Tag: wanderlust

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Travel Stories

The City That Calls to Me

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Why is it that everyone wants to write about Paris? That artists, both from Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds to Jay Z, flock to the area? Is it the artistic glamour that is found all over the city? The calm that washes over you as you sit in café, sipping a café au lait, people watching or gazing out into the Seine from your perch on the banks? The awe felt at the dedication to keeping history preserved and integrated into daily life (even if that preservation pays off in millions of tourist dollars pouring in) with their apartments from the 1500’s?

Or, maybe it’s the fashion, the alcohol, the food, the undertones of glitz and glamour in this city. There’s something about Paris: you can be in the dirtiest part town and see someone dressed impeccably well and feel that they are well-read and well-versed in life’s affairs.  It’s the idea that anyone can look beautiful in Paris, no matter the budget.

A Parisian woman can save for years to buy her first Chanel bag, channeling an inner beauty with her black cigarette pants, loafers, white blouse, her hair slightly a mess and no make-up (save for maybe a little mascara or a bit of rouge). Her look is simple, most likely cheap (minus that Chanel bag) with a lot of her items bought at the Monoprix down the street, and yet, it’s an iconic look. A look that millions of women all over the world will spend thousands of dollars trying to replicate. But, replicating something pure and beautiful is never possible.


The fashion and understated glamour is an undercurrent running through Paris, but for those who have been there, you know it’s more than that. It’s a decadent lifestyle that seems to take little effort. The tiny, cramped apartments are more than just a funny story to tell friends back home, more than that stereotypical lifestyle that is so prominent in movies. It’s part of the yearning for something more than just material, more than large homes and clutter.

Living in a minuscule apartment while owning Louis Vuitton, Dior, or Chanel is something of a Parisian right.  Spending liberally on high quality items, be them cheeses, chocolates, wines, or clothing is always the right move with Parisians. It’s always the desire that is important, the need for the purest form, the creativity unleashed in every mundane aspect of the city; you’re always dressing for lifestyle in Paris, never for comfort and ease.

The most splendid apartments are large and baroque in their finishings with gilded gold throughout, but they’re not of the monstrous mansions you will find in L.A. or the many-leveled marbled apartments in New York. Even the most decadent things in Paris are simple.


So, that’s it, right? Artists, although they may not all admit it to themselves, love the decadence. Why else would you sit in front of a computer, a notebook, or a typewriter, banging out the ideas in your head? There’s something so egotistical about being a writer, an artist, that it’s nearly comical. We say we hate the spotlight, we’d rather be on the sidelines, and when it comes to showcasing our work we can be as shy as a preschooler on her first day. But, the glamour of life gets to us. The royalties come in, the attention is doted upon us, the drinking until 4am isn’t just to survive anymore – it’s to celebrate.

What is more decadent than putting your thoughts onto any type of medium, bringing a little bit of you, piece by piece, into the spotlight and thrusting it into viewers faces – making them wonder over which character is the true novelist, what part of the painting is the artist, and if that song is the beginning or end of a great love felt by the singer.


When I look out my window I see trees. Trees and the great expanse of a prairie horizon. There is no glitz and glamour out here; instead, I find myself the most attentive to my actions and the most calm and meditative when in nature. There’s something soothing about being amongst living things that have lived for millions of years, surviving each and every type of apocalyptic problem. Growing back after the atrocities and becoming even stronger. The freshness to the air leaves a crisp feeling both inside and out.

But, the sound of the Parisian streets beats in my heart, the laughter, chatter and tinkling of cups and plates in a café coarse through my bloodstream. The city calls to me, to my inner artistic ego. There is a yearning, a strong and faithful plea to come back to the city that makes me feel the most alive. A burning desire, one you can compare to that of missing a lover.

