Croatia!

You know you’re in good hands when your pizza comes accompanied with a bottle of ketchup and hot sauce. Welcome. To. Croatia. A place that sits on the Eastern side of the Adriatic Sea, across from Italy. A place with more shoe stores per capita in the city of Split, than any other city in the world. A place of hedonism and history. A place where I decided, somewhat impulsively, that I had to see –Alone.

I’ve traveled on my own plenty, but as far as vacationing alone, I was a virgin. I had considered it an achievement when I once saw a movie by myself at Irvine Spectrum (And if I told you that it was a real movie (The Express), and not your standard chick-flick, you’d agree it was an achievement as well). The thing is, I like people just as much as the next extrovert. I enjoy company. Conversation. Sharing experiences with friends to laugh about later. And because I’ve never had problems persuading people to be in my company, it’s a fair assumption that people like me back. But here’s the thing about being around others: There needs to be balance; you know, some downtime.

After six months of living under someone else’s roof; after 26 weeks of being around kids and a family larger and louder than my own; after one-hundred and eighty-something days of someone always wanting to accompany me without any downtime, I found that solitude was banging at my door. So I answered.

The plan was this: Fly into the city of Split. Stay there three days. Island hop the rest and fly out of Dubrovnik. Days of Travel: 10

I land and I immediately loved Croatia. Aside from Ryan Reynolds, my diamond ring and those incredibly overpriced black stilettos I saw last week, Croatia is undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Roman ruins, medieval architecture and a buzzing atmosphere, all situated on the shore of some of the most stunning unspoiled beaches in Europe. The history of Croatia runs deep as this country has only encountered peace, free from war and violence, for the last fifteen or so years. There’s also something about the fact that my hostel is to be found within the Diocletian Palace, one of the most impressive Roman monuments that is concealed from the rest of the city, which makes this place even more alluring.

I’m escorted by a friendly native to my hostel and drop my luggage off. I then spend my first day of solitude exploring the fortress that is the Diocletian Palace, also known as the Old Town of Split. I walk up the alleys and down through the piazzas. I have no direction. I walk left. I turn right. I’m sure I’ve circled the same area several times. I don’t care. I have no one to tell me otherwise. I browse through the open-air market, stopping to admire the array of local products. I stop for a café. I take my time. I take pictures. I buy a cheap magenta-colored beach towel and I spend the rest of the afternoon perched on the rocky cove with my nose in a book as the sun dissolves my skin's paleness. I know, my life is rough.

I come to the primary conclusion that solitude can be quite therapeutic. Okay, yes, I do encounter what we’ll go ahead and call first-day jitters accompanied by anxiety about being on my own and alright, fine, it’s true that I even consider cutting the trip short, but I recognize quickly that I will absolutely be okay. I’ve survived half a year of the French; this should be a walk in the park (Or more accurately, the beach). And I have a hunch that being alone with my thoughts will be a good thing. It’s necessary. Suddenly, I’m calm and for the first time in a long time, I’m in the present moment. I’m content.

Ten days of exploring, ten days of reading, ten days of thinking, sunbathing, swimming, traveling, island hopping, reflecting, journaling and introspection, and here is what I have come to discover:

Discovery #1: As my friend Ife would say, “I can’t be bothered.” What I mean is this: Life is short. The planet is overheating. Gas prices keep increasing and employment rates are decreasing. Everyone is agitated, everything causes cancer, and soon, gravity will take its toll on us all beyond the aid of Botox. Until that day comes, I’m going to enjoy my youth. I’m going to celebrate wellbeing. I’m going to stop feeling so self-conscious, being bothered by insecurities, and so help me God, I’m going to benefit from those evenings I once spent at the gym, in a dance class or some fitness activity—I’m going to get nude at the Nude Beach on Brac Island and I’m going to stay there until cellulite and stretch marks find me in old age; Or maybe just for the afternoon. And so I did… and it was thrilling.

Discovery #2: Typically, I’m a planner. I am delighted by schedules, by lists, by [somewhat obsessively] crossing off the completed chores. I take joy in the sense of control that it offers. I misplaced this trait, I’m assuming, somewhere over the Adriatic Sea. I went into Croatia with an itinerary. Three days here, one day there, two nights in this place, and a day trip to that place. I didn’t follow the itinerary at all. I didn’t plan. I didn’t worry. There was more than one occasion, when I arrived in a new place, decided I liked it and found accommodations for the night. Normally, this would warrant me an Ativan and a panic attack, but something had changed. Somehow I knew that everything always works out….and it did.

