[Contemplating 2017 c/o the Asian Carp at my AirBNB] Part 1: In Which I Ally with Asian Grandmas, Acquaint with Carp

Enter scene.

It is midnight on a Tuesday evening in San Francisco in February, and it is pouring rain.

I reach my Airbnb in the Haight Ashbury region of San Francisco after 10 hours of transit, only to discover that my AirBNB host -- a very wealthy man named Barry --  **did not leave me a key to enter his house**. 

Thus I am locked out, on the street, in the rain, with nowhere to go.

45 minutes of attempting to course-correct quickly prove doomed: the host and his “helper” do not respond to my >10 desperate calls / texts / messages. My attempts to get the attention of 4 different neighbors  fail swiftly. AirBNB’s late night ‘guest services’ prove non-existent (read: consist of leaving you to hyperventilate on hold to infinity+, while the AirBNB phone-robots blast shitty, Lumineers-esque pop-folk hold music into the sharing-economy abyss).

I force myself to quickly accept the facts === 

I am locked out, in the rain, at midnight, with a pile of luggage, on the street >>>> and therefore I am: ***oh yes*** ***quite fucked***.

Naturally -- I begin to openly weep. 

(PSST >> read more, after the jump!)

Stage 3: Needle Fear Be Damned

I will begin this (much belated chapter) with a mission statement of sorts: friends, I live an //alternative lifestyle.

Were you aware? ///// BECAUSE I DO.

When I reflect on my brief existence in this world, I realize: it has always been this way. Even during the bleak middle school days of turquoise eye shadow and abercrombie tube tops, I have never been able to escape my ultimate fate of being a weird ass broad.

// Do you think it has something to do with the eyebrows?????????

In some ways, the //alternative way of life was the only viable option for me.

Some context for more recent acquaintances: I grew up in a very very WASP-filled, Jesus-loving, straight-laced ‘burb--a world of extreme & deeply self-congratulatory ---normativity----. Indeed there have been multiple movies / TV shows / books chronicling my particular suburb’s status as the quintessential white-picket-fence suburban archetype. 

I was a bad fit for this culture, shall we say. And, in my defense, the culture was quite extreme.

Example #1: the stereotypically popular kid in my class was essentially a cardboard cut-out of America the White & Hetero & Beautiful.

Let us henceforth refer to him as “Bill.”

Stage 2: Keeping Up with the Kardashianz

For my entire life, my mother has claimed that my thick-as-hell dark brown hair was exceptionally unique. I therefore was banned from ever dyeing any portion of my luscious locks any color for any reason, ever. GASP.

I resented my mother’s stance re: hair dye deeply. 

I was an alternative-music-loving, angst-ridden teen, after all—and how would Conor Oberst ever fall in love with me if I was not sporting stylish, boxed-red hair? The prospect of simply NEVER fully fitting in at Vans Warped Tour was a first-world teenage tragedy I grappled with daily. 

Since then, my hair-dye-related resentment has abated significantly—in particular because I have seen countless Ukrainian women sporting ghastly bottle-hair-dye colors. (Further study:  this FB page entitled Eastern European women with badly-dyed red hair - over 1,000 likes. #FUN)

'Cause they love that natural~~~ look.

The major problem my people face is this: unless you got some ~~secret Polish heritage~~—you, Ukrainian woman, will have brown hair. It is likely very dark. In order to transition from very dark brown to any other shade of hair color and have this color-transition actually be visible with human eyes, your very dark hair needs to be bleached first. 

And then there comes the vicious cycle of very-dark-hair doom:

à Dark hair + bleach = bleach-orange

à Bleach-orange + (any color dye) = … a color that will likely fade back to bleach-orange

à Bleach-Orange hair + luscious, hirsute dark eyebrows of Ukraine = ...

Stage 1: R.I.P. Kooky Sweater Girl. (... You Won't Be Missed)

When in college, I used to actively identify myself as being a Kooky-Glasses-Wearing Librarian; “Kooky Sweater Girl” for short. 

It wasn't hard to fit the bill: I had a number of discussion-provoking bifocals; spent much of my time hanging out in beautiful libraries; + held a love for pleated skirts that was/is/forever-will-be undying.

And, of course, there were all those sweaters...

MAKE. IT. STOP.