Although I feel far-removed from it all and this is where I’ll stay, the glitz and the glamour, the ability to wear an absolutely breathtaking outfit no matter the time of the day, gets to me. The belief that any type of artistic dream is possible when you are within the city’s borders. The hope is alive, much like for those actors still slinging coffees in the local Starbucks in L.A., clinging to the hope that one day, maybe, they’ll be able to reach the Stars and live amongst them as an equal.

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travel

It’s Okay to Eat McDonald’s Abroad, I Promise

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A lot of people think that they have to stick to the local food when traveling; else they give the type of tourist vibe where you’re only in town for the cheap souvenirs and sights. These are the travelers, or rather, trip-goers, that locals hate; the ones who wear fanny packs (who doesn’t hate a person wearing a fanny pack, though?) who never try to speak the language and bulldoze their way through the country like they are the only people who matter. These are the people who eat at McDonald’s and who will only go into a Starbucks for a coffee because it’s familiar. Those of you who have eaten at either of these two establishments while abroad may be hiding your faces in embarrassment, while others who have yet to explore far and wide are recoiling in the horror that anyone would think you’re a tourist. I’m here to tell you, it’s okay.

I used to hate being seen as a tourist, and a large part of me still does (see: fanny pack and camera around your neck), but I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve been mistaken for a Parisian on more than one occasion (something that warmed my heart and made those $200 heels worth it) and yet I’ve eaten in McDonald’s numerous times while out and about exploring the world and I’ve sat down in a Starbucks, or two, with my caramel maachiato in hand reading happily in a less-than-crowded café. Sometimes, it’s not the fact that you’re afraid to try new things in new restaurants in a foreign city, but it’s because you’re just worn down and tired and can’t even think about trying to order something in another language, butchering the words as you fumble through.

I’ve high-tailed it to Subway, McDonald’s, Starbucks, all because I’ve been too tired to try to speak a foreign language I should have learned more of before my trip. Because I don’t know how to ask for a to-go cup and am confused if every establishment will actually have one. Because I’ve become embarrassed at how often my conversation will always switch back to English making my wish for just one moment that I can just say a combo number or tap a screen, pay, and only interact with someone to pick up my food, handing out the obligatory perfected ‘thank-you’ in every language. Or, it’s because I’ve just been away for too long, am missing my own western customs (does sitting down and waiting 20 minutes for a coffee, then being rushed out really need to be a normal thing?), and just want that damn Starbucks in my hand like I usually have every morning.

Walking down cobbled streets in the early morning, knowing which side streets to take because it’s quicker and seeing the same shop owners opening up for the day, makes your ‘westernized’ and ‘mundane’ scene of getting a Starbucks that much more beautiful and wonderful. Mixing the beauty of being in a new world in an intoxicating culturally rich atmosphere (as it seems nearly everywhere besides home always is – what is it about the grass being greener?) with a little western ease makes your trip, somehow, feel a little bit more real. It’s easy to get swept up in all of the intriguing customs, all of the beautiful cafés, all of the picnics in parks and hikes through mountains, knowing that your time here will have to end. There’s something surreal about being in a foreign city and time just seems to stop or glide by in a slow and tantalizing way. Grabbing a little something that is familiar to you (even if you don’t eat McDonald’s on the regular) ties your two lives together; your home life, which you live every day doing the boring things like work and chores, and your traveler life where you explore and nourish and feed your curiosity.

There’s nothing wrong with missing the normal things you can find back home; besides, grabbing a McChicken and fries in Cannes and looking out into the blue sea and mountains is a lot more grounding than you’d think.

A lot of people think that they have to stick to the local food when traveling; else they give the type of tourist vibe where you’re only in town for the cheap souvenirs and sights. These are the travelers, or rather, trip-goers, that locals hate; the ones who wear fanny packs (who doesn’t hate a person wearing a fanny pack, though?) who never try to speak the language and bulldoze their way through the country like they are the only people who matter. These are the people who eat at McDonald’s and who will only go into a Starbucks for a coffee because it’s familiar. Those of you who have eaten at either of these two establishments while abroad may be hiding your faces in embarrassment, while others who have yet to explore far and wide are recoiling in the horror that anyone would think you’re a tourist. I’m here to tell you, it’s okay.