Discovery #3: I love traveling. I believe it transforms, transcends and takes the soul to new heights of understanding. My love for travelling has been continuous and constant, and at times, I’ve been more loyal to travel than to my own romantic relationships. I listen to stories of people who have cycled through Europe; who have climbed to the top of mountain peaks; who have trekked trails that spread over multiple countries; people who do all of these amazing feats. I follow their stories with amazement; “Wow, I want to do that!” But let me distill an accuracy that I learned about myself: In actuality, I don’t want to do those things. I just wish I were the type of person who actually wanted to do those things. Maybe I lack a certain je-ne-sais-quoi or Spirit of Adventure, but I have no desire to set out on an arduous quest to prove myself. I am more exceedingly proud that I can now drink Italian espresso; or when I step off a plane in one piece after a two-hour flight next to colicky infant; Hell, I’m pleased when I’m able to retrieve my baggage directly after a flight from the baggage claim and not one month later. It may not compare, but I’m now okay with that.

I learned this the hard way when I arrived in Bol (with my luggage), on the South side of Brac Island; a place that is considered the jewel of the Adriatic. A place with secluded coves, stunning beaches, rich in vineyards and olive trees, but not congested with tourists. Drunk off it’s beauty and only that, I thought, “Sure, why not hike to the hilltop that overlooks the ocean and camp at the campground?! I could totally do that. I am woman; I am strong. Aren’t I?” So I tried it.

The Verdict: Camping was too quiet, too secluded and yes, too lonely. I felt isolated, agitated and afraid of the dark. The wind howled, I didn’t sleep and I was wide-awake when the sun rose at 5 a.m. I packed my bag and headed off the island, never wanting to camp again and learning that I don’t need to prove everything.

Discovery #4: Since arriving in Europe in January, I’ve been something else for someone else—mostly an Au Pair/nanny/volunteer/help/etc. I’m not complaining—I swear. I kinda-sorta knew what I was getting into. But after the last six months of asking others what they want (What do you want for breakfast? What do you want on your toast? What do you want to wear to school today? What movie do you want to watch and book do you want to read? Where do you want to take your timeout at?), I’ve decided it’s my turn. So without further ado, here is exactly what I want:

I want to live. Live with intention; live with grace. I want to continue to travel, to experience, to admire beauty and encounter new cultures. I want to achieve balance and practice patience. Let go of hurt, forgive others for the past and forgive myself. Bygones. I want to trust; people; myself; that I’ll be okay; that it will all work out in the end. I want to be fortuitous, act mindfully and keep my head in the present. I want to maintain my dreams; live with passion and to follow that passion. I want to love; love fully, without acerbity of the past so I can be open to relationships and possibilities. I want to communicate; with friends; with family; with lovers. I want to pause and reflect. Recognize and release. Take deep breaths. Take my time. Be confident but humbled. Stay headstrong. Be assertive with compassion. Be swept off my feet. Continue to care and continue to live with gratitude. Be a good friend, a loving daughter and devoted sister. I want to make myself happy, too. I want to enjoy life, enjoy people and if there’s still time left over, brake for a piece of dark chocolate, a good Merlot and a good laugh.

Discovery #5: Yogurt Gelato conquers all.

Croatia was my vacation and all mine. It was a few days in Split, one night at a friendly hostel in Brac, one night camping in Bol, a few days on Korcula Island meeting travelers from all over, and one night in the beautiful but overly-touristy-overly-expensive-as-we-try-to-charge-five-euros-for-an-Espresso-Dubrovnik. I can say now that my satiety for solitude has been met. I’m ready to head back to France for a French vacation with my friend Rachel and try to find a gelato that compares.

Island of Korcula

Bol, on the Island of Brac

Split

London Bound

After every trip with EasyJet Airlines, I always step off, promising myself never to take another flight with them. Flying with EasyJet is anything but easy. If you manage to get a flight that isn't cancelled (which happens often) and you're patient enough to wait through hours of delays (which happens always), then you'll find yourself onboard, mid-air, hoping that this much turbulence is normal and it's not too late to restore your faith in the religion that you doubt on a regular basis. But because their fares are reasonable and their flights are frequent, you continue to book flights.

This particular evening, I found myself in the EasyJet queue because my fellow Au Pair, Ife, had just finished her demanding nine months with her host family and was en route back home to London. As the devoted and dutiful friend that I am, I was there to help with her luggage. I was there for moral support. I was there for the free place to stay and personal tour guide around London. What can I say?! I'm a giver.

