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Twin Peaks x Norman Rockwell... This man and his slice of pie definitely captured my imagination yesterday ✨ (at North Bend, Washington)

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More tones of San Miguel 🇲🇽 (at Centro San Miguel de Allende, Jardín y Parroquia)

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San Miguel de Allende, the most magical place you may have never heard of with a decor game that makes you swoon 🇲🇽 (at San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato)

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Boots over Brooklyn Bridge 🚁🚁 (at Brooklyn Bridge)

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Cuba, Libre

From the moment the plane hovered overhead, fought back by warm sweeping winds, I could tell we had entered a different world. Already the 5am wakeup, the disorientation of being alone on a voyage I had envisioned for two, and a five hour flight had left my head a bit spun out. But landing in Havana, and all that followed that day, gave me a sense of being suspended in time and place. It was pure magic. In the final miles that the plane descended on the lush tropical landscape of Cuba, small scenes caught my eye: a group crossing a green plain on horseback to check the crops, exuberantly bright old cars barreling along a highway going about 50 but looking like they were pushing themselves to the brink, pockets of dense jungle scattered within a mile or two of Habana Centro. The plane landed smoothly, despite the strong gales of wind,  and a ramshackle faded yellow airport building appeared. We were bussed over to it and were ushered in, where numbered cubicles that looked like small wooden phone booths were the vessels we would pass through to a land that felt like the Wild Un-West. A few quick questions from an immigration officer and then a mystery door, opening up to Cuba. An immediate rush of people appeared, some well intentioned, some not as much. In the bathroom a cleaning lady hoped to do an unofficial currency exchange with me. I navigated through the crowd to get a taxi, which ended up being a new vehicle with AC rather than the 51 Chevy convertible of my dreams. But those pushed along the road with us, some looking as though they had been worked to the bone and others as though they hadn’t exited a garage since whatever year in the 1950’s they had been made. An occasional pink Cadillac would sidle up alongside us. Men selling mangos rushed to do a quick exchange with a car in front of us on the highway - “only in Cuba,” my driver said with a chuckle. Cuba by and large felt safer than many places with a similar demographic, though some opportunists were emboldened by the recent rush of tourism. My driver began to tell me about trips I could take to the countryside, and I started to prepare a kind but firm defense, knowing that the pitch for his services was forthcoming. Instead, he surprised me by suggesting that I take the bus for a couple CUC, or to walk through Habana Centro rather than taking a taxicab. He really wanted me to have a good time, and that made me smile. Somehow it felt like everywhere else we had slipped into the era of young capitalists seeing the chance for a quick buck rather than the simplicity of people who loved their country and wanted others to experience it’s beauty too. Walking down the streets also felt safe. The only frustrations were people begging for money and men hitting on me in Spanish (for which I didn't have a full enough Spanish vocabulary to adequately warn them off). I arrived to the building where my homestay was located, and a man smoking a cigar lingered in the doorway. He grunted a bit and directed me where to go. Another ancient looking man with a bulbous nose was slumped on the stairs, and his eyes smiled at me. I found my host, Magalys, who I exchanged excited noises of greeting with in lieu of a common language. My mind flashed to google translate - but there’s truly no service anywhere in Cuba. Not even easy wifi. It’s complicated. So with no raft to save us, she rattled on in Spanish, I caught every fourth word and the general gist, and smiled inside at how much I appreciated the simplicity of it all. This was a different world. The lack of technology and virtually no internet was one of the most striking things I first experienced in Cuba. I used a paper map to navigate and made educated guesses. I gestured a lot with my hands and employed a broad smile. I seemed to over-rely on the word “perfecto” for everything. Low-tech seemed to change the nature of everything. Even the fact that I pushed through a writer’s block the minute I arrived was telling. When I first found Magalys I walked past apartment doors, all mostly open but some with a barred door just to stop people from walking in. Small windows into small worlds, and again a different era. Ancient TV sets and photos of granddaughters alongside renderings of Jesus were the pretty vignettes through the bars. Beams of golden light, brightly colored walls, overgrown plants, and indoor/outdoor living abounded. I was loving Cuba. My apartment was clean, bright, and perfect. Twin balconies overlooked the streets of Havana. The capital shone in one direction and Plaza Vieja in the other. An old cherry apple red Ford convertible idled below while a group of men chatted. Stray kittens mewed and meandered across the street while street puppies play fought beside them. I ventured out in the world after unpacking a bit. I ended up At El Del Frente, a place I could tell would be my new home base. Fresh juice and a welcoming environment, as well as some young English speaking Cuban guys who told me I was their “favorite customer ever.” I’m a sucker for feeling special. I had baked plantain chips, a sweet potato puree, and some incredibly fresh cold lobster tacos. I met an English couple from Yorkshire who were incredulous I was alone, and the woman in particular seemed to feel a bit of motherly responsibility for me. As we ate on a small terrace one floor up, able to somewhat invisibly observe the happenings down below, a Michael Jackson impersonator very enthusiastically (but not too adeptly) performed some renditions of “Black or White” and “Thriller,” complete with sparkly glove. I became lost in my own imaginings of this man as a young boy, watching the only VHS tape in the house of a Michael Jackson concert, drilling himself on the moves and sounds so that someday he could voyage out with a very particular set of skills. My new friends from the UK, Shelley and Rick, took me afterwards to a bar they had been to before dinner, where there was live music. A group of women ran through songs that seemed every Cuban person in the room knew, and brayed along drunkenly. People were salsa dancing, smoking, imbibing in the crowded but pulsing space. This felt like Cuba. “Stand by Me” was also thrown into the mix and we had a chance to sing along. My usual judgments or self-consciousness in this was nowhere to be found. A city, colorful and alive, was allowing me to feel like me.

