do so.

The hostel is very secure. You cannot even get in the front door without getting buzzed, and no guests are allowed anywhere beyond the main area. There are also lockers which can be used, and locks to rent.

I love some of the little things that are included — like access to sun block as you walk out the door to the beach and free ear plugs in case you have noisy bunkmates. It’s stuff like that which can make a superfly hostel.

The bottom line

As far as hostels go, Hayarkon 48 is really good. I’ve stayed in nearly 100 hostels during my travels, and this one ranks as one of the better, if not one of the best. The staff is friendly, the rooms are clean and I always feel secure. The atmosphere can definitely be social without being too much of a party hostel, and I love that they organize outings with guests to encourage meeting new people. They can even arrange a taxi to the airport for you for less than you would get on the street. The only downside for me is the wifi. I love places with good wifi. It is important to have good wifi. Hell, I’d even pay to have some wifi that worked all of the time in my room. The location is stellar. There is a bus line that takes you down the main drag of the district tourists want to see, and staff is wonderful.

Editor’s Note: My time stay was organized by Hostelworld and courtesy of Hayarkon 48, however all opinions are my own. If you have questions regarding this, please read my disclosure policy.

Capturing culture: Tel Aviv’s Artplus Hotel

It is late when I arrive to Artplus Hotel in Tel Aviv, a collaboration between Atlas Hotels and Doron Sabag. What I really want to do after nearly 20 hours of traveling from Thailand is to crawl into bed and fall fast asleep. But, when my cab driver drops me off at the boutique 62-room hotel located on Ben Yehuda and a quick walk to the glistening Mediterranean, my senses are awakened.

Even before I step foot through the glass doors, I realize this hotel is different.

Hotel + Art

The lobby at Artplus Hotel — Photo courtesy Artplus

The covered entryway from the street houses Zadok Ben-David’s sculpture, “Evolution,” which overtakes most of the long wall leading to the hotel.

Upon check-in, the friendly woman at reception with perfect English explains to me the concept of Artplus Hotel — which isn’t just a hotel, but also serves as a rotating art exhibit of some of the country’s most talented artists. In fact, the entire property is dedicated to incorporating art into its spaces and giving visitors a taste of the art and culture in this vibrant city. Created with this in mind, the hotel itself is minimal. The concrete floors and white walls are offset by sculptures, paintings, mirrors, and LCD screens with art on display.

Five artists were commissioned for Artplus to add ambiance and their own style to the separate floors in the building — Maya Attoun, Tali Ben-Bassat, Ayelet Carmi, Olaf Kiihnemann and Doron Rabina. In addition, the foyer and lobby house work from Ben-David and Sigalit Landau, thanks to Sabag’s private collection.

I stand in the lobby taking in at creativity around me.

“Every night we have a happy hour from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. with free wine and snacks,” she says. “And tomorrow night is your lucky night. We are having an opening for the new artists’ work on display in the hotel.”

The new exhibition (there are three to four every year), entitled “Playground,” which involves original pieces from local artists is on display in the lobby, plus there is access to the five rooms with art from the hotel’s artists.

The room

Art Plus art by Rabina — Photo courtesy Artplus

I head up to the fifth floor, where Rabina has painted a thick band of green with whimsical black down its walls, and enter my room. It isn’t big, but it doesn’t need to be. On the wall hang more! art. I fling my bag on the chair, change into comfortable clothing and do what I always do first — I check out the bed.

My room at Art Plus Hotel in Tel Aviv

Covered with two fluffy duvets, it is soft and inviting.

Then, I do the second thing I always do — check the wifi connection. And, it is quick. Quicker than Thailand.

After a brief chat with my parents in America, I head out of my room to check the rooftop patio and take in my first real moments in Tel Aviv.

I can smell the saltiness of the sea from there, although in the darkness, I cannot see it. Around me, large buildings with illuminated signs in Hebrew nail it home for me — for the first time in nearly a year, I am out of Southeast Asia.

There are no sputtering tuk tuks to clog my hearing, no toilet paper to throw in trash cans.

