What I'd Actually Turn Notifications On For

As we all know by now, Instagram announced the Algorithm Apocalypse and then every person on Instagram [ergo every person on this planet] proceeded to flip the frick out and plaster the dang app in "please turn on post notifications" pleas.

First and foremost, take it from me: don't do it. Don't beg for that. My best friend has had post notifications turned on for my Twitter (and Instagram? Cassandra, can you confirm?) for years now and so literally four seconds after I alert the world to a witty thought or a punny caption, I get a text four seconds afterwards stating,

"stop it idiot"

Internet fame, guys. It's not as peachy as it sounds.

So I won't be asking anyone to go through the whole clicking of the dot dot dot business and won't be turning on post notifications for anyone either... Work email alerts scare me enough as it is.

In general, I abhor push notifications. They're pesky and relentless is what they are. But then I got to thinking about what sorts of events and situations I actually would like to be notified of, and here I present to you the exceptions to my no push notifications lifestyle.

:: Odd San Francisco events. I'd like to know about any and all odd San Francisco gatherings in my vicinity at any point throughout the day. They are simply unlike anything else in the world. Exhibit A, from Easter Weekend: a Foxy Mary and Hunky Jesus competition. It's... hmm... how do we phrase this. Let's just say, spiritual pageantry. Exhibit B, from Easter Weekend: Bring Your Own Big Wheel. Wasted adults hurtling down the windiest street in the city on plastic tricycles or office chairs or what have you, in getups such as dozens of balloons taped to their body or a Canadian flag or the go-to onesie. Exhibits C and D: Santa Con. Bay to Breakers.

I'd also prefer to know about the not-so-strange SF events, like the Treasure Island Flea Market. Wouldya look at that view of the city from Treasure Island? Bay Bridge to Golden Gate Bridge, it's all there. Beautiful. Come to think of it, I'd like to be notified of any Instagrammable vista or panoramic shot from anywhere in the WORLD. 

:: food. I'd like a push notification to come through whenever there's food near me. All food. Any kind, but so much more for you Glen Coco if it happens to be 1) photogenic, 2) cheap, 3) Chipotle, or 4) delicious. But I don't discriminate... I'd still like to be in-the-know about all food within three feet of me.

The closest system I have currently is our office dog Tony who barks curtly when our lunch order or daily dimsum delivery from our office landlord arrives every day. It'll do for now.

:: if I'm within eight yards of a colored wall or white rug or free WiFi. 

:: when a new episode of a favorite TV show is up and ready on Hulu. I'm aware that there's the 'queue' function, but ain't nobody got time for that.

:: if there's a sale for all the off-the-shoulder tops in the world. 

:: when there's a cheap flight somewhere. Anywhere. I do realize that there's a little thing called "Kayak" but that requires certain information from me such as a date of departure or a destination or other non-important details. I moreso just want my mind to be read.

"Oh, you wanna be transported to Bali right this second? Let me send you this $75 dollar flight I found. No need to thank me, the pleasure's all mine" type of thing, get what I'm saying? 

:: puppies. I'd like to know ASAP if there is a puppy or a kitty close by for me to pet. It would be the single greatest technological innovation that ever existed. 
That's all I have for ya on this fine Hump Day, my friends. Let us brave this new terrain in solidarity!
PS. The more concerning Instagram news to me is that the log-off and add a account options have straight up disappeared. WHAT THE HELL.
What would you turn post notifications on for?

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A Day Trip To Marco Polo's Birthplace On Korčula Island, Croatia

It ain't every day you're a houseguest at Marco Polo's ancestral home, but on one particular Saturday in mid-July, that's precisely what I was.

During the final stint of my undergraduate education–my three-week history seminar in Dubrovnik, Croatia–we were treated to the best school perk of all: field trips. Except, this time around, it blew any dinosaur exhibit or petting zoo out of the water. The really, REALLY outrageously aquamarine water, might I add. 

Korčula (pronounced: Core-choo-lah... for the longest time, we went with: Core-aksdjfa;ldskn;a) is a speedy three hours' drive from Dubrovnik. Quite the doable day trip. Our big group of students and professors and professors' families all piled groggily into the bus at the crack of dawn and set off. 