But it’s funny how days can go. The last line of this, both poignantly true and utterly false on day two. The thing I thought would be tough about traveling as a single woman alone in Cuba, my (lack of) safety or being an easy target, was only partly true. I felt pretty safe, even on blocks that looked as torn apart as Aleppo, but I was constantly catcalled and targeted for the scam du jour. Every block I walked, multiple no’s. The interaction exhaustion I experienced after only one hour “out” forced me back to my apartment to recoup. It reminded me of parts of Asia or Istanbul, for slightly different reasons. Third world with a side of being hit on constantly made it tough. The language barrier was the cherry on top. There’s not many creative ways to couch “NO” when you don’t speak the language. And sometimes they don’t listen. Yesterday a guy followed me home for 30 minutes babbling drunkenly while I completely ignored him (full disclosure: I spoke to him for a couple sentences as “nice American”) before starting to completely ignore him. But that’s the problem with going full “feminist at a frat party” NO. I feel vulnerable here. This is not my country. A way I might feel safe communicating in LA, with a full grasp of the English language, a car in clicker shot, my complete bearings of where I am…that doesn’t apply here. So in a way, you put up with it. “Nice American” it is. It’s brought up a lot of internal questions about feminism here. Sometimes I think many of our male-dominant culture issues are American ones. But as I think about it, there’s really not a single place I’ve been, with the exception of maybe Australia and New Zealand, where that’s not an issue. For some reason, I imagine Tokyo might be the same. However, everywhere else I’ve been catcalled, treated as lesser than, touched without permission. Yesterday, even my well-meaning driver touched my leg an awful lot over my virgin Mojito and his Cuba Libre - and I was the one who felt like it would have been impolite to ask him to stop. It’s truly a global issue. And I’ll be honest, in the case of Havana, it’s making me want to jet to Cancun sooner than later, as much as I also love it here.  I think being a single woman traveling here is truly not an easy task. Despite all this, yesterday was still fun. I found an old flea market near the Plaza de Armas with loads of precious small things: pins, old books, sentimental trinkets. This was nothing like the tourists markets with maracas, cheap drums, and Club Havana t-shirts. I bought a pin that spoke to me - 1972 Blood Donor - as well as an old 1988 Dave Stewart baseball card. Funny to travel all this way for that! The rest of the day was spent wandering out of old Havana and into other areas on the outskirts. I got caught in a sudden tropical rainstorm and kids emerged from every door in underwear, dancing and yelping. I took refuge in a dark corner of Cafe Miglis and had some meatballs that seemed a million miles from Cuba. I took a wander after the rain died down to the nearby Ocean Wall, the Malecon, where young lovers canoodled and fisherman sat on the wall, kicking, looking for the catch of the day while simultaneously hissing at me with approval. I made my way up to the Hotel Malecon, a grand decaying old Hotel but well worth popping in to spend time in the rolling gardens with a drink or a cigar. I exited the hotel quickly and immediately met Michael, a driver with a pink Chevy who beckoned me to come on a city tour with him. I hadn’t planned on this, but why not. I was tired and could use to take a rest and see some sights. So out we went, past the old University with the broad stairs and broken windows, through Revolution Square, a bleak places with a couple outlined portraits of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, and up to the somewhat mythical Bosque of Havana. The bosque is a forest right in Miramar, on the outskirts of Havana, and though I cringed a little at parts of it being trashed, it still felt like something out of Avatar. People were even bringing dead things down to the river for a Santeria ceremony. We rolled home through Miramar and after a mojito on the Malecon. I fell into a deep sleep at 8pm and slept for 13 hours, exhausted by the stimulation of it all.