If I reflect on what may have spurred my sweater addiction, I guess it comes down to two fundamental neuroses:

1. my endless campaign to bring more love to the under-valued genre(s) of fiber art (trapunto & yurt construction 4eva~~~). # Naysayers gonna naysay.
2. my true, deep, and eternal passion for sifting through thrift stores. 'Cause it's the treasure hunt that never ends, y'all.

#2 is the clincher in my sweater-addiction. See, the metaphysical law ruling vintage retailers worldwide is that—no matter the locale, tone, price-range, etc— they are inevitably filled with ornate, forgotten sweaters. Piles & piles & piles of ‘em.

True heaven is a place on earth... where everything costs $1; smells vaguely of BO.

There were also some practical reasons for procuring many wool-based garments. I was born & raised on the frigid streets of the D and then shivered through 4 years of higher ed in the Windy City... I had to stock up on cold-weather apparel to survive! A girl's gotta stay warm, aight?

(Read on, after the jump!)

Extreme Makeover: Quarter Life Crisis Edition

My outlook on the real world during my long-lost university days was very strange, to say the least.

Punch drunk on ivory-tower syllabi filled with ancient Greek philosophers, I looked out at the “real world” with wide-eyed despair. 

I truly believed that that the future entailed inevitable corporate droll / uninspiring monotony. College = my last chance at true bliss! 

In contrast, post-college life = banal, blah, droll. 0% eudaimonia, 0 people that cared to discuss the conceptual complexities of eudaimonia, and (DUH) 0 folks that gave a fuck either way.

OHHH THE HUMANITY.

Yet the true nature of this early-20s reality has proven to be entirely different. You see, it’s not that ~real world life~ is uninspiring. It’s actually quite the opposite: TOO inspirational. 

Unexpected dramas at every corner! Hormones a’ragin’! Hearts dramatically uncaged!!

For me, these 2 post-collegiate years have included great physical & mental traumas, multiple deaths, a series of unfortunate illnesses, and many instances of heartbreak. In short: it is really fun being Ukrainian. REAL ###FUN.

I've grown a few new layers of skin these years, it is true. And in the process I have come to one single conclusion: y’all, I have changed.

But I like this change! It feels like maturity...?

I mean, I am a phoenix from the yellow-fever flames! 

I am a majestic, refined-sugar-addicted butterfly emerging from a post-collegiate chrysalis! 

& GODDAMNIT—I MUST REFLECT THIS INTERNAL CHANGE EXTERNALLY!!!

If you are a cis-gendered, liberal-arts-educated millennial in the United States, $10 says that you yourself have encountered this odd realization recently: I mean, young adulthood, it's a thing. 

And another $10 says that you have decided the best course of action is singular, stoic, and clear: !!! LIFE-MAKEOVER TIME !!! 

Mission statement: //// IF YOU CHANGE YOUR LOOK GIRLFRAN /// THEN YOU WILL CHANGE YOURSELF /// THEN EVERYTHING WILL MAGICALLY CHANGE FOR THE BETTER ///.

Interestingly, as I began to speak of my life-makeover plans with other people my age, I noted some trends.

Most of my male friends responded something like, “Um.. how does changing your hair / clothes radically shift your identity again?” 

One word for y’all dudes: SIMPLETONS.

Alsoooo…. you may be correct. Nevertheless: STFU.

My female friends reacted in the opposite manner: with the purest of enthusiasm. 

In fact, many of my estrogen-peak-suffering female compatriots revealed to me that—ohwhattayaknow—they were also planning a !!!!!!!dramatic physical transformation!!!!!!, for similar quarter-life-crisis-related reasons. Oh, this sweet world.

I guess when life gives you lemons, 21st century femalez utilize those lemons to dye their hair and brows and lifeblood.

For those who are interested, my makeover strategy reads as follows:

Stage 1:  R.I.P. Kooky Sweater Girl.

Stage 2: Keeping up with the Kardashians

Stage 3: Needle-fear BE DAMNED.

Stage 4: (((Glassy lassy)))

I will be detailing each stage for your reading-pleasure.

Embark on this journey with me, friends. It’s pretty superficial; and yet (I feel) oddly poignant. 

I’m not a girl, not yet a woman, k? K.

Thanks for the (Cholera-Induced / Mostly Hallucinative) Memories, Cartagena de Indias

My last 5 days in Colombia, I stayed in scenic Cartagena de Indias.