It felt like summer camp! Sharing headphones and an iPhone to watch a favorite Buffy episode, Croatian language lessons from the best (and toughest!) eight-year-old teacher out there whose lesson plans included the repetition-until-perfection of tongue twisters, Croatian music as the soundtrack, countless rounds of Head's Up, and a few naps (the kind where your head rattles unceremoniously against the window) later...

We boarded a small ferry in Orebić. Within minutes, we caught sight of Korčula:

We were met by Petar, an old friend of our professor's and as a native of Korčula, the man in charge of showing us around. It was sticky and steamy at noon, the sun hanging high and mighty and absolutely unforgiving, and we trudged forward in search of what little shade we could find.

Petar led us to a pavilion and chatted about Korčula's history as we all fanned ourselves furiously. When prompted to speak about Marco Polo... the most famous man to have hailed from Korčula, Petar simply shook his head,

"If the man existed at all, and that's a very big 'if'" he began, "his alleged birthplace is indeed in the heart of Korčula." The story goes that the Polo family were longtime residents of the island and Marco was welcomed into the world here before leaving for Venice.

Curious to see the Polo home with our own eyes, we continued:

"See that window to the left? That's where his bedroom was," Petar pointed upwards.

"Really?!" we craned our necks. "Which one?"

He shook his head at us and chuckled, "who knows! This likely wasn't even the real Polo house even if he did exist... which he likely did not."

Not skeptical, huh? Not one bit. Nevertheless, we climbed up the creaky, narrow stairs...

...and found this panoramic vista at the top floor:

Faced with this view day in and day out, who wouldn't be inspired to set off and explore the world?

After filling up our water bottles with warm, sun-heated water from the Polos' courtyard faucet, we were off to lunch and to beach:

Funny story about this picture above: months before ever setting foot on the island, I would come across Massimo Bar on Instagram and various travel guides, and I'd screenshot it in anticipation of our visit. It sounded so dreamy: you climb up a ladder to the rooftop of a tower and are served cocktails via pulley. It was the only thing Cassandra and I had on our Korčula must-do list.

Well, once we were actually there, we realized that 1) our itinerary on the island was pretty set, and 2) once we were given the okay to go off on our own to explore, we had no map or WiFi or concrete directions on how to find the bar, and so instead, we admitted defeat and decided to go to the beach with our friends. Lo and behold, months later when I was going through our photos, I discovered that in this cheeky shot we took while on a group ice cream break [after pleading with a 10 year old to please take it for us], we were posing right in front of the bar. See that tower behind us? Yep. Massimo Bar.

*facepalm* Do you hear that? It's the sound of my Instagram dreams crumbling into dust.

Oh, well.

An afternoon dip in the Adriatic Sea was no terrible consolation prize. The water here was bluer than any we'd ever seen before [and at this point, I already thought that impossible] and gorgeously gradiented. It was also saltier and choppier, and very shallow. You lower yourself onto the slimy boulders by the shore, then plunge carefully into the open sea, being careful enough to avoid fully stepping onto the rocks at the bottom, mired with sea urchins as they may be. The salt in the water completely buoys you, allowing you to float peacefully until you realize you've drifted very far out and have swallowed way too much salt.

Then, you paddle back to the shore and sit there quietly, clasping the eight-year-old's hand as you guys watch her brother dive for sea urchins and sailboats rock back and forth in the distance.

Not too long after, it's time to go.

A stop at the supermarket for some Croatian candy and soda, a quick ferry, a winding drive through Croatia's wine country, aaaand some more language lessons, and before we knew it, we were curled up in bed, exhausted.
What a life!

1

Real (But Ridiculous) Conversations I've Had Lately

Good mooooorning, bloggy world! 

*sung to the tune of Good Morning Baltimore, obvs*
The other day, I stumbled upon the Screenshots album on my phone – which hey, did you know such a thing existed or am I the only one who's been making my life harder than it had to be – and had a good chuckle at the gems I found in there. If I were to put together an electronic time capsule, I'd certainly drag and drop these in as a "wtf were these poor souls doing in 2016" reminder to my 80 year old self.
...and then I realized I have a blog, so here we go.
Hey 80 Year Old Caroline,  These were the conversations you and your friends had...
...on valid commitments on a Tuesday night:

It was the season finale OKAY? It's! Important!!