I used to hate being seen as a tourist, and a large part of me still does (see: fanny pack and camera around your neck), but I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve been mistaken for a Parisian on more than one occasion (something that warmed my heart and made those $200 heels worth it) and yet I’ve eaten in McDonald’s numerous times while out and about exploring the world and I’ve sat down in a Starbucks, or two, with my caramel maachiato in hand reading happily in a less-than-crowded café. Sometimes, it’s not the fact that you’re afraid to try new things in new restaurants in a foreign city, but it’s because you’re just worn down and tired and can’t even think about trying to order something in another language, butchering the words as you fumble through.

I’ve high-tailed it to Subway, McDonald’s, Starbucks, all because I’ve been too tired to try to speak a foreign language I should have learned more of before my trip. Because I don’t know how to ask for a to-go cup and am confused if every establishment will actually have one. Because I’ve become embarrassed at how often my conversation will always switch back to English making my wish for just one moment that I can just say a combo number or tap a screen, pay, and only interact with someone to pick up my food, handing out the obligatory perfected ‘thank-you’ in every language. Or, it’s because I’ve just been away for too long, am missing my own western customs (does sitting down and waiting 20 minutes for a coffee, then being rushed out really need to be a normal thing?), and just want that damn Starbucks in my hand like I usually have every morning.

Walking down cobbled streets in the early morning, knowing which side streets to take because it’s quicker and seeing the same shop owners opening up for the day, makes your ‘westernized’ and ‘mundane’ scene of getting a Starbucks that much more beautiful and wonderful. Mixing the beauty of being in a new world in an intoxicating culturally rich atmosphere (as it seems nearly everywhere besides home always is – what is it about the grass being greener?) with a little western ease makes your trip, somehow, feel a little bit more real. It’s easy to get swept up in all of the intriguing customs, all of the beautiful cafés, all of the picnics in parks and hikes through mountains, knowing that your time here will have to end. There’s something surreal about being in a foreign city and time just seems to stop or glide by in a slow and tantalizing way. Grabbing a little something that is familiar to you (even if you don’t eat McDonald’s on the regular) ties your two lives together; your home life, which you live every day doing the boring things like work and chores, and your traveler life where you explore and nourish and feed your curiosity.

There’s nothing wrong with missing the normal things you can find back home; besides, grabbing a McChicken and fries in Cannes and looking out into the blue sea and mountains is a lot more grounding than you’d think.

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travel

My Kinda Paris

I talk about Paris A Lot. I think about Paris even more. 

There’s a lot that’s associated with the city and me. It was the first place I went to on a really big trip away from my parents, my friends, my country. It was where I met my high school boyfriend that led into University, and later, our separate ways. It’s where I always seem to be around when there’s some sort of protest going on. Although, it is Paris, so there is always some sort of protest going on. After visiting a handful of times, it’s a place where it feels like home. Where I know my favourite restaurants, streets, and shops. It’s the feeling I get as soon as I land in the airport, like all of the weight of my stresses melt away. 

A lot has changed in the city I first visited and a lot has changed with me. That first time, we stayed in the raunchiest part of Paris in a tiny hotel that looked like how mould would feel. The elevator was so small that we had to send our luggage up without anyone and meet it on the floor above. Don’t worry, this hasn’t changed. But, to a 16 year old who hadn’t left North America yet? It was crazy to think about. The stairs were so narrow that there was no way we could lug our giant suitcases down. But, we sure tried. It’s one of the things I remember most about our stay: trying our hardest to carry our suitcases down the tiny stairs while making sure we didn’t miss the bus.

