On my return to the desert, I hiked dusty trails up mountains and through vast valley expanses, walking in the sunshine and in the rain and as the wind blew cold through our jackets, over rocks and through canyons and sliding down muddy inclines, under “skies that pull you into infinity, like the ocean,” as Anne Lamott describes it. I listened to coyotes sing songs of dusk and I sat on a rock as a bobcat passed casually in front of me (!!!), and I explored a cliffside cave 2,200 feet above sprawling miles of untouched wilderness covered in cactus forests and squat underbrush. And I returned to a mountain south of the city; with Bon Iver murmuring his melancholy melody in my ears, I watched the sunset—the sun sinking below a distant range, the sky set aflame—bright orange dancing with deep blues and pinks, the mountains surrounding the city cast in a rose glow.
I recently spent 5 days in New York City visiting two dear friends. Here are some suggestions for what to do + where to eat (bonus: SO MUCH gluten free goodness) + a plethora of photos from around the city.
I recently spent a week in the fairytale that is Norway, land of fjords and mountains and all that is beautiful in the world. Here's a breakdown of my $1500 budget: from flights, to transportation, to food, to everything else.
Here are some ways I try to take care of bid'ness when I am wifi-less on a flight, whether that’s because wifi isn’t offered or I don’t want to pay for it (‘cuz let’s be real, your girl’s on a budget.)
If you can have a city-version of the love of your love, then London is mine. I studied for a semester in that delightfully-dreary city and have been madly in love with the place since. Try as I might, I’ve not found a legal way to make London my dwelling place, though I’m currently accepting applications for a British beau. But if I can’t have a permanent London address, I can settle for an annual pilgrimage across the pond to the city that holds my heart. Here are my recommendations for planning your own trip to London.
An American flag hangs over a painting in their modest apartment. They’ve been in America only a few months now. She knows a bit of English, and I know zero Arabic or Kurdish, so we do our best to communicate with hand gestures and Google translate. She’s taking an English class and shows me a notebook of the words she’s learning. She tells me the Kurdish word for flower. And then she tells me that I am a flower. She’s a wife, a mom, a woman just like me.