Not too long ago, my best friend and I were commiserating over the phone. I'm so tired all the time, I sighed. I don't understand how everyone else has all the energy for hobbies and dates and networking events and side hustles and dancing till 2am on weekends. All I want to do after coming home from work... is to fall asleep to an episode of Parks and Rec. Let me rest for a year, then I'll try and conquer all of the above.
"That's just it," Cassandra replied oh-so-wisely. "We feel so unprepared. Before we knew it, we were thrust into being in our early twenties. People are saying: go wild! You're allowed to not have it all figured out! This is the time for discovering what it is you really want! Make mistakes, learn from them! ... But by the time we've made peace with the idea that this is the time for experimenting and go-getting and lining our ducks up in a row... we'll have run out of time to do so. Then, we'll be in our mid-twenties, late-twenties, and we'll be expected to at least be walking on the right path towards whatever it is we figured out we wanted."
I've always been slow to accept things.
After all, this past Friday, I finally went and picked up my diploma. Six months after I graduated.
I also bid adieu to my university email address and clicked "accept" to an alumni account.
That night, we sipped on sweet tea vodkas in the downstairs lounge of a college dorm, fresh off a Chipotle dinner and a BevMo run. We snorted as we giggled over the 'remember whens.' I was so desperate for us to stay in that moment. I wanted so badly for that scene to still be the life I know rather than the life I once knew.
But too soon, we were in the car headed back towards life-after-college, a sometimes rewarding, sometimes frustrating realm of salaries and bills and long commutes and homework-free evenings.
There are some parts of 22 that I have down pat.
Brunching, for one. You say "mimosa special," I say "count me in!"
Living in a constant state of wanderlust, and giving in to it somewhat often.
Career-wise, I feel very 22 in that I'm constantly observing, absorbing information, gaining skills, and questioning. I see-saw between "omg best job everrrr" to "but what's the next step?! Shouldn't there always be a next step??" to "what about grad school!" to "okay but what happens if I move abroad for a couple of years" to "I wouldn't be upset if I stayed at my company until I retired," to "am I really to do this for the rest of my life? But what. if. I was meant to have a completely different career? What if my talent lies elsewhere, what if my contributions could've been more meaningful in an entirely different field? Have I screwed up my whole life?!"
I feel even more 22 when my friends voice similar concerns. Such relief and validation.
I feel 22 when I survive on a diet of pizza and sugar.
But not so much when I avoid the gym like the plague.
I feel 22 when I make plans for a night out on Polk St.
But not so much when I skip them in favor of a night babysitting and playing competitive rounds of Loonacy and laughing at Best of Vine videos with the bestie.
I feel 22 when I order mojitos at a weekend lunch.
But not so when that comes after helping out at a friend's softball clinic for girls 9-12. In that case, I felt so much older. Or when I showed up at my alma mater in heels and a nice coat. I forgot that campus is "sweatpants-and-sweatpants-only friendly."
I feel 22 when I go to SF Restaurant Week dinners on a whim and can afford to do such a thing.
But not so much when I come home afterwards and see the following on my Facebook feed: an engagement, a baby bump, someone making it on Forbes' 30 under 30, friends starting successful companies and ventures, training for the Olympics, and leaving to teach English abroad. That makes me feel like I'm light years behind my peers.
Simply put, Dubrovnik rendered me speechless. But in a laughable attempt to 1) preserve my memories for years to come, and 2) try and communicate my experiences to you, you'll find that I'll begin to get rather chatty about this beautiful city on the Dalmatian Coast.
Our "real life crew" is nodding furiously at this point, I'm sure. Cassandra and I have yet to shut up about this gem on the Adriatic Sea. Sometimes, if we have one drop too much wine (or are stone cold sober even), we'll start yammering on in broken Serbo-Croatian. Kako si? Dobro, a vi!
Last we chatted about Europe, Cassandra and I were about to leave Split. I still remember the Riva waterfront bus depot. Travelers waiting in small clusters in front of parking spots labeled ZAGREB or BOSNIA or SIBENIK in fading paint. We had two bus tickets booked to Dubrovnik, but with no clear instructions on how to retrieve them and conflicting directions from vendor owners and the ticket office, it was quite overwhelming. Cassandra and I traded off. She'd try and gather some intel on how this all worked, I'd stay with the bags. She'd order me a Coke in an attempt to nab free WiFi, I'd clumsily knock it to the ground and invite all the stares. Teamwork!
