Of Getting Lost in BC

Going on an adventure

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My friends and I have a tendency to get lost in Canada. A lot.

Since we all live in the States, unless we have access to wi-fi, we must revert back to the pre-cellular device days and thus are required to look for familiar landmarks, ask for directions, or try to read a map with very tiny print. Inevitably, the simplest directions somehow get clouded in an array of one-way streets, signs that we swear can only be read if you’re driving in a certain direction, and the frustrating inability to phone a friend.

But we love it.

Or, at least I do.

Nothing, and I stress nothing, is more satisfying than finally reaching your destination after hours of wrong turns. In fact, that moment when you first step out of the car is guaranteed to be the highlight of your evening. From that point on, you are floating on  a champagne filled cloud in the sky, it would take some serious what-the-fuckery to bring your buzz down.

It’s gotten to a point, where I actually kinda/sorta know where I am. Not because I’m familiar with the streets, but because I’ve been lost there so many times before. Which means that while I am not certain of where we should go, I do know which way not to go. And that my friends, is baby-steps.

The truth is, what little shame I may have, is completely gone once I get lost. And then, when I get some much needed directions, I’ll still find a way to get confused and make a wrong turn. It’s almost a guarantee.

Here’s just a sample platter of actual things I’ve done when completely at a loss for where I was:

  • Made reckless turns because in the distance I thought I saw the correct road sign.
  • Struggled to get information from a clerk who had never heard of where I was trying to go, which was the border. In the end, they gave me a blank stare and I had to ask a guy in the parking lot.
  • Stopped in the middle of an intersection and asked the flagger for a detour when they closed down the street that I desperately needed.
  • Yelled at some bros partying on a balcony.
  • Chased down a mini-van and knocked on the passenger window – the poor lady nearly had a heart attack.
  • Blocked a semi-truck with my car, hopped out, stood on the edge of the truck, and proceeded to ask the one toothed man, “Excuse me, how do I get to America?”


Of New Chapters

Belle - Beauty and the Beast

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That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.” – John Green, Looking for Alaska.

Routine is nice, but it’s a wee bit on the boring side. Lately it feels like I’ve been meandering aimlessly – when I could have been frolicking gleefully.

Everyday I bitch about waking up, I hate waking up, almost as much as I hate getting ready for bed. Though nothing is worse than getting ready for bed. I’d rather be forced to play team sports or do yoga – both activities I suck at, and have zero desire to participate in.

Then I do your basics: shower, make coffee, grab breakfast on the go, tailgate the assholes who refuse to drive the speed limit, scurry into the office, and get everything set up before my bosses arrive.

Next up, I work. I truly enjoy my job, I do, so I don’t mind working – but still, routine.

Lastly, I go home and hang out with the roommates. And then one, if not all, of these scenarios will play out:

  1. We spend at least an hour trying to figure out what to make for dinner.
  2. We talk about dance (or actually dance).
  3. We talk about failed attempts at romance.
  4. We watch a movie.




I’m starting to get thirsty for something new and exciting – a Great Perhaps, you could say.

I need to step outside my comfort zone. Meet strangers. Try new activities. To stop talking and actually do something. However, I require someone else to hold me accountable thanks to my minuscule self-motivation skills.

Cause you see, I’m great at talking about what I want to do, but I rarely actually do anything outside of my routine.

I’ve always wanted to:

  • Perform burlesque.
  • Write freelance articles for a sub-pop culture magazine or literary journal.
  • Write a novel.
  • Start a vlog.
  • Successfully ask out a stranger.
  • Learn to hula hoop dance.
  • Sew an outfit that doesn’t look homemade.
  • Get proper DJ equipment and mix my own tracks.

Alas, here I sit. Doing nothing.

I talk to the same lovely people everyday. Eat the same foods. Do the same activities. And succeed at hiding myself away in my cozy little corner, where everything is safe, and I never have to deal with anything uncomfortable or intimidating.

Of Parting Ways

At the street fair

What’s the best part about the street fair? Eating curly fries of course. Mmmmm!

When we were nine we argued about the color of a beaded bracelet. I was convinced that it was green, you were convinced that it was yellow (in reality it was probably lime-green). We sat on my parents red comforter and bickered for at least three hours. If I recall the conversation went something like this:

Me: It’s green

You: It’s yellow

Me: It’s green!

You: It’s yellow!



Me: You’re stupid. Go home!

You: Ugh, you’re stupid. Fine, I’ll go home!

Then you walked home, and we didn’t talk for at least a week.

Fifteen years have passed since that heated argument. And by the way, I’ll always be convinced that you were wrong. It was green, just accept it and move on.

At the risk of sounding like a mushy-emotional-nostalgic-sap, it’s amazing how far we’ve come since we met in third grade:

  • We went through puberty side-by-side
  • I forced you to go to Homecoming with your future boyfriend of six years
  • You made me a rainbow friendship bracelet
  • We hated each other on vacations (but we’d make up within a week afterwords)
  • We’ve risked death climbing rocks at the beach
  • Hiked in the worst footwear possible
  • Went cliff jumping
  • Stole each others slang/fashion
  • Kicked the ass of Harvest Moon
  • Drove while crying/dancing/talking for hours
  • In short – we’re awesome

Tomorrow morning you’ll drive to the east, in pursuit of your PhD in physics. It’ll be at least a year before we spend hours talking about everything and nothing. Till you barge into my parents house and eat all the good food in the fridge. Till we get bored with the normal trail and end up hiking through the bushes. Till when driving we vow to only take the off roads and end up in uncharted territory.

In the mean time I’ll stay here, and you’ll be hanging with the nerds at the University of Iowa, in Iowa City, on Iowa Street. Gosh, they sure do like to remind you what state you’ll be in don’t they?

I love you Sister, good luck in Iowa. I’ll be sure to send you the most random and epic care package ever.