The rooms were so tiny that, when I hit my friend’s foot in the middle of the night, she, not knowing how to tell time on a 24-hour clock, thought it was time to get up and get ready for the day, confusing us both in the process. Seeing a friend of yours brush their teeth and put on deodorant in the middle of the night doesn’t automatically make a 16 year old think that your friend is confused, it makes you wonder if you should be doing the same thing and if you’re gross for not doing it. Sometimes, the thoughts of a teenager are a little strange. Or, maybe it was just me as a teenager. 

I remember thinking how awful this place is and I couldn’t fathom loving it. It was just another city I could visit and tick off my list. I can still see the one homeless man in the street, rows of empty Heinekens beside him as they puke up one still going down. I can still see that guy bathing in the fountain, not a care in the world about who is watching. It was my first time witnessing something so bold, so disgusting being done in broad daylight without a thought about covering it up. It sticks with me even to this day when I’ve seen far worse.

But then I also saw the architecture, the beauty in the streets mixed with the putrid air of urine that has always been a problem in Paris, filling the cavernous tube of the Metro, and your nostrils. The dirty, dusty streets call to me with their charms, both hidden and boasting. Now, the raunchiest neighbourhood, the lower-class Red Light District where you can get a hooker for cheap, is my favourite. While I absolutely love and adore Saint Germain des Pres, it’s in the 2nd arrondisement, the textile district, that holds my heart. 

It’s filled with history, of greats once visited, of delicious restaurants, and is adjacent to the famous marketplace: Les Halles. The ladies? You get used to them, lined up in a row in front of the Sephora; the younger ones in yoga pants in doorways along the walk to the Metro, alone and working constantly, the groups taking precedent in front of the stairs leading down to the Metro, their legwear and boots always on point. And, the older ones, walking about in their furs and their gloves, whom I like to affectionately think of as the matriarchs of the 2nd. They’re there to remind you that Paris isn’t just Instagram shots of your latte or cappuccino. It’s the grimy, seedy history that is still strutting about.

I used to dream of Saint Germain, heading to Deux Magots every single day, ready to be like Hemingway, like the greats before us all. But, art and life isn’t like that. You have to find your Deux Magots, your own place to sit and contemplate and drink and laugh. Sure, I still visit the café and bar every trip, but I’ve my own kind of place. It may not be a place for whiskeys and late night chats, but late nights have never truly been my thing. Early mornings and contemplative afternoons, that’s where my money lies. 

So, I wake early, head out of my apartment or hotel and take the quick metro over to the Tuileries. It’s my home away from home, where I truly feel at peace. Those green metal chairs call to me as I sip on my café au lait not from one of the cafés dotting the park, but taken from home or from a Starbucks I had to go out of my way for. My favourite time is before any of the cafés open, before anyone has settled in for the day, before the tourists have arrived or have even started lining up at the Louvre or L’Orangerie.
My greatest treasure about being in Paris? I’ve already done it all; I’ve taken in the tourist attractions, waited in the lines, and now I can relax and take in the city’s true self.

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migraine life

How to Handle a Migraine Mid-Flight

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I’m not a medical professional, just a migraineur who has suffered through the agonizing feeling of getting a migraine in an airplane. Always consult a doctor on any medical advice.

Yay, your bags are packed and you’re ready. But, your body has different ideas. This article lists basically lists everything that happens on an airplane and during travel as the general top 10 triggers for migraineurs. Honestly, it’s a miracle anyone feels good after any long-haul flight.

Until very recently, I’ve been lucky enough to make it to my destination feeling dry and tired, but overall fine. While I do usually get a migraine the day after travel (stress, dehydration, not eating at the right times), I don’t usually get one on the flight. It’s so much easier to deal with a migraine when you’re on the ground than it is when you’re mid-flight and I hope none of you sufferers out there ever have to, but here are some of my tips for keeping yourself sane while your brain melts.