I smile to myself as I stand on the terrace, then head back to my room and back to bed.

I wake up early my first day in Tel Aviv, but feel refreshed thanks to my first sleep in a comfortable bed since Koh Samui. Fortunately, breakfast starts early and features the best coffee I’ve had in ages, plus delicious Israeli food (hello, olives!) along with a variety of pastries, yogurt and fresh fruit juices.

After a day at the beach, which is about a 10-minute walk down the bustling Ben Yehuda, its time to get some culture.

Perks

In the evening, I return to Artplus for its happy hour and am treated to wine while I watch the events (or lack thereof, fortunately) unfold on television. Then, it is time for the opening.

I head back to the lobby where locals, guests and artists mingle together, sipping wine and snacking on pretzels while a local photographer snaps photos. With others, I wander through the floors, visiting the five rooms where local artists have taken over the decorum. My favorite room is done by Yochai Matos, which is two hearts made up of a string of warm white lightbulbs twinkling above a bed.

The amenities

Artplus is a boutique hotel with fantastic basic amenities. It’s got complimentary breakfast, complimentary wifi — which is actually a huge bonus since most hotels in the area don’t offer the service for free (sigh), a hair dryer in the room, a nice flat screen with a hand-full of channels, and free parking (something not really heard of with boutique hotels in the city) — the things I’ve come to expect from a hotel. But, it is the atmosphere here that serves as the most valuable amenity. I love the little touches, too, like colored pencils and sketch paper instead of the tried-and-true notebook with hotel pen.

Pencils at Artplus

The staff go out of their way to be friendly, to tell you where to go, what to do. And then, there is the art, which stands on its own and treats guests to a small sampling of Israel’s art scene. There is no spa, there is no restaurant, but there doesn’t need to be. There is plenty of that out the door and in the city.

The bottom line

Three nights in a prime location were not enough for me. I could have stayed there the entire trip and simply gone off on adventures since the bus stop was just outside the door. The rooms are small, but comfortable. I love hotels that encourage guests to interact, and had it been a busy time at the property, I could see the happy hour being bustling and perfect to get to know others. That being said, I loved the happy hour. Tel Aviv is very expensive, especially coming from Thailand, so being treated to complimentary wine each evening is a nice “thank you” to the guests for staying there. But, the art is really what stole my heart. It isn’t often I find hotels without the standard paintings or photos you expect. Having unique works of art from locals helped me to feel like I was a part of something, that I was being treated to something other people visiting Tel Aviv don’t get to see. And, that is the most important part of traveling to me.

Editor’s Note: My time stay was courtesy of Artplus Hotel, however all opinions are my own. If you have questions regarding this, please read my disclosure policy.

Daily Wanderlust: Split from above

It’s been nearly four years since I started d travels ’round. In that time, I have traveled much of Europe, parts of Africa, SE Asia and have become an expat in Thailand. To say four years flies by is a HUGE understatement.

Today, I want to pay homage to the town that started this life of mine, Split. This gorgeous Croatian town is where I had my Adriatic enlightenment and decided to live my life for me, by my set of rules, rather what society told me was right.

Four years ago, I was in Split at this time. Wandering through Diocletian’s Palace, climbing the many, many stairs of the bell tower, and being treated to views like this. Standing at the top of the tower, gentle sea breeze kissing my face, made me feel so tiny in this world around me. But, it also awakened a passion in me that I always knew I had, but never had the bravery touch upon.

What a difference four years makes.

Want to experience you own enlightenment?

The view from a top the bell tower in Split, Croatia.

Escape of the Week: Downtown Las Vegas

Downtown Las Vegas has always held a special place in my heart.

I remember the first time I ever went to Vegas, fresh off of my ninth grade year in high school. My father drove us down past Fremont Street and the glittering lights and seeing Vegas Vic welcoming visitors to town with an arm raised. Instantly, I was mesmerized.

A look at Downtown Las Vegas

Then, when I moved to Vegas in 2005, and learn more about the history, particularly of the mob and the town’s earlier days, I became fascinated imagining what my experience in the southwestern town would have been 40 years earlier.