We met back in February at the language school. Two months later, I invited myself on her trip to Barcelona. I have since invited myself on her vacation to Provence, London, vacations with her British friends, and all future trips with her family to Nigeria. We bonded over Au Pair life, over French culture, over our unmet expectations of Lyon’s charm, and our love for all things involving shoes and intelligent men. She rescued me when I needed to escape the chaos of my host family and assuaged my frustrations. In return, I’d go kidnap her up when she couldn’t stand anymore of her French farm life. We talked, we shopped, we dined and we wined. Somewhere in between hiking up the hills of Casis and counting down our days until freedom, a lasting friendship was formed.

But it hasn't always been blue skies because this particular person, when I travel with her, falls victim, every time, to Murphy's Law of if something can go wrong, it will. When we went to Barcelona, our flight was cancelled and we had to drive eight hours back to France. We got lost. We get lost often. We hit traffic. We end up facing the wrong direction on one-way streets. We drive down bus lanes. We use GPS. It rarely helps.

I should've known better than to fly with her.

And there we stood at the EasyJet counter; Ife was reduced to fictitious sobs as she pleaded with the EasyJet employee to make an exception for the extra weight of her luggage, which included the last 9 months of her life. I was (unsuccessfully) trying to turn my tears of laughter into tears of condolence as I watched her One Man Show. For 16 extra kilos, EasyJet was demanding an extra 190 Euros, which for an Au Pair, is an unfeasible amount. Let’s break it down. That is the equivalent of two roundtrip flights to London; 47 Starbucks Grande Lattes at French prices; 40 bottles of good French merlot; potentially 5 pairs of Nine West heels. Lastly, that amounts to enough baguettes to last a French family of five, every day for six months.

There’s something to be said though, about traveling with someone and encountering undesirable situations. You truly get to know that person; how they react; how they handle stress; how many espressos they need to combat exhaustion or how many drinks they need to battle customer service representatives. The person I got to know is the self-adoring, idiosyncratic, overly dramatic, assertive but calm, go-getter that eventually did get her luggage through Check-In without paying a cent extra. As she described, “You forget I’m Nigerian.”

But since she is who she is and she stays true to Murphy’s Law, we entered the security line to board our plane, only to find out that our flight had been cancelled. Of course, why wouldn’t it be?! In the end, we found ourselves in a paid hotel suite across the street, which wasn’t so bad after living on a farm or in a house full of kids.

The next morning, we made our way to London. The airlines fought again, to refuse her luggage and this time she lost. I suppose you can’t win them all. Minus the hiccups, we proceeded to have a fabulous time in London being tourists, being independent, being without host-families, without stress. So Ife, thank you for an incredible vacation! The friendships that come from traveling the world are nothing short of amazing.

Just as the trip started, it ended with me in line again for another Easy Jet flight. This time to Croatia. Solo.

Gratitudes

• Good friendships
• Summer time in Europe
• Gelato.
• Starting a new book

Cote D'Azur

Once upon a four-day holiday weekend in France, five girls decided to celebrate the “anniversary” of Christ’s ascension into heaven by piling into a rental car and heading South…because nothing says “heaven” like the Cote d’Azur and a weekend away from kids (especially the latter). With our oh-so-plentiful Au Pair salaries, we found accommodations through Couch Surfing, meaning that we found a guy who complimentarily offered us his apartment for our stay. It was in Cannes. It had the most perfect ocean view. It was amazing and it welcomed us, after 6 hours of driving, with aperitifs and three of the host’s seemingly charming French friends who were ready to take us for a night out.

So, that’s exactly what we did. And by 2 am, we found ourselves wrapping things up at the bar after sipping drinks and exchanging expat stories. Despite the hour, the streets were still swarming with people; their cameras ready for star sightings and their heels ready for the dance floor. It was your typical middle-of-May night out in Cannes during the 63rd Annual Film Festival.

“Lauren, a few of us are going dancing,” Our host mentioned. “Are you coming out with us or going back to the apartment with the others?”

The thought of sleep was whispering in my ear: Use your better judgment and return to the apartment. Hmm… But on the other hand, how often am I in Cannes with my friends, being toured around by four French locals. No, it’s been a successful day. End it on a high note. Call it a night. Get some sleep. Go sight-seeing in the morning…and maybe even a jog on the beach? Yeah, okay. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll definitely head back now.