Keep yourself hydrated. Keeping hydrated is important for everyone on a flight and it’s doubly important if you’re a migraineur. Keep yourself hydrated! Don’t worry about going into those small bathrooms to pee 30 times in a flight (funny, coming from me, someone who tries not to use those bathrooms if I can help it), just drink the water and lots of it. 

Bring a reusable water bottle and have the flight attendants fill it right to the top when they come by with the drink carts; this will make it easier for you to not run out of water on the flight and will cut down on those silly, tiny plastic cups being used. In premium or first class? Drinks come much faster in these cabins, especially alcoholic ones. If you’re drinking during your flight, add a water, or two, in between each adult beverage.

Ask for ice. While you may have packed an ice pack in your carry-on or checked baggage, you can’t really just pop it into the fridge or freezer and grab it when you need during a flight. But, you can totally ask the flight attendant to bring you a bag of ice, or if they’re equipped, an ice pack from the first aid kit. Explain to them that you have a migraine and don’t feel ashamed for using the call button (me, that’s me. I’m the one who feels guilty and ashamed summoning a busy flight attendant): this is what that button is there for!

Bring ear plugs and an eye mask. Maybe you just have a small migraine and you can nip it in the bud, you’re nearly ready to land, or you’re just being proactive. Bring those ear plugs and an eye mask to keep out the dreaded noise and light and keep your brain happy…er…content. These are two of my favourite travel accesories for the plane, migraineur or not. You never know if there will be a loud talker or some asshat playing their video without headphones near you. 

Grab a ginger ale because you’re going to need it. Even if you don’t get sick during a migraine, chances are you will on a flight. Turbulence sneaks up on you and even the slightest bumps can exacerbate your pain and make you feel queasy. Grab a ginger ale to calm your stomach down. It may not kill it, but it’ll help tame the beast. Or, it should. Migraines really have a mind of their own.

Don’t be afraid of the bathrooms. I hate airplane bathrooms. I refuse to use them on short-haul flights, peeing as much as I can right before we leave (sorry, not sorry pelvic floor therapists). But, when it comes to long-haul flights, there’s nothing you can do to escape them. I don’t like small spaces, so being crammed into a tiny vestibule that sounds like it’ll suck you out of the plane when you flush the toilet isn’t at all helpful. Add in the fact that a gross amount of people have used that bathroom before you…ugh. Unfortunately, if you’re going to vomit, you gotta get the fuck out of that seat and into a tiny airplane bathroom.

Squatting down so as not to touch anything around you is a maneuver that will feel easier the third or fifth time you vomit. Worried about space? There may be a roomier bathroom at the back of the plane for you to check out. And, you’ll be hidden from concerned and annoyed patrons of the plane, wondering why someone has been in the bathroom for over half an hour. Bring your ice, vomit as you need to, and rest. 

I did this on the flight, just reveling in the close proximity to the toilet, and being able to stand or lean in a way that made my head feel better. A flight attendant came to check on me a few times, which made me feel safe and guilty all at once. Not a single passenger rapped on the door or was lined up outside. Another point for choosing the bathroom at the back. 

Tell someone. No one wants to find someone passed out in a bathroom, especially on a plane. Tell your seat-mate, even if you’re not friends, tell a flight attendant that you’re not feeling well (they will probably assume and ask once they see you with ice, a ginger ale and tears streaming down your face). My lovely flight attendant squired me into the larger bathroom and checked up on me every so often to make sure I was still alive.

Grab one of those stupid, tiny plastic cups. If landing is a bitch, and of course it will be if you’ve a migraine, chances are good you’ll feel sick — again. While there are puke bags in the seat, I found that a drink cup worked perfectly well since I had nothing left in my system. Have both ready before you even feel sick as just-in-case precautions.
I ignored my eco-friendly mind-set and grabbed a drink in a plastic cup on my flight home solely so I would have it in case I got sick.