Cartagena is known as one of the most coveted colonial fortresses in Latin America. Immense amounts of wealth passed through its harbors; hoards of pirates attempted to break into the walled city at every turn.

In today’s Cartagena, the wealth continues to flow--though it's not coming from pirates, the sugar trade, or Spanish expat nobility.

Instead, Cartagena has maintained its wealth thanks to its status as a truly unironic, slightly-dilapidated ~Caribbean vacation destination.~ It is filled to the brim with many, many, many very affluent Brazilian/Argentine tourists that deeply enjoy the city's array of resort-life attractions, such as: dillipidated horse-drawn carriage rides!  Third-degree sunburns contracted while basking next to rooftop pools! And, of course, the delectable fare at Hard Rock Cafe Cartagena!

Evidently the Hard Rock enterprise is not, in fact, bankrupt. The 90s really are back, y'all.

Unfortunately when I myself think of Cartagena, I will remember neither its pirate-fighting past nor its lovably-skeezy-resort-town present. 

Instead, I will forever connect Cartagena with that one time my life almost came to an early and abrupt end. Sad but true: Like many a Spanish colonizer before me, within 48 hours of landing in Cartagena, I came down with a very severe tropical virus. 

I spent my last 4 days in Colombia quaking in my bed, sweating/bleeding/hallucinating/vomming/crying with a 103-degree fever; unable to feel my hands or feet; skin peeling off to reveal a large, spotted rash; physically unable to go to a pharmacy/doctor and get medicine… aaaand 100% alone. With no idea whatsoever what my ailment was or how to treat it.

I could turn this post into a large litany about illness abroad; travelling alone; viral infections of the tropics; etc etc. This is true.

But I cannot under-emphasize this point: I came back from the BRINK, friends - so I’m taking a different route.

... I’m taking a route of glory-jesus-HALLELUJAH.

.... I’m taking the route of  HELLLLL-YUS-I-AM-ALIVE-LET-US-TAKE-IT-TO-THE-STREETS

.... I’m taking the route of THANK YOU DEITIES ABOVE, because I am feeling the spirit of #YOLO like Drake himself never could believe. Testify & believe.

Below, I list out the many bright stars of sunshine that pulled me through the Plague of Cartagena.

Bogota Bike Brawl

When I entered Bogota, I knew basically three things about the city: 

1. it is in the mountains!
2. it has a large Fernando Botero museum!! 
3. their local chicken stew ajiaco is delectable!!!

BUT... that was it. I wish I was kidding. Preparation is not #mythang, child.

Being so very in-the-dark about what I was supposed to do in a city that is - fun fact - gargantuan (the size of all of NYC's 5 boroughs combined!), I did what all uninspired tourists do: I decided to try out a local bike tour.

The name of the tour company I chose was straight-forward, Bogota Bike Tours. I thus assumed I would be lead past the major Hits of Bogota, maybe learn a fact or two, and finally, 90 mins. later, be on my way to consuming a delicious empanada.

Alas: the Bogota Bike Tour was not to be anything like a leisurely pedal down a paved, Euro-centric Colombian version of the Ringstraße.

I walked into the BBT "office"  - really, an open-air garage with bike parts strewn about everywhere - and a tiny Colombian man named Emilio immediately forced a mountain bike, helmet, and (most disturbingly) various ankle/elbow/wrist guards at me. I hadn't even registered or paid for the tour. Heck, I hadn't even fully stepped foot into their garage. This was the first of many signs that I was in for something a bit more intense than I anticipated. A heh heh heh.

Our guide was a grizzled, late 50s, ex-pat journalist named Mike. (Note: Since journalists in Colombia have been notorious targets of assasinations for at least the past century, this is not a profession for the weak of heart.)

Mike had what looked to be a large, chemical burn on half of his face. Also, he carried a half-destroyed macrame camera bag so tattered that he had stuffed a large black garbage bag inside as a "waterproof lining."

 But really, a picture is worth a thousands words, right? All you need to know about Señor Mike:

Crazy-eyed does not even begin to describe...

His first words to us: "Hey guys, my name is Mike. I've been living in Bogota for 6 years, in Latin America for 15. I'm from California but I haven't been back to that godawful place in over a decade. ALRIGHT ENOUGH SMALLTALK LET'S GO." And then he sped away at warp-speed. At this point, I had barely strapped on my helmet.

And still, off we went. 

A small selection of amazing non-guide-book-approved sites we visited in Bogota, after the jump.