“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”.
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I spent a week in Switzerland in September of 2008. Much of this time was spent frolicking around various lakes (*ahem* Lake Geneva, Lake Maggiore) – but I had a home base in Zurich, where I crashed at my friend’s apartment.
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With as many international travel adventures as I have under my belt, it is straight up STUPID how little domestic travel I’ve done in comparison. Apart from sporadic jaunts out west or around the northeast, I’ve hardly seen any of my own country – and that’s just unacceptable!
I didn’t love my ancestors’ country when I visited it 4 years ago. I wanted so much to throw my arms up and shout out my love for Sweden, but Stockholm didn’t wow me as I’d hoped.
Not too long ago, I admitted to falling into a travel routine which finds me doing predictable Lindsay-esque things whenever I explore a city, whether new or my own: seeking out the good coffee, walking as much as possible, and being frugal with food and accommodation costs.
I have no shame in confessing my love for reality tv. I mean, what better mindless entertainment than following along as a bunch of strangers are thrust together to live in a massive house where shenanigans inevitably abound?
Last week I was in San Francisco, falling back in love with the city by the bay. We picked right back up from where we left off 5 years ago, and I reluctantly departed with a silent declaration that someday I’ll live there.
I was on a 2-week roadtrip up the west coast, reveling in my newfound freedom, eager to see and do as much as I could – simply because I could.