I didn’t go back. I stayed with the remaining five of our group in pursuit of an overly pretentious Cannes dance club. (Because in the French Riviera, which is frighteningly similar to Newport Beach, that’s really all you’ll find). Okay, yes, maybe I am easily influenced at times, but after our last victorious vacation in Barcelona, I had no reason to believe this would be any different. Yet, I should’ve known. I should’ve known that after the “luck” I’ve had with France since January that it wouldn’t be so easy-breezy without some sort of hiccup.

Because somewhere in the midst of standing in the streets waiting for our host to decide on a destination, and me explaining to one of the French friends why I’d make a good Wingman for him, I realized the rest of the group was gone.

Yes, there I was, lost in Cannes. But, but, at least I wasn’t alone. I was with Cyrus, one of the three friends who welcomed us into Cannes. And don’t fret Mom and Dad, because though I may not have remembered his name at the time, it was written on a piece of paper in my clutch (along with his email for, duh¸Facebook), and he was quite attractive (despite what his name might lead you to believe). Plus, he worked in Finance, said that his job title involved the word “executive” and he had his MBA, which totally equates to being dependable, right?! So, don’t worry because I wasn’t worried in the least. Plus, how hard could it be to find the other four people when the there’s only a couple of streets of nightlife?

Apparently, very... While searching for the others, we danced, twirled, spun, weaved, and giggled our way through club after club, landing ourselves empty handed without a smidgen of success... but it was an adventure, right?!

“Okay, no big deal.. Let’s just call them,” I suggested to the cute business (though probably a junior, if that) executive.

“Yes, but my phone died about an hour ago. I may be able to turn it on long enough to get their number and then we can call them on yours.”

And here is where I feel the need to articulate, at least to myself, that I’m generally a very responsible gal: I jog on the right side of the road, I carry Purel hand sanitizer in my purse, I file my taxes before April 15th and have a savings account (which okay fine, is dwindling far quicker than I’d like). I keep a listing of American Embassy locations in my wallet and an overly organized accordion folder in my room with copies of my passport, birth certificate, plus any other ostensibly vital document. And if you’re still not convinced, I get the flu shot.

So on a night out in Cannes, a place I had never been, one would think that this ever-so-responsible gal would bring with her, oh, I don’t know, a cell phone? But alas, the space in my black Coach clutch that is supposed to hold the aforementioned phone, was substituted with a copy of my passport (responsible!), 20 euros (responsible!), lip gloss (eh, not so much, but I needed it!), and a camera (because in event that I actually did run into Ryan Reynolds or Mr. Clooney, I wanted photographic proof). Plus, straying from the group was not a part of the original plan….at least not mine.

By the end of the night, it seemed that Murphy’s Law --if something can go wrong, it will-- wouldn’t give us a break. Cyrus had his phone, but it was dead. My phone worked, but was at the apartment. Someone on the streets let us use theirs, but when we called, it went straight to our friend’s voicemail. We tried to take a taxi, but we didn’t know the address of the apartment. We finally found the building, but didn’t have a gate key. My previous childhood days of gymnastics enabled me to climb over the steel studded gate, but not without it puncturing through my shoe and making my foot bleed. We found the apartment building, but didn’t have a building key. And at 3 am, we regretfully had to ring every resident’s pager to please buzz us in, but no one answered…. Until they finally did on the second attempt. (I know, you hate me right about now…. I did, too. But if it helps, I did find a guy’s fully loaded wallet that night and rightfully turned it into the police so I’m not all bad!)

And if you’re wondering if it’s finally over, yes. Yes it absolutely is. We finally made it up to the apartment and more importantly, inside of the apartment. Then when Cyrus ultimately realized that his solicitous efforts were failing and it wasn’t going to be that kind of night, we retired to our contiguous sleeping areas and fell asleep.

Even though the night's calamity put an awkward start to the next morning (because you can take the girl out of the Catholic church but you can't take the Catholic guilt out of the girl), I decidedly left it in the past because well, it was a new day and everything worked out. As for the rest of the French Riviera, it was pretty much stunningly beautiful. Idyllic beaches, quaint villages, Italian influenced French bistros, and an ocean so blue, so glistening, that you’d think you had died and gone to heaven; After all, it was the Ascension holiday. After two days of sight-seeing, picture taking, Grand Prix watching, Cannes Film Festival Star Searching, lunches in cafes and gelato on the go; after hiking up the hillsides of Monaco and down the sandy beaches of Nice, five girls piled back into their cozy French car and made way back to our respective Au Pair families in Lyon.