In the years I lived in Vegas, I watched the downtown area be reborn. I watched as the Arts District 18b laid its roots, as local hot spots were born, as the city cleaned up its act and began to embrace the area for what it could be — a burgeoning place for businesses, locals and tourists to all share space.

With Zappos moving in to the old City Hall this month, and my stop there, I noticed a huge change from my last visit: Downtown Las Vegas is alive and oh-so vibrant.

A look at Downtown Las Vegas

There is something so old-school about heading to Fremont Street and seeing the glittering lights beckoning people into the casinos … the ringing of the slots as the machines “dispense” coins.

A look at Downtown Las Vegas

The in-your-face marketing of one of Vegas’ biggest sells: getting wasted …

A look at Downtown Las Vegas

And the neighborhood charm of Fremont East and all of its groovy bars and restaurants (you can read about some of my recommendations here) which have popped up in the past decade.

A look at Downtown Las Vegas

In fact, some of my best memories of my life in Vegas center around Downtown and the amazing and beautiful memories created there.

A look at Downtown Las Vegas

Getting there:

From the infamous Las Vegas Strip, simply hop in a cab or bus and head north on Las Vegas Blvd. to downtown. It is a straight shot. If you want to avoid the congestion of The Strip, hop onto I-15 North and exit at either Charleston Blvd. (to check out the awesome arts scene), or take 95 towards downtown and exit at Casino Center. My favorite spots are Fremont East, which is home to Beauty Bar, The Griffin, La Comida, Park on Fremont and other hopping bars and restaurants. Don’t miss Gold Spike. A former casino, today it’s got a sweet bar and fabulous outdoor patio with corn hole and more. To experience Old Vegas, check out the Fremont Street Experience and the casinos there.

What’s your best Vegas experience?

Love and the airport

The two are cuddled next to each other. He strums on his guitar in the middle of Bangkok Airway’s lounge. Annoying considering I want silence so I can watch “Shameless” and his hectic playing penetrates my headphones blocking my ears from outside noise.

But her?

She looks at him with goo-goo eyes. Clearly, in love.

Later, I am sitting at the gate, waiting patiently to board my plane.

A girl is sleeping, her Chuck-laden feet draped across a guy.

And, across the way, another couple exchanges little kisses.

I think back to elementary school … you know … when boys threw mud at girls and girls ran away crying.

They’ve conquered that. They’ve met their match. Sometime, somewhere in the world these people met their match. And now, they are sitting at the airport, putting that match-love-thing on display. They’ve overcome that “I’m single” hurdle and are in lovelovelove. Congrats, couples. You’ve done well.

Yeah, airports make me think about that shit.

I remember when I was growing up (a teenager) and my friends would ask me why I didn’t have a boyfriend. I’d shrug my shoulders.

No idea, I would tell them.

“Well, don’t you worry,” they would all reassure me. “You will totally find your one. And when you do …”

Like it’s my God-given right to meet my match. Like every single person gets that.

But, you know what?

At 33, I am beginning to think its isn’t my right to meet a guy to settle down with. That my story doesn’t involve being involved.

When I was a freshman in high school, I was in a play with about 20 or so women of all ages. I remember very clearly sitting outside one afternoon after rehearsal in Tacoma Park with a woman named Angie. She sat on a bench, smoking a cigarette, clad in a cotton candy pink skirt. She was 40. And single.

I remember feeling so sorry for her.

“You don’t want to be with anyone?” I asked.

“No,” she said, taking a deep drag from her Marlboro Light. “I’m OK with that.”

How can you be OK with being alone?

My teenage, dillusional heart went out to her. And, I promised myself I wouldn’t be 40, sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette and wearing a cotton candy pink skirt and saying those words to a teenager.

And yet … here I am. Closing in on true grown-up life. Living as an expat in Chiang Mai, and the truth is this: I am that 40-year-old. Clad in a cotton candy pink flow-y skirt, telling people I am OK with that.

Berlin May 3 8 Amsterdam May 8 11 053

Is it true?