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travel

The Cannes Film Festival Pavilion: a Disappointment in Itself

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When you think of the Cannes Film Festival, you think of glitz, glamour, and all things beautiful. You have a certain expectation that when you — finally! — get to Cannes you’ll have a magical moment where you just know Ryan Gosling will walk out of a gorgeous yacht and claim his love for you. Alas, this isn’t the case. My last girl’s trip to France ended up with our schedule nearly right on top of the film festival; we tried to go for the film festival, but the timing was off and the hotel prices were exuberant. Still. Cannes is beautiful anytime you go. But, with a film buff in our crew, we just had to go out and see the film festival pavilion — they were even starting to set up when we arrived! — but…we had actually already been there the night before….

Because, it’s just a pavilion.
Legit. There’s no red carpet (obviously, not obviously), no champagne flowing 24/7, no glitz, no glamour. There were, of course, tons of beautiful yachts moored in the marina, but no Ryan Gosling. Strike 1.

You can easily miss it
Because it’s legitimately just a pavilion, it’s easy to miss the damn thing. Taking a stroll in our evening’s finest (see pretty short dresses and heels and/or converse. Our signature girls in our 20s look) after a delicious meal of the best duck I’ve ever had (ask anyone; I won’t shut up about it), we decided to check out the water and walk along the marina, pretending to ourselves that the yacht at the end is ours, dahling. So, unbeknownst to us, we walked the great Cannes Film Festival Pavilion, drunk on champagne and pure happiness, and then headed back to our hotel — excited to check out the amazing Cannes Film Festival Pavilion the next day. Strike 2.

There are no celebrities
I mean, duh. The festival wasn’t on. But, still. You just expected something exciting to happen and to have someone just strolling about — perhaps George Clooney having a cup of Nespresso on a terrace or on his yacht. Anything, really. All you get is some rocks, some yachts, a kind of ugly building, and a disappointing taste in your mouth. Strike 3.

Most monuments and pictures (the Mona Lisa, anyone?) never do what the movies and novels and general public have hyped it up to be. There are tons of disappointing things to see in the world, and it may seem like a waste of time, but at least you can say you were disappointed at the Louvre. Or, that you were at a really old building that’s falling down (Pisa). And, that’s something, I guess.

Categories
travel

So you Want to Get a Tattoo Abroad

Tattoos, depending on the person you’re asking, can be awesome; self-expressive; cliché; or sinful. They used to be a controversial subject, but now they barely faze those who would usually oppose. And, more than ever, they’re being viewed as a way to have a lifelong souvenir from those trips we took when we were young. But, getting a tattoo while on your trip may seem like a good idea, until you end up in a shady establishment.

My first tattoo I ever got was abroad (actually, all my tattoos have been done while out of the country) and was done sort of on a whim. I was planning on getting one on my month-long journey through Europe (the obligatory trip during University), but like every smart University-aged adult, did absolutely no research on shops until I arrived in London. We had a bit of free time one day so I quickly googled places on my phone, decided on one that looked okay and set out on my way to get my very first tattoo.

I didn’t call, I didn’t e-mail, I just decided to show up. A lot of you are probably shaking your heads at the stupidity, and I’m right along with you. Especially when we, finally, found the place. This parlour was located in an alleyway, tucked away behind shops and cafés with people hanging about (granted, they didn’t look very scary, but groups of people in alleyways always give off that sort of vibe, don’t they?). I felt nervous, I kept thinking that this was crazy, my friend was wondering what we were even doing; still, we had come all this way, why not look inside? Surprisingly, the establishment was immensely clean, the artists were professional, and I was actually able to get a walk-in appointment for my 10 minute tattoo.

The guy at the counter and I chatted briefly about what I wanted, quickly drew up a sketch and we were in business. The guy who did my tattoo seemed polite, but said about three words to me, half-watched a WWII documentary, finished quickly and out we went. When we saw two girls walking towards the shop with the same stressed out look we had, I smiled to my freshly red and angry looking foot and knew that they’d be pleasantly surprised. I knew that happening on a shop that was clean, professional, and had a walk-in spot open within an hour was some sort of a miracle. There are tons of places in my own city that I wouldn’t think of entering without extensive research, but somehow, when I was out in a foreign city, all of the smart senses escaped me and the giddiness of doing something so wild and fun took over.