Somehow, we managed to figure it all out and boarded the correct bus.
Off to Dubrovnik we go!
If you're ever on the same bus route, sit on the right side of the bus. And if you're going the opposite direction, sit on the left. Trust me on this one, and your Instagram will thank me.
See?
The ride was long – five hours? Six? – but there was much to see and observe. Towering cliffsides, the coast snaking this way and that, the sprawling new highway, small town rest stops. At one point, we made a brief stop in Bosnia, passport check included. Not thirty minutes later, we were back in Croatia.
Before we continue, how about some background? One reason why it took so long for me to share my experience in Croatia is that I have been struggling with how I was going to tell this story, how I wanted to represent this region because let me tell ya, this is tricky territory.
Here's the thing about former Yugoslavia: what's the first thing you think of? Is it the gorgeous shores of the Dalmatian Coast, the Game of Thrones castles? Or do you think of it as a desolate region still at the brink of recovery from the recent war in the 90s? You're not alone. My initial expectation was the former, but many people I've since spoke to – mostly older than I– think first and foremost of the latter.
The fact is, there are truths to both. Very much so the beauty and rising tourism of the Dalmatian Coast, but also yes, the modern day Balkans region is indeed deeply intertwined with its sad history. But it's not just that, and I find it so sad that when "Serbia" or "Bosnia & Herzegovina" are brought up, that's where the mind jumps to. There's so much besides. It's this "so much besides" that I hope to share with you in the next few posts.
The first time I was exposed to Croatia was through The Londoner's Yacht Week posts a few years back. Around the same time, Cassandra discovered a new favorite actress – Stana Katic, anyone? – who hails from the region. From that point forward, we started seeing Croatia everywhere and we promised that someday we'd make our way there.
But it's a place akin to, I don't know... Tibet or Patagonia: a bucket list item for sure, but faraway in a sense that it just seems more likely we'd be hitting up Paris or Tokyo before ever stepping foot near such a destination. It seemed so unreachable. Why go to Croatia when we haven't even seen London, sort of thing, y'know?
Then, in the beginning of senior year, the stars aligned. Stanford offers three week long "overseas seminars" in cool places. Houseboats in Denmark, marine biology in Palau, eco-photography in Costa Rica, and so on. Nearly fully subsidized by generous donors, it's an incredible deal. Once we arrived in Dubrovnik and till the day we left, we forked over not a cent of our own money. In fact, we even got an allowance while we were there. We were basically paid to stay and learn in Dubrovnik.
I hate my Dubrovnik self.
By some lucky force, both Cassandra and I were both accepted to the seminar, an Eastern-perspective course about the history and culture of former Yugoslavia, as told through arts and photography, led by two Stanford professors whose families are from Serbia. This meant delaying the conferral of our college degrees (and consequently, the job search) for three months. It'll be worth it, we convinced ourselves. Little did we know, it would be. But much more than we ever could've imagined.
Okay, phew. I told you so. I'm getting my ramble on, that's for sure.
Anyway.
A car fetched us from the Dubrovnik bus station and took us to Hotel Adriatic in the Lapad district. More about our adventures at this hotel later. MUCH more. Half of our classmates had already arrived and were sleeping off jetlag. Our professor, Jovana, met us in the lobby and checked us in, in a flurry of Serbo-Croatian. I can't tell you how nice it was to have a translator after a couple of days basically blindly going about our ways in Split.
She waved us off, telling us to meet in the lobby at six.
Ravenous as we were, we tried to find the supermarket per Jovana's directions. But incompetent be we, we couldn't. Instead, we ordered mojitos at a cafe and waited it out till dinner.
Spoiler alert. By dinner, we were quite tipsy. "You two really were quite oddly social that first night," our friend recalled a few weeks later.
That first night was quite a treat. Right as we de-boarded the bus, Jovana whispered excitedly: look, there's the former president of Croatia! An older gentleman dressed in fine plainclothes, followed subtly by a bodyguard or two, unnoticed by all except for our two professors. What an introduction to Dubrovnik!
Dinner was at a restaurant with a hidden courtyard right at the entrance of Old Town. Copious bottles of wine, delicious, buttery squid, and slightly awkward getting-to-know-you conversations marked the beginning of a wonderful three weeks.
