“THERE’S A VOLCANO ALERT FOR ICELAND!”, Becca texted me last week, just 11 days before we were due to fly to Reykjavik.
I immediately took to The Google, which confirmed that an orange alert had been issued due to “intense seismic activity at the Bardarbunga volcano [which]indicates the potential for a disruptive ash event similar to 2010”.
I’ve learned a lot in my 10+ years of travel: about myself, about the world, about how to travel.
Lord knows I’ve made all sorts of travel mistakes – and as long as I keep traveling, I’ll keep making mistakes.
A few years ago, I swore off the infamous Greyhound bus from New York to Atlantic City. It’s notorious for a questionable cast of passengers, being reliably late, and even altering routes without notice.
I knew my travel plans would change at some point during my 2013 Asia trip. In fact, I welcomed the spontaneity – which is why I didn’t plan much beyond a rough route map for those 5 months.
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If there’s anyone that should be able to handle the exotic foods, navigate the chaos, and ward off the men while traveling in India, it’s me. I pride myself on my stomach of steel, excellent sense of direction and independence, and unfaltering Beast Mode.
Everyone warned me about Indian men.
To which I responded with my trademark eyeroll, “I got this.” I’ve long perfected my Beast Mode and it’s worked flawlessly, thankyouverymuch. I envisioned implementing it in India like this:
Let me set the scene for you:
The night I had arrived in Delhi I’d gotten lost, gotten ripped off multiple times, was taken to the wrong hotel by my tuk tuk driver, got stared at by every Indian man within a 10-foot radius while I was eating dinner, and afterwards vomited on the side of the road on my walk back to the hotel.
I was not in the greatest shape when I arrived in Jodhpur. Seriously sleep deprived and fresh off the night train from Jaisalmer, I stumbled into my hotel and practically begged to check into my room early at 6am.