So, how do you get a tattoo abroad and ensure no regrets?

Research.

Research is key when it comes to anything new. You wouldn’t just buy a house without checking out the ‘bones’ and making sure that there aren’t any surprises in store for you. The same idea goes when getting a tattoo done, especially when abroad. Although my story turned out wonderful (see Hermes enjoying the sun, above), there are plenty more where tattoos haven’t healed properly and infections set in.

Standards may not be set the same as in your home-country, and although upsetting when the time comes, it isn’t on the country to take care of you, but rather, it’s on you to make your own responsible decisions. A quick google search can tell you everything you need to know about the top tattoo parlours in any city you are planning to visit. Do this BEFORE your trip, I urge you! Checking out pictures of the place, read reviews.

Searching around for places on your phone a day in advance can end up with you getting frustrated when all the good places are booked and you may end up settling for a place that really shouldn’t be in business. Instead of settling, save up again and book another trip, getting that tattoo on your next trip abroad — after tons of research. I mean, finding an excuse to travel isn’t hard, now is it? Find a few places that you like the vibe of, that have great reviews, and have artists that can help you. Once you find that golden tattoo artist, have a very open conversation about what you want and what they can do. Remember that large tattoos with intricate details can take hours, or days, so unless you’re spending weeks on end, think about if the next tattoo you’re getting (or the first one) should be reserved for home.

Converse. Again and Again.

The person who will know what will work best? The tattoo artist. This is why they get paid; this is what they do for a living and they’ve seen it all. You don’t want to be arguing with them about what design will fit where (obvious tip: if you have a very petite frame, don’t expect an intricate design to fit on your ankle when it should really fit on your back). Instead, begin by e-mailing what you are thinking of (even if it includes pictures from the internet) and on what part of your body you’re hoping it will go on, about what would look good, and how the sizing will filter out. You’ll be able to go back and forth and request a sketch of your tattoo to make any necessary changes before you head to the airport. You want to be able to see, or read, your tattoo for years to come, not look at a blob on your wrist. If you want things smaller (like I did with my wrist tattoo, above), but have to settle for slightly bigger, make sure that you’re okay with that.

If you’re feeling that, because of the larger size, it doesn’t look good on the space, think about moving it or abandoning the idea altogether. Maybe make this last one before you’re sitting down in the chair, needle at the ready. But, don’t be afraid to speak up to your artist; they understand that this a life choice and that you need to feel comfortable with the decisions you are making and how the tattoo will be turning out. Believe it or not, people have actually stopped halfway through a tattoo, changing their minds. That is not the place to stop. Could you imagine if I had stopped my tattoo at the first ‘over’? I made my last guy move the stencil three times, solely because I didn’t like the exact position that it was in — even though I had stated that’s where I wanted it in the first place. Annoying? Probably. Worth the re-positioning and not staring at a huge mistake every day of my life? Absolutely. Besides, if you’re getting to be a huge stickler, just tip a little bigger and thank them for their hard work and patience.

Be Prepared to be Disappointed.

Not with your tattoo — that would be very disappointing; that’s the whole reason you talk with your artist. But, be prepared to be disappointed with the plans you’re trying to make for your tattoo. They may not work out exactly as you had planned, you may end up running 5 blocks for your appointment because a tour took a little long (seriously, no matter how much time you think you have, just arrive extremely early…nothing is more stressful than shelling out money for a cab when you could have grabbed the train and walked), or you may not end up getting that fresh tattoo in the city you had planned on.