Yeah. Kindaofsortofnotreallybutsure. I mean, we are all dealt our hands in life, and some of us get fairytale endings in the form of love and kids and homes and such. My fairytale ending doesn’t involve that. If you asked me today if I would be at the airport with someone I love, my answer would be a staunch “no.” If you asked me tomorrow, my answer would likely be the same.

Does it mean I’m not happy?

No.

There are nights when I sit up late with my friends, indulging in Sangsom, laughing, talking, relishing our shared bond of living life as an expat in Thailand. And, then there are the other moments. When those same people pair off, head off to their respective beds and I head home where I wonder … is there more?

Airports seems to have an effect on people. The couples. The love. The traveling together, experiencing things together. At times, I relish the fact that I don’t have to report to someone. I don’t need to make sure my decisions jive with someone else. Then, there are the other times. Like on my way to Samui, or other places, when I see the unapologetic displays of affection, and I feel my life isn’t up to par with the others passing me by. The ones who have their someone else. That they get to experience these amazing things, this amazing world, and are able to turn to each other and say “Damn. This is one of the most fantastic experiences of my life, and I’m sharing it with you.”

Does it get to me?

Absolutely.

Then, I return home. To my house. To my life in Thailand. To the numerous blessings I am constantly showered with. It makes me feel less alone. And, of course, I hear from those with the “others” who bitch. Who moan. Who constantly berate each other for being too boring, being too hard-working, being too whatever they feel like complaining about in that moment … and I realize I’m lucky. I don’t need someone’s legs draped over me to give me meaning. To give me a sense of self. (Not that all of the people who are doing the draping or are the drapees necessarily find their definition of who they are in gestures or companionship either.)

Although it isn’t always easy, sometimes I think I have it easier than others who are with someone. Granted, who doesn’t want to embark an exotic adventure with someone they care about? Then again … I’m living the exotic adventure and I’m doing just fine.

What do you think?

Surfer’s Paradise: Where to Surf in Barbados

Editor’s Note: This post is sponsored y Travel Bag.

Barbados is a mecca for surfers. The island is situated in the Atlantic Ocean and boasts warm clear water that is perfect for surfing. There are spots that cater to all levels of experience, from beginners to veteran surfers.

The best time to visit is between October and March as waves range from 2 to 12 feet in the north, and 1 to 8 feet around the rest of the island. If you go outside of this time, waves are an average of 2 to 6 feet.

If you are planning a surfing trip to Barbados, you can consult this helpful list of the best places in Barbados to surf.

Soup Bowl

If you want to surf, Soup Bowl is the place you need to visit. This location sports world-class waves that are enjoyed by local surfers as well as travellers. The waves here are powerful and have a lot of water behind them. They are deep and thick, making them a lot of fun to ride. The beach is relatively quiet, providing you with room to surf. Watch out for urchins, rips and undertow. It is advisable to wear protective footwear.

Surfer’s Point

Surfers Point, also known as Arawak Inn, is a favourite spot amongst surfers in Barbados. It is located on the south east coast and provides consistent waves. This location is great for longboarding, but also provides smaller waves ideal for beginners and kids. The waves are not too powerful, but you should watch out for rocks.

Duppies

Duppies is great for serious and experienced surfers. It has a powerful break. It is advisable to speak with locals before heading out to get an idea of the conditions. Duppies waves are renowned for being fast and powerful. It is best to go out when the tides are low. This beach is quieter in the week compared to weekends. When you surf here, watch out for rips and undertow.

Cattle Wash

Cattle Wash, also known as Sand Bank, is north of Soup Bowl. This location is great for experienced surfers as it enjoys regular waves. Some waves here can become powerful, making them great to surf.

Parlour

Parlour, also known as Mushroom Rock, is ideal for beginners and intermediate surfers. It is one of the most consistent locations in the area, and offers some fast and powerful waves. The great thing about it is that the beaches stay relatively empty. This is another spot where protective footwear is advisable as there are urchins and rocks, as well as rips and undertow to watch out for.