^Is this familiar to any of you Game of Thrones fans?
The next two days were spent getting acquainted with Dubrovnik. We took intensive, three-hour long crash courses in Serbo-Croatian. Our guide, Helena, took us around Old Town Dubrovnik ("Starigrad") – showing us monasteries, pointing out buildings with unique histories, stopping at the farmers market in the center of town and buying us candied orange peels, fresh figs, and peaches to try, reminiscing on her high school afternoons spent strolling down Stradun, the "Main Street" of Old Town, giving us directions to the best ice cream in town with a wink.
And of course, she took us atop the city walls.
This is the must-do activity in Dubrovnik. You climb the (many) (steep) steps up to the top of the city walls and from there, you traipse around the perimeter of Old Town.
Among the sights that you are sure to see:
Sloped, terracotta roofs. Aquamarine and navy waters glimmering under the sun. Peaceful floaters. Daring cliff-divers. Hole-in-the-wall bars. Far-off islands. Kayaks and sailboats. Stradun, stretching off into the distance. King's Landing from Game of Thrones. Craftsmen selling jewelry. Laundry hung on clotheslines. Sweaty tourists bearing fanny packs. Restaurants lining the streets, with hostesses calling out to passersby, waving English menus boasting free WiFi. Jugs of homemade cherry brandy lined up on windowsills. And much more.
When I think of this first day exploring Old Town, I mostly think of the sweltering heat. We found out later that we were in Dubrovnik in the middle of a heatwave, and we walked the city walls at the peak of it. That day, it reached 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and we were as close to the sun as physically possible.
I remember my clothes being soaked in sweat, the lingering smell of sunscreen, the back of my neck slick with perspiration when I finally gathered my hair into a ponytail. Gorgeous imagery, amirite?
The fact that all the girls ended up buying sunhats, but Cassandra and I did not.
I probably got three shades darker that day.
I remember how overbearing the heat was, how it pushed at my lungs. How we braced ourselves against the cool walls of a watch tower at the top of the walls, unwilling to go on.
I have much more to say about this heat in a later post.
I'm sick of the sicknesses!
Luckily, this weekend was chock full of panacea. Medications much more effective than NyQuil, and at this rate, I'll be handing these prescriptions out like I have the degrees to do so!
Ones like... stuffing ourselves silly during a sweets tour in the Marina. My friend Leah and I joined my roommate Susan on a detour tour [have you tried one?] and I, of course, insisted we partake in the one that led us straight into the bakeries and cafes of one of my favorite SF neighborhoods.
Steaming hot pho at one of our neighborhood joints.
Harry Potter marathons. I demanded one of these after both Leah and Susan let me know they've only seen a couple of the Potter movies. Susan even offered, "but I mean I already know the ending. Doesn't he graduate?"
Me:
Susan:
Me:
Hanna: ...... don't worry, I already have Sorcerer's Stone ready to go.
Cinnamon rolls.
Wrecking Ball coffee, one of my must stops. The next day, we passed by the same area and Leah helpfully pointed out, oh look! It's that Bulldozer place you like so much!
Long walks and long talks around the neighborhood.
The best house guest ever who not only makes us all pasta, but does the dishes too.
Sleeping in.
Signing up for a new social media app with a group of friends and discovering the features together. Do you guys have Peach yet? It's a hoot. Add me if you're on it: @prptlycaroline.
Playing a round of Head's Up (Act It Out deck!) with your most expressive friends.
Getting up at the crack of dawn for an indulgent breakfast at the most hoppin' place around: Plow. If it looks familiar, it's because this is my third visit in like two months.Walking the Golden Gate Bridge! What a beauty!
Yell-talking and reminiscing until we were gasping for breath in hysterics.
Coming across cute little farmers markets in Fort Mason.
Dog beaches and thirty minutes spent jumping for self-timer photos in front of the Bridge.
Sharing an umbrella on a very rainy, very windy day. We got soaked. The umbrella repeatedly threatened to whip away, but we persevered.
Walking all the way from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Bay Bridge, to home. That's all of fourteen! miles! My calves... are burning.
Naps. All the naps.
Leah slave-driving me into finally cleaning my room and doing my laundry. It's been awhile and it was lookin' a bit concerning.
She also made my bed.
(I told you she's a great house guest.)