...on Perpetually Caroline knowing ALL that goes down, food thieves be warned!

...on childcare:

...on putting together a care package:

...and Driving and Taco Bell Eating strategy:

...on finding new ways to argue, i.e. on a peer-to-peer money platform like Venmo:

...on cleaning the bathroom over Snapchat by way of sending numbered pictures of what's trash and what's treasure:

...on the grocery list and the fact that the most cost-effective method was having the friend who lives in Los Angeles buy certain items and flying them up to San Francisco:

On budgeting:

On a well-balanced diet:

On the fact that tipping at hair appointments is hard, hard math:

On the growing pains of life – knowing ZERO things about taxes and... well, tougher things:

On having a good source to vent to (thanks Cinnabon) when DRAMA arises:

And finally, in the words of Leah, the wise:
Leah: so how much longer? Me: ...........till what Leah: till we retire
#notsoonenough

8

City Living in San Francisco: A Six Month Retrospective

Phew man, I made it. In the six months since I've moved into my very first big-girl apartment, I haven't burned the place down, or starved to death, or filed for bankruptcy, and sometimes, that's all you can really ask for, yea?

Have I ever told you about how I ended up at this rent-controlled beaut of a hermit cave? PURE freaking luck, is what it came down to. After graduation, Cassandra and I went the 'ignorance is bliss' route and ran off to Europe, putting off employment and habitation for our Future Selves to deal with. Come mid-August, our Future-But-Now-Present selves were back in the Bay, crashing on a friend's couch back at school and thinking, "well #()$*FJ, now what?"

#startedfromthetopnowyou'rescrewed

I retreated home to Houston and my mama's comfort food knowing full well how hellish the apartment search in SF is, and prepared for at the very least a two month search for an outrageously expensive shoebox in which to sleep. Not a week later, one of my best friends Hanna called out of the blue – "my sister's place had three rooms open up, can you move in in two weeks?"

SO. September 2nd... I found myself here:

Yes, I assure you, that purple plastic bin is no longer my desk.

I hardly ever sit at my real desk though because it's piled high with mail and lotion and bags of Cheetos and other rubbish deemed too good for the floor but too much to deal with to put away neatly.

In other words, it does not look like this usually:

So, six months later, what've I learned?

How to turn on the stove, for one thing. How to make coffee, although it took almost exploding the coffeepot twice and then finally ordering the Aeropress (magic!!!!) to do so.

I went to dinner with some friends at Stanford the other night – at my senior year house. Walking up those steps straight from a long day at work and into the familiar kitchen and having to do nothing but grabbing a plate and filling every available millimeter with hot enchiladas (coincidentally my favorite dish from our chef, Sonia) and cinnamon rolls and coffee cake and cookies... well.

It made me realize how much that rocked. The "be in the kitchen at 12pm for lunch and 6pm for dinner, hungry and ready to eat!" lifestyle. Because the one now... the "come home from work exhausted, heat up whatever frozen meal is easiest to reach or order steak nachos for the fourth time in a week or just prep a bowl of cereal" ... well, it ain't quite so nice.

With that said, I think the best part of city living is being upstairs from the best steak nachos in all the world. I call, they tell me to come down in 5 minutes, and we're good to go. Worth it.

Even though the commute to my office in South Bay is not ideal, I love being in SF on the weekends and a 10 minute Lyft ride away from all the gorgeous parks and architecture and cozy cafes I could ask for.

Also, I learned Trader Joe's literally saves the lives of twenty-somethings in cities. But that fresh produce sucks because it's donezo in a hot second. Dumb.

And that pressing "pay" for rent at the end of the month is still painful, six months later.

I need some space when I'm home in the evenings. I like undisturbed TV time... in fact, I'm convinced it's necessary for my sanity. But because I'm the type who can fall into a reclusive routine easily, I need someone to forcibly make me leave the house and act my age every now and then.