Brandon’s

Brandon’s is great for beginners and surfers of all experience levels. The location is relaxed and quiet most of the time, which takes the pressure off of first timers. It is best to go here when the tides are at mid to low levels.

Rain, rain, stay: a look at Chiang Mai’s rainy season

About Chiang Mai’s rainy season

Rainy season in Chiang Mai, Thailand

Let’s get one thing clear: you cannot smell the rain coming. The air is too thick, too humid, to smell anything other than the chilis or hunks of meat being cooked outside. But, you can feel it. Like, in the arthritic sense where your bones ache. And, often times, because the rain also means a drop in temps, you can also feel it in your nasal passages. Rainy season runs for a whole three-plus months. It first teases you in late April (this year we got a nice little thunderstorm during Songkran), disappears for a bit and gives way to those hotter-than-hell days, then comes back with a vengeance in early summer (also known as June-July). This year, it started in June, but only a little. July, that was the doozy of the month with regular afternoon disappearances of Doi Suthep following sticky hot mornings.

The rainy season does not mean that it rains all day, every day. In fact, maybe it rains once a day. Twice, three times if you’re lucky (I say that as someone who fully embraces the awesomeness of this time of year). Sometimes it just spits down at you. Sometimes it dumps buckets. Sometimes it is a nice, constant light rain that lasts the entire night, quietly lulling you to sleep. But, rest assured, nine out of 10 days, the sun will pull a hiding act and the rain will come down. Largely, this occurs in the afternoons and evenings. Nice, gushing summer storms. And, sometimes, there is massive flooding in the low-lying areas that quickly disipates once the clouds have rolled on to the next city.

As a visitor, what does that mean?

Don’t cancel your trip to Thailand because of a little rain. Just arm yourself accordingly with an umbrella, poncho, plastic bags to protect your technology doodads and a pair of comfortable shoes that wont squish around (gum boots or Crocs are best — yes, I mentioned Crocs). Also, a generous portion of a good attitude helps.

I am in love with the Chiang Mai rainy season. For reals.

There’s one way I can alway tell if rain is coming, besides the obvious option of checking the weather. I simply look to Doi Suthep. If the mountain is shrouded in thick, white clouds, rain is on its way. That simple.

Yet, for some reason, I always forget this little trick and am often caught sans umbrella, poncho or gum boots as soon as the first drops strike the uneven pavement in Chiang Mai.

And, I don’t mind. Not one single bit.

When the skies open up in this amazing city, I celebrate the rain. I take my friend’s daughter in my arms and spin her around as we turns our heads to the heavens, mouths agape, trying to catch the little droplets in our mouths.

Rain hammers down at Elephant Nature Park in Thailand

I stomp through thick mud puddles at Elephant Nature Park, celebrating the childlike feelings that are triggered with the simple delight of feeling the squish of the wet soil under my feet and hearing the sloshing of my boots as they make contact with the saturated ground.

Sometimes, I even opt to wade through the roads-turned-rushing-shallow-rivers in town.

The best times during rainy season are those unplanned times. When I’m off somewhere, and the downpour hits, and instead of getting soaked upon leaving the safe sanctuary of cover, I opt to wait it out. Because, in an hour or so, after living in rainy season the year before, I know it won’t last.

Except, sometimes the effects do.

The other day, I’m at lunch with my friend, Ae, the owner of a cute little bar on Loi Kroh. She’s heading out of town for a few days and we decide to catch up over an afternoon meal. We head to an outdoor courtyard lined with restaurants and sit down — inside — because at this point, those clouds are moving fast down the mountain, racing towards the city and ready to dump their belongings on the people below.

Within the five minutes it takes to get our lunch, the skies open. The storm doesn’t even start with that slow, relaxing trickle.

Nope.

It leashes out with a fury. Thick sheets of raindrops flow from the sky, pounding the pavement with monsterous force.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

I look past her and outside.

“We’re going to be here awhile,” I tell her as the deafening sound from the drops hits the roof, the ground, with angry thuds.

