kalimera, thirties

Of the few Greek words I adopted over the five day-stay, kalimera was likely the first. Locals exchanged good mornings at all opportunities; on the island of Sifnos especially. And being tourists didn't exempt us. We were welcomed into the singsong-y custom. How could we resist! Why would we want to. 

Earlier this summer (Labor Day, what?!), I declared that Greek island life beats most other scenarios. It does. Thanks to jet lag, we awoke each morning around 7am. We made coffee and had a light breakfast of toasted bread with local jam and the best Greek yogurt I have ever had. Perched above the ocean, we leisurely read books and caught up on the news. We hiked to beaches, rode our Vespa across the island's winding roads, ate our weight in Greek salad and Sifnian cheeses and seemingly all the local specialties.

On my 30th birthday, I set out on my own. I descended the stairs to the Church of the Seven Martyrs and prayed to a God who hasn't heard from me in quite some time. The church bells, tied up so as not to ring in the voracious winds, chimed steadily, three times.

It was all so perfect and special, and aside from those solo moments above, shared with one person with whom I no longer speak.

I neither dreaded nor was I thrilled about turning 30. It just felt fitting, in that ordinary no-frills "ah but of course" kind of way. All those little changes and shifts I'd made consciously (and not) in accepting who I was and what I wanted and how I needed, without apology... 30 suddenly made sense; a milestone of adulthood in and of itself as opposed to the reasons I'd been told.

A lot can happen in three decades lived: Multiple degrees and passport stamps. Stints/lifetimes in cities like New York and Paris and Los Angeles. Collections of passion-fueled and need-based jobs. Romantic love found and lost and sought after, juxtaposed with the evolution of familial bonds (once humanness is fully seen, to the extent that it can be). Friends that stick. Real life evidence that another good morning can be found in each ebb and flow, as perhaps the only thing that's truly "meant to be", for every one of us.

one long weekend in kauai

Recently, in a one-on-one meeting with a new team member (p.s. I've been promoted to management! woot!), I was asked why I'd virtually stopped blogging. I don't really know, I replied; alluding to the hardships of the past three years and how I must've simply become less comfortable baring all as I've matured. It was only later I realized that that wasn't entirely true. I stopped because I was told to. And in doing so, I got out of the habit of sharing and connecting here with those near and far, known and not.

The truth saddened me. One day, I do want to share those darker days publicly (the world could use a helluva lot more vulnerability), but until I'm ready, I frankly miss not regularly acknowledging how freaking satisfying everyday life can most of the time be and how worthwhile it is to challenge oneself to seek new interactions and experiences. danielle abroad should accept nothing less, right?

So we'll start by wrapping up that solo work/pleasure trip to Hawai'i earlier this year. I flew to Kauai' on Saturday morning and spent four full days reading, relaxing and being rejuvenated by the natural beauty that permeates throughout the island and its residents. It felt similar to my time in Death Valley yet I was an entirely different place personally: a lot more in love and a lot less ill at ease.

The first night at an early dinner, I was given an orchid for my hair and a table overlooking the garden. I ate quietly in gratitude, in awe of my surroundings as well as how much life I've lived since that first time I dined so well solo. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

I awoke to a cacophony of birds at 4am (way to go, time difference) and held myself over with papaya from the backyard before I ventured to nearest coffee shop for caffeine relief and heartier fare. I found a beach on the northeast side of the island, and went.

That day, I also had shaved ice for the first time, and enjoyed a spur-of-the-moment beachfront massage, and met the loveliest clients for a training in their kids' school library. I also finished my second book, three of four of which I'd purchased the day prior. 

I opted for even more indulgence the following day with a cinnamon roll for breakfast and fresh poke on the beach, and hikes past cows and waterfalls and friendly tourists. Later, I also had my first Mai Tai as the sun set over the Pacific Ocean... and all the while I lounged on an island in the middle of it! A perspective that clearly continues to amaze me. I told my sweet boyfriend so.

And then, it was time to return to the mainland. It was April 4th, eight weeks to my 29th birthday. I'd checked all the HI boxes I hadn't realized I'd invented: visit beaches on every side Kaui'i; read all four female-authored books; eat my weight in local produce and fish; send a postcard to the man who helped me trust myself again, and another to my ever-supportive family; be grateful.

death valley at 28

All I want to do is wake up in the desert on my birthday, I thought. And it was the oddest thing to think, because I don't even like the desert that much. If I were to rate landscapes based on how beautiful I found them to be, the desert would most certainly come in last.

And yet... I couldn't get the longing out of my head. So, I booked a hotel room (I am many things but a solo-camper I certainly am not), got my oil changed, packed a change of clothes and some groceries... and drove out to Death Valley around noon on May 28th.

I'm not not a birthday person. I do enjoy celebrating with close friends and, if I'm lucky, family. (I did, later). But this year I sought to be grounded, connected, gloriously free—all at once. I needed to lighten the heaviness of certain memories and current events.

After checking in, I ventured to Artists Palette; then Dante's View for sunset over Badwater Basin. And just as the desert became completely blanketed by stars, I arrived back at the hotel. I bought a beer and pulled a rocking chair out into the darkness to gaze.

The next morning, after accidentally waking up early, I watched the sun rise with Letters to a Young Poet, and ~20 photographers.

There aren't words to describe how spectacular an experience, nor how special it felt to be a part of it. Feliz cumpleaños, indeed. 

I went on to meditatively walk the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes before heading back to the hotel for avocado toast and coffee. And that was that! Almost. I also stopped for a hike through Mosaic Canyon and drove up to Aguereberry Point on my way out of the park.

Twenty-eight sounds old to me—not in a "ugh, I'm so old!" kind of way (how obnoxious), but in a "wow, I've lived a bit, huh?" way. And waking up in the desert at 28 was perfect. The wide open space and relentless dry heat and pristine towering peaks above the below-sea-level basin were everything I'd been craving. It instilled the most serene awareness of my minuscule, and all the while, worthy existence. Needless to say, the desert landscape might be growing on me...