Which brings me to my next point: my roommates need to be my friends. I know a lot of people are merely acquaintances or even strangers with their roommates buttttttttt because I'm such a homebody... I need some homies in my home. We don't have to be best friends by any means, but I've learned the hard way that it's preferable if we have shared interests and are in a similar season of life.

I'm the furthest from being organized and tidy. The only reason why my room is remotely livable is because the best cleaners come every other week (tysm) and the only time I ever clean is about an hour before they arrive, when I shove every last piece of clothing previously strewn across the floor, into a corner in the closet. I still don't know how to turn on the dishwasher and often forget about recycling and am generally whatever's the complete opposite of 'domestic.' But I like to keep the common spaces respectably nice and five minutes away from a surprise visit.

I was made for city sleeping... my friends find it befuddling how I can sleep through the garbage truck, the recycling truck, the firetruck, the noise from the two bars downstairs, and the occasional homeless man who takes it upon himself to scream at the top of his lungs for a straight twenty minutes once every other month or so. Except the ONE sound I abhor is a motorcycle engine revving up... irks me to NO end. Get outta my lullaby.

All in all, I regret nothing about choosing San Francisco and this apartment. It's home and it's mine and I love it. (Except maybe could it be a liiiiiiiiittle cheaper?)

Do you live in the city? Suburbs? Country? Are you in the US? Are you an apartment dweller with four roommates like me, or do you have a big ol' mansion to yourself? I vant to know your living situation!!

9

Lokrum, Dubrovnik :: A Cursed Island Full of Peacocks

Eight American college students and their professor boarded a ship to a haunted island, and once there, were greeted by more peacocks than they could count. Nope, not the punchline of a very bad joke, but merely a (quite odd) Day In The Life from way back in July.

Back then, we were living la vida you've-reached-your-peak with morning coffees on the beach, nightcap wines on the terrace, and afternoon dips in the salty sea. One afternoon, we found ourselves with no set itinerary, and wanting to shake up our routine of lounging on the pebbly shore and exploring the ancient alleyways of Old Town (how do I go back and slap myself), we thought – why not check out a storied island? We gathered an adventurous group and set out.

Lokrum Island is a ten minutes' ferry ride away from Old Town Dubrovnik – you purchase a roundtrip ticket at the port for about $10/person, and off ya go!

There it is, that patch of lush forest:

Once the ferry drops you off, you're free to roam. Lokrum's a funny little island, and there's much to see –

a peaceful botanical garden,

an ancient, abandoned monastery,

shaded sandy pathways protected by regal peacocks and bunnies every which way you wander,

hundreds of exotic plants,

an olive grove,

nudist beaches,

quiet stretches of non-nudist beaches too (though, beware of sea urchins and slippery boulders!),

and, the Dead Sea, a tiny lagoon so dense with salt that it's almost perfectly still. Local boys (and a couple of our braver souls, Cassandra included) clambered up the side of a rocky cliff only to dive back down into the depths of the little lake.

I passed on the cliff-jumping, but offered to climb up there from a back route to take a few photos. Dozens of peacocks accompanied me, loudly calling out to each other, and bursting out in affronted squawks each time someone leapt into the water. It's gorgeous up there – you're faced with the Dead Sea on one side, the expansive Adriatic on the other, and a narrow corridor of rushing water connecting the two [in which locals also swim to get in and out of the cave linking the Dead Sea with the Adriatic].

Lokrum is certainly an oasis away from the hustle and bustle of Dubrovnik, but take care to make it on the last ferry leaving the island just after sunset. No one (well, other than peacocks, that is) lives on Lokrum or even spends the night, and there's an eerie touch to the air, likely from the fabled curse!

Legend has it that on their last night on Lokrum in 1808, 800 years after they first settled on the island, Benedictine monks cursed the island and anyone who tried to seek it for their own in the future. Locals have spooky stories about mysterious shipwrecks and tourists who visit Lokrum only to never return.

Needless to say, at sundown, I bounced faster than you can say "scaredy cat peacock."

Legend also has it that one very awkward mermaid happens to call Lokrum home. And wouldn't you know it, I think we may have spotted her.

What's the oddest place you've visited?

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