So, we do what I normally do when it monsoons. Wait it out. Only, after 45 minutes, it doesn’t stop. And, we don’t want to sit on the creaky old wooden chairs anymore. We head next door and do a little shopping, then manage to walk awning-to-awning to a coffee shop for another 20 minutes as the streets begin to fill with water and the onslaught of the storm rages on.

Floods during Chiang Mai rainy season

“What should we do?” I ask her.

“Up to you,” she says, smiling.

Right. Up to me.

“Well, we could walk. I have an umbrella so my phone doesn’t get wet and I don’t get drenched walking back to the office.”

“That’s fine with me,” she says. “I like the rain.”

I do, too. In fact, nothing sounds more fun than disregarding my electronic equipment in my purse and my newly purchased dress for the chance at running through the summer storm. But, it isn’t an option today.

“Or, we would take a tuk tuk or songthaew,” I suggest, surveying the dripping world around us.

“OK,” she says.

I place my emptied coffee cup back inside and we decide to brave the elements. The storm has gone on for nearly two hours, and it’s time to go back to work.

I grab my umbrella and open it and Ae places her arm around my waist as we slowly being to navigate the slick sidewalks in the Old City. We spot a tuk tuk, but it is abandoned, waters have risen to mid-wheel and the seats covered with a glimmery coat of wet.

“Well, I guess we are going to walk it,” I say to Ae as we prepare for what’s coming, even though the rain is slowly subsiding.

I look down the street towards my office.

The street is gone. In its place are rushing waters from the torrential rain. The sidewalks are crowded with people taking shelter and waiting for the waters to recede.

“Let’s just do it,” I say to her, feeling the excitement of running through calf-deep water take over my brain.

We step out into the road.

The water is tepid. Thick with debris. I feel my face scrunch up as slicks of oil and other things begin to pass over my skin. Water sloshes up the back of my legs. My feet hit potholes I can’t see.

Flooding in Chiang Mai during rainy season

The entire time, we giggle with delight. When cars, tuk tuks and motorbikes pass us, fanning the water out in thick bands, we pause so we don’t get splashed even worse.

Just as we are about to turn down the road to my office — and to higher ground — I stop to take a quick video of the traffic moving through the water.

That would never happen in at home.

As I film, I feel something on my foot. Something walking on it. I look down and see a cockroach, using my foot as its personal higher ground. I shriek and kick it off. Rain party over.

When we reach my office, I’m actually happier than I have been in a long time.

I guess the rainy season in Chiang Mai is happy therapy.

Beach Republic: a lesson in boozin’ it up

There are two things Beach Republic, located in the northern part of Lamai on Koh Samui, makes very clear:

You’re on holiday (!) — drink, drink and drink some more.

And, you, too, can own your own little slice of paradise on the island.

The exterior of Samui's Beach Republic

There is no escaping either of these two messages. Even in the hotel room, a daily “Manifesto” arrives each night, detailing what’s up for tomorrow. A brilliant little piece of marketing to reinforce the brand, the newsletter includes reminders of the Happy Hour special, a featured drink of the day, and a reminder that visitors can own their own spot (or share) in the property.

When I arrive to Beach Republic, it’s late in the afternoon on Sunday, and the daytime revelers seeking out one of the island’s best brunches (or so it is noted) have already departed as the clouds begin to roll through and the wind picks up.

Suite Style

I head to my suite, a spacious room on the second floor, ready to unwind.

A room at Beach Republic on Samui

The room is nice, it is sleek and modern with few accessories. But, it is also lacking a certain warmth I expect from a luxury resort on a tropical island — namely a view. My large patio overlooks, well, nothing really. There are palm trees to remind me I’m in a tropical place, but there are also power lines. When I sit outside on the patio, I can hear them buzzing.

Then, there’s the bed. It’s nice, although the pillows are far too squishy for my taste. (Note: the afternoon I leave, I notice on a table at reception that there is a pillow menu (!), something I would have loved to indulge in had I known about it.)

Instead of hanging around my room, I decide to explore the property.

I leave the main building, which houses the hotel rooms, and head down the paved path to the beach, passing large, white walls with wooden doors masking the posh villas with private pools from the view of the public and guests.

