baja at 29

Nearly one year ago, on my golden birthday, I woke up to the Pacific Ocean. I was taken aback by how familiar that body of water has become. My 19-year-old self would've been astounded to know I'd been in Los Angeles for nearly three years at that point. An hour or so later, we drove to the border. I was unreasonably hungry (because we never do grow out of some ways of being) and nervous–what with my last name and the current President. The passport exchange was somehow more painless than previous drives from Canada; we found roadside churros also. Back in California, I turned my cell on to a cascade of happy 29th wishes via texts and voicemails. After a refreshing three day weekend in Mexico, I truly was. Happy, that is.

Happiness hasn't been something that's come easily in my twenties. I'm too learnedly cautious, or, as some may say, cynical. Whereas I desire an incredible amount from the world, I expect very little. I think that's why I've ended up inhabiting four cities in the past ten years. Submitting to one place requires a a reckoning with mundanity I've been far too intimidated to take on. And there's pressure in the choosing. And that's before considering the people that will matter there, the vulnerable investment true bonds require...

Clearly I'm still fearful. But I've also been ruminating over something my mom once said, about how 34 was her favorite because it was the age she fully embraced who she was and felt wholly satisfied with life she was creating. Even then I found the concept so beautiful. Now, I dually appreciate the courage that made it true. Living that sentiment might be what I'm most looking forward to. (For the record, I also intend to refute the claim that time's running out to visit these destinations. Are you kidding me.)

When he'd asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I thought back to my 28th. I fondly remembered that Mexico has a wine country. We stayed by the water and dined in courses amongst the vines and made time for horseback riding, and ocean-front reading, and margaritas after a farm animal meet n' greet. We tasted a delectable array of smoky, sophisticated wines. It was such a privilege to satisfy so luxuriously; magical even. Here's to accepting more of that into this wild and precious life. Next month: 30, (Paris, Greece!).

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.

the unresolved parisienne

There's so much to be said about this country, and this world right now... I fear words fall short. My hodge-podge of sentiments—anxiety, concern, exhilaration—is too intimidating to capture. Instagram feels more appropriate in its visual short form. As such, please excuse the self-declared banality of my reflection below. It errs on the personal side of Heather Havrilesky's words (via Ask Polly): "If you can’t own the life you have right now, ask yourself what needs to change to make you feel like more of a conquistador."

On November 17th, 2016, I landed in Paris. It was dark and chilly as I commuted from CDG to an Airbnb a mere three blocks from where I'd once lived. The route itself was jarring in its familiarity. I affectionately recognized the corner brasserie, and neo-bistro, and all the other shops and bars (save for a few that were obviously new). I WhatsApp-ed Lorelei, "I don't know how you do this regularly. I want to relive every moment of life here, on repeat times a million, plus more memories." And then, after settling into my Airbnb, I texted Ben, "the apartment has high ceilings and antique furniture and my host is an older impatient woman who offered me fruit upon arrival, so I basically feel like France welcomed me back with open arms." I wasn't kidding. It felt painfully good to be back, again.

The following morning, I woke up relatively early. I Facebooked Deanna to make plans: petit-déj at a café across from a metro stop on his line so she wouldn't get lost, we'd figure out the next steps from there, Rémi would meet up with us after class. Some context: my sister is (quite ironically!) dating a French guy she met over the summer in New York; she has visited him (and Paris) twice since.

We wandered through the Latin Quarter across the Seine and into the Marais, stopping into clothing stores we couldn't afford, a free exhibition at the Swedish Institute, and a worth-every-penny visit to the recently-renovated Musée Picaso. Then we lunched with Rémi at our beloved Nanashi before dragging him into Merci—at which he was the only consumer. They (being too cute) caught the bus home at Bastille while I returned to the 17th to freshen up. Later, I ventured outside the city to join Mia at a Salif Keita concert.

Those first 36 hours were too easy, too normal... it was hard to believe I'd ever voluntarily left! And then, before traveling to Amsterdam, I brunched with Lou at Rose Café. In her thoughtful way, she reminded me of my critiques: the cultural superiority, the unyielding otherness, the callous social capital bred from famous haute-couture fashion houses and the like. Paris, too, has an ego.

A week later, I saw Lou once more whilst staying in Melun with ma famille française. I also arranged plans with Melissa, and Rithy, and Julia, and my AUP professors on campus. We spoke about politics and ideals, life and love, ambition and responsibility. I was so perfectly inspired. I found myself overcome by immense gratitude as opposed to tragic-nostalgia. Every moment was to be savored, so I did exactly that. And I was actually ready to fly back to Los Angeles when the time came—even with its infuriating civic passivity, empty "nice days", select inhabitants trying so goddamn hard to be seen as cool, laid back, and creative in unacknowledged privilege. As my sister reminded me today (from Paris, I might add!): But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?