Sharing Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie and then regretting that we didn't buy another pint.
Sushi delivery. Give me all the crunchy tuna rolls!
Sitting on Hanna's bed and having girl talk for hours.
Did I say naps already? What about lattes? and watching Harry Potter all weekend long?
Are all of my bases covered?
Give Me Some Good News, Please!
15 January 2016I Won The Lottery, Now What
13 January 2016
Wanna hear something embarrassing?
When I forced myself to visualize winning the Powerball (which I 100% believe is going to happen because I SAID my word of the year was "billionaire" and people, there ain't such coincidences in this world), my hands full on broke out in cold sweat.
It's a terrifying possibility, isn't it?
I thought seriously about how I'd react, what I'd do in that life-changing moment. Let's set the scene: me, in my messy room, eating Indian takeout in my unmade bed. All of a sudden, I remember. It's time. I have zero clue what TV channel this gig is on, so I turn to Twitter in the hopes that I'll eventually come across the magic numbers. Come across them, I do.
But wait. Something gets triggered in my brain. Why do these digits look so oddly familiar?
I...
Stare at the numbers.
Cackle because for a second, I thought I had the right combination.
Shit, wait. That is the right combination.
Go over every number. Compare it side by side.
Stress-eat.
Stare some more.
Break out in a cold sweat.
Oh, hang on. I'm on Twitter. This is a hoax. *scoffs*
Go on the Powerball website. Watch replay of the drawing. Yup, same numbers.
Hyperventilate.
Take a nap.
(It's what I do when I get overwhelmed.)
Call my mom.
Hang up before she picks up.
Look up the instructions - how many days do I have to claim my prize?
Hide the ticket.
Retrieve it. What if there's an earthquake and I can't get to it in time.
Hide it again. My hands are too sweaty, what if I smudge the numbers.
Draft an email to work: I need a mental health day. Gotta process this.
Order belated Christmas gifts.
(I know.)
It's fine. I picked ones that are a squillion times more expensive. Like a house in Bay Area.
Freak out.
I most likely didn't win, and now I have to return everything because who can afford a three thousand dollar espresso machine. Or a house.
Call my sister or my best friend or my parents, hiccuping and sobbing. They have no idea what's happening, and think that maybe I fell and broke my face or something more valuable like my phone.
Curl up in fetal position, and wait for sleep to overtake me so I can deal with this situation at a more opportune time.
In all seriousness, what would you do? Who would you tell?
Once I gather my wits, I'm pretty sure my plan would be this: squirrel the money away into a bank account, hire a financial advisor and a lawyer. I'd start writing checks for millions of dollars to my loved ones, writing stupid things like "buying your love" "now can you answer my phone calls finally" "you're stuck with me" in the subject line. Invest in promising startups mostly because I work in Silicon Valley and startups are all I know. Start a venture capital firm. Give most of the money away to those who need it more than I do: charities, people I see going through a rough time, those who are close to eviction or who haven't had a real meal in days, and obviously also the good people trying to take down Trump.
Then, I'd do something frivolous like try to buy my way into Pretty Little Liars or Quantico writers' minds so I know what the end game is. Or send JK Rowling chocolates... of the fancy, not so froggy variety. Or build a cat sanctuary finer than the Buckingham Palace. I want a Starbucks in this sanctuary so I can have my morning latte while I pet cats. Oooh, and a top of the line waffle maker, too.
What I'd ultimately like to do is book a [first class] flight outta here and just go. I'd pick a place. Right now, I'm thinking Montenegro. And from there, I'd have no itinerary, no plans. On a whim, I can decide to stay another week, or say hasta luego for now. In the middle of lunch one day, I could fly to Iceland. Or New Zealand. Or back to SF in time for dinner with my friends.
I probably should've titled this post "day in the life," because I'm pretty sure you just got a play-by-play of my evening. Just you wait.
Anyhoo, if you see mysterious amounts of money being wired into your bank accounts, it's just me saying: you are cordially invited to my cat sanctuary. What's your waffle order?
And also, I'd just like to say that the lottery and the firm belief I actually have a chance at winning the lottery, is everything my very expensive B.A. in psychology told me not to fall for. But that didn't stop me from waving a twenty dollar bill in the face of the liquor store clerk, and most likely doing the same thing again this afternoon before the cut-off.
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