Passing the villas at Beach Republic

I can only imagine the luxury oozing in those rooms.

Signs at Beach Republic

The signage en route to the beach and pool is kitschy. The property has created the “Ministry of Information” and encourages readers to go, chill, drink and dine in the self-contained party environment.

Pool parties

The pool at Samui's Beach Republic

The pool area is gorgeous. Outfitted with plenty of plush lounge chairs, couches and large, canopied beds, it’s easy to see why people would flock here for a Sunday brunch party.

When I arrive, there are a few stragglers, but it is close to sunset, and most of them have likely partied enough for the day and headed to their rooms.

The pool at Beach Republic on Samui

In between the two pools, a DJ continues to spin chill tunes.

At first glance, it reminds me a lot of the Vegas pool scene, just void of the scantily clad, gorgeous bodies and drunken antics which seem to be out of control in the City of Sin. Here, it is far more relaxed. At least on this evening.

And then, of course, there is the beach.

Beach at Beach Republic

I settle into a seat at the restaurant and order a veggie burger and a Singha. It’s two-for-one beers, so the 120 baht price tag for one doesn’t hurt me as much as it would if it wasn’t a special.

Staff is friendly enough, they come up to me, chat, smile and make sure I get my beer and food.

Al fresco dining

Dining and chilling at Beach Republic

The food is another story. Dinner is OK. It’s a veggie burger, and you can’t really mess up veggie burgers (unless you go to one place by my house in Chiang Mai which contends a veggie burger is merely a fried hunk of mashed potatoes), and I love that there are pickles on the sandwich. Is it anything to write home about? Not really.

Breakfast the next day is similar. The morning buffet, which runs from 7:30 a.m. to 10:30 a.m. has heaps of a la carte offerings and a selection of fruit, cereal and cheese, plus fresh-squeezed juices. I order poached eggs and sauteed potatoes. The eggs are fine, but the potatoes are served in a little pot and smothered in … cheese? I can’t tell. But, being someone who isn’t a huge fan of cheese, I try a little and decide to just sip my coffee and take in the killer view of the pool and sun-soaked white sand below.

The next day, I try out the french toast which boasts a sweet scattering of cinnamon, honey and other tasty ingredients. Again, it is just OK. I can’t really taste any of the sweet.

Spaghetti at Beach Republic

Lunch my last day was the best — a simple spaghetti aglio y olio with heaps of garlic and soaked in olive oil.

Location, location, location

Because of its location at the north end of town, there isn’t much to do in the area other than hang out at the pool and beach. So, that is exactly what I do. My last night, I head out of the property and into town. In the late afternoon, songthaews are scarce and the price taxis want to drive me 10 minutes down the road makes me roll my eyes. I opt to hop on a motorbike taxi for more than I would pay for a tuk tuk in Chiang Mai, and meet my friend for dinner and drinks at Black Pearl Restaurant.

The following day, the person at the front desk gives me a gorgeous little treat — a late check out to the tune of 4 p.m. But, not before telling me I can book a taxi back to the airport for a whopping 700 baht. I decide to skip the taxi and try my luck on the main street (which grants me a savings of 300 baht).

The bottom line

Would I stay here again? Yes — if I had friends at the property and a wallet stuffed with baht to indulge in the boozing beachside. But, as a solo traveler who isn’t going to rage it up alone? Not likely. It just isn’t close enough to the city for me. Then again, I don’t think Beach Republic is made for those traveling solo looking to simply chill. It fosters an environment of true holiday spirit — fun and sun. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Hell, I almost want to go and scoop up my friends in Chiang Mai and whisk them down south with me for a sweet weekend of debauchery.

It is nice? Absolutely. The staff, the rooms, the property itself are gorgeous and presented well. I always felt comfortable and welcome. I would have liked to check out the spa, but I didn’t even find it until the last day of my stay, tucked behind the restaurant with a lone sign pointing somewhere.

Editor’s Note: My time stay was courtesy of Beach Republic, however all opinions are my own. If you have questions regarding this, please read my disclosure policy.