Gratitude:

• My mom just celebrated her fifty-something birthday! Happy Birthday, Mom!
• I have a full weekend ahead of me and I'm feeling pretty excited about it: BBQ, Provence, mini road trip, and most of all... SUNSHINE!
• Great friends... here and back in California!
• Courtney H and Stephanie who are keeping me updated with pictures of Kiki being a goofball and videos of her having doggy dreams! Thanks ya'll!
• I think I figured out a plan for July.. It's in the works though. :)

Hammam

It wasn’t your typical Thursday afternoon. Well, I guess that depends who you ask so let me rephrase: It wasn’t a typical Thursday afternoon for me. In a dark, hot and steamy room, I sat there relaxing back. I was two undergarments away from being naked, my hair was a mess, my body was saturated with beads of sweat, and I was practically out of breath… but, but, I was at the apogee of relaxation.

“Whew, I need some air!” So I excused myself, sat down in front of the sink and proceeded to splash my face with water in an effort to cool down and catch my breath. But before I could settle too long, it was time for round two. Yes, already.

“Enlevez-ca.” ...Came the blunt instructions from behind me.

“Oh, uh okay…” So I followed orders and timidly removed my top, leaving me exposed in just my bottoms. (Apparently modesty is left at the door.) While I don’t want to reveal too much about my private life because I’m pretty sure that my dad reads my blog (Sorry, Dad!), I’ll just say that before Thursday afternoon, it had been a while since I’d been naked in front of someone, and we’ll leave it at that (but Dad, if you’re reading this, I’ve never been naked in front of anyone!).

“Wow, your boobs are huge!”

“Oh yeah.. Well, what can I say?! I’m blessed in that department.” I replied, blushing.


Okay, fine…. You’re right-- that part didn’t actually happen but it’s my story and a girl with an A Cup can dream, can’t she?!

Anyway, back to the real story:

Before I had a chance to become bashful, I was doused with a heaping bucket of water from the running sink. Then, again with the water, until it had looked like I had stepped out of the bath… because well, I did. My Thursday afternoon was spent at a traditional Turkish Hammam Bath where one frequents to relax and cleanse the body. It starts with a steam room/sauna, proceeds to a bathing room, and usually ends with a massage.

To rewind, I returned from my vacation in Barcelona to immediately embark on a Lyon “staycation” during the second week of Spring Break with my friend Ife and her two friends visiting from London. Hammam “Spa” was just one of the happenings planned on the itinerary. They had all been to a Hammam Bath before. I was the virgin.

While I was expecting the Burke-Williams-Newport-Beach-Spa-Experience, because that’s the only kind of spa I’ve been to, this was far from it. Instead of the tall and tanned OC masseurs giving you instructions for your massage in an overly soothing six inch voice, while leading you to a candle lit room playing soft ukulele music, I was ordered to strip down, and head to the aesthetically deficient steam room by an older woman who resembles your cushioned-body pragmatic grandmother in her mismatched bra and high-rise underwear that appeared as though it had been through sixty or so cycles of laundry. Like I said, modesty was nowhere in sight. And instead of a private low-lit bath with faint smells of lavender and rose oil, I was extinguished with bowls of running water in a large room outlined with sinks, stools and unflattering lighting… unflattering for myself and Grandma Hammam.

I agreed to the Soap-Noir option, the Homage addition, and before I knew it I was stripped down once again and lying flat on a quartz tile ledge as my new Turkish grandmother proceeded to scrub every inch of me with a coarse mitt, removing layers of dead skin that I didn’t realize was possible to house. Are you turned on yet? I thought so. After being instructed to rinse off, I was able to retire back to the sitting area to rest. A half-hour or so later, we leisurely made our way back to the changing area. With lack of time for the massage portion, we got dressed and made our way back downstairs to pay and depart.

Okay, okay.. So maybe I didn't make it sound all that appealing, but it was incredibly calming and we all left there agreeing to frequent a Hammam bath on a monthly basis. Though no spa can take the place of my beloved Burke Williams, my wallet and my baby-soft skin are thankful for Grandma Hammam.


Gratitude:

• After Hammam, the four of us sat down to a home-cooked (and amazing, I might add) fish dinner with wine.
• 
• The rest of the staycation was a blast as well, as it included cafe and crepes in Croix Roouse district of Lyon, going out at night, some great laughs and relaxation.
• London this weekend.
• My host family is home from their US vacation and I can say honestly that it's really great to have them home!
• New friends. New starts. New soup recipes (Thanks, Ife.)