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A Year

Only a week before, I had been sitting in a paper jumpsuit on a cold concrete block, waiting for my number to be called but doubting that it actually would. That’s the funny thing about jail, as I see it. I may have done a year but 11 months and 2 weeks of that didn't count so much, except for time lost outside. Maybe I’m just better at disconnecting than most. I went somewhere those 11 months and 2 weeks. Autopilot. Floating. Dissociated. Elsewhere. Living just for mail call, commissary, and weekend visits. Surviving like an animal with the basest level of consciousness, known only by a number. Letters would come from Puke, Hollywood, Bedrock, and Popeye all proclaiming their undying love, and forcing me to feel a twinge of humanity. Books would come from my parents transporting me to the world of Shogun, and Jean ValJean, and anywhere but my cell would feel like a alternate reality. People sometimes ask me “a year? how did you do that?” - the truth is I don’t know. You go somewhere. A place that doesn't have needs and wants, that has extra sensory peripheral vision that only goes as far as the concrete walls on either side of you. I tell people that only did 2 days, or 2 weeks, or 2 months that what they did was just about as hard as what I did. Because the first day and the last day are the hardest, and beyond that the first week and the last week. The first week you’re going through the grief and attempts to accept actually being in there, and the last week you don’t believe that there’s a world out there at all, and further that you will actually be released. That’s where the mind goes when you haven’t seen sunlight for a year. The middle part of a sentence is just accomplished by being an animal surviving. So there I sat, minutes after midnight, skin a strange twinge of green, waiting for my number to be called. 1’oclock, 2 o’clock, waiting to be told there was some error. Other women in paper jumpsuits or ill fitting street clothes coming and going on either side of me. Finally - 2 2 5 8 3 8 9  came over the speaker. The last time I would have to hear or say it. Up to the window I went, and my past life belongings were dumped in front of me. Turns out that a year before I had $2.78 in my pocket and a silver necklace I felt sure I had never laid eyes on before. A door clicked. I walked out. There sat Mom & Dad, quivering, tearful, also in disbelief. Mom and Dad who came every possible visiting day, rain or shine. Mom and Dad who came dressed as Santa and Ms Claus on Christmas Day, waiting just to see my wan face through inches of plexiglass. We were still inside a waiting room area and I felt a sudden panic at that last door not opening. I moved rapidly towards it, and felt the cold handle under my palm, the first I had felt in a long time, the first door I could open. We got in the car and the SUV rumbled along the freeway, 3.42am. Leather. Lights. Openness. Emptiness. I saw a Del Taco and asked for “real food.” I ordered the same breakfast quesadilla that would soothe me and fill me after a two week meth binge and it tasted different somehow. I covered it in Del Scorcho hot sauce to try to make myself feel something. We got to Laguna but I wasn’t allowed to go home. It wasn’t safe, we were being cautious. The letters threatening my life and safety has started to roll in regularly by the end and my address was a matter of public record, as was my release. And then there was also Scott to worry about. Luckily among the people I ran with family was off limits. I wasn’t. We went to the kitschy old Riviera Motel, the one I spent my childhood scampering around with sandy feet in green felt hallways.  A room on the sea. The waves, the sounds. Nothing would ever be the same. I had asked to have a razor on hand, and I went in the shower, shaving off a year of hair and feeling the smoothness of my skin under the hot water. A timeless amount of minutes came and went and I emerged feeling different. Those same dark valleys were under my eyes but I was not the same. I got in the bed and I had my first moment of emotion. Had beds always been this soft? I had remembered the beds of my childhood spent at the Riviera being firm like my grandmothers, probably from the 1950’s. Had they renovated the hotel? No, said Mom, same beds as always, and I knew that my understanding of the world had just changed.

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I miss 👭👩🏼‍🌾 🇨🇭 (at Graubünden)

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Can hardly stand how much I miss my second home 🇫🇷 (at Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris)

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Had my first drone crash into the Pacific the other day and had to amp myself up to fly over water again right away with drone # 2....but in Tahoe I realllllly can't help myself. (at Emerald Bay State Park)

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Summer in Tahoe is IT. Fell asleep on the deck of a sailboat last night and jumped off this rock first thing to wake up this morning. This place has been in my life since I was 5 and it has never lost its magic (at D. L. Bliss State Park)

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Sheepherders Hut 🐑 Also, where I plan to retire and be an old grizzled wild woman/crazy sheep lady (at Graubünden)

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Original adventure mobile 🚌 @kitkat_ch & I will be doing an adventure in her '72 VW bus soon! The best part about this bus was the happy faces of everyone we drove past ✨ (at Latsch)

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So far my favorite part of having a drone is being able to get closer to farm animals than ever before (at Switzerland)

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Albula Pass from the sky...whenever I've been in Switzerland before it's been closed off by snow, so it was divine to see it so green and luscious in the summertime! And full of 🐮 (at Albula Pass)

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Adventure pal 👭 (at Graubünden)

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Missing 🇨🇭 adventures with my girl @kitkat_ch & her 🚘 (at Bergün, Switzerland)

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Roads & drones (at Maloja Pass)