With my second tattoo, I knew what I was in for and how stupid I was for not doing any sort of research beforehand. So, this time around, I did massive amounts of research. Like, a full year in advance. But….I had this idea that I needed to get it done when we were in Paris. It had to be Paris, nowhere else would suffice. Which is often how I think of Paris. Seriously. I’ve written too many posts about Paris (and more to come!). Anyways…

Luckily, there were tons of great reviews on shops in Paris from locals and travelers alike, and I set about e-mailing a couple of places to set up an appointment for myself. What they don’t tell you, is that most of these shops will not get back to you. Like, at all. Even if you e-mail in French. Then, English. Then, in French, again. Annoyed, I decided to give up on my search for the parfait French tattoo parlour and, instead, looked towards Amsterdam. Sure, I was excited for the tattoo I had been planning out in my mind for a few years, but the location (although pretty damn cool) just wasn’t what I had dreamed up in my head. That’s the thing, once you start dreaming of how it’s supposed to happen, everything in life just seems to fall apart. That is, until, I was outside the doors of this shop.

It was everything I thought a tattoo parlour should be: the artists were pierced out, tatted out dudes looking like they belonged in a basement with a bong in their hands. The two girls inside, both patrons, were covered in tattoos with dark hair and mini plaid skirts, one getting a huge intricate piece done. The place had a retro vibe with red walls, art and graffiti everywhere and bottles of Jack Daniels. My guy had a shaved head, save for some orange dreads coming out from the middle, tons of piercings and even more tattoos. I was in love. 

This was what a tattoo shop should look like and I was immensely excited. We started chatting, his ridiculously polite manners kicked in, and my nerves went out the window, letting me shoo away my friends and enjoy my time. It wasn’t Paris, but they spoke English; there wasn’t the fantasy of walking along the Seine or through the cobbled streets of Paris in the rain, but walking along the canals and into downtown Amsterdam felt just as good. Your tattoo plans may not work out exactly as you had envisioned, but as long as the parlour is clean, the staff understands what you’re thinking of, and your tattoo looks good, just go with the flow.

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Travel Favourites

Travel Favourites

Photo by Leah Kelley on Pexels.com

Some links are part of the Amazon affiliate program, and if you buy something from the link, I will make a bit of money.

booking.com

I genuinely enjoy this booking platform and use it all the time whenever I’m finding a place to stay. Sometimes, I will book directly will the hotels, but this platform gives you a ton of information, photos, and reviews so you can make easy decisions. You can also level up, getting discounts on certain accommodations, and perks. You’re also not stuck just booking hotels if that’s not your thing, as there are plenty of home rentals on here, too!

Dry Bags

Gone are the days of me using a plastic bag to pop my dirty clothes or heavily soiled items into. I bought some dry bags when we began cloth diapering our baby, but I’ve been using them nonstop for swimming (as long as the swimsuit is rung out and isn’t sopping wet – super wet items need a wet bag), an extra in case something spills, or for dirty clothes on a trip. I love that there are two zipper pockets, so you keep clean items in one pocket, while dirty or damp items, can be popped into the other one.

Mini Stasher Bags

We’re a bar soap family: body soap, face soap, shampoo, sometimes conditioner. Even if it’s not your favourite thing, packing bars instead of liquids is so much easier to shove into a bag and make room. As long as you’re not bringing bulky individual soap dishes. They leak, they’re all made of yucky plastic, any eco-friendly options are insanely expensive. All you need is one, or maybe two, of these Stasher snack bags and all of your soaps, even small liquids, can live happily in there. No leaking. Tip: make sure there is no moisture sitting at the bottom of the bag before you seal it up, again!

Mini Travel Kit for Liquids

Even if you use bar soap for almost all of your hygienic needs, chances are you need to bring some liquids with you. I have a travel kit similar to this that works perfectly for adding a small pot of liquid here or there. I like to take dish soap with me on trips, even when not staying in an Airbnb, as it comes in it handy if you need to wash anything, including an emergency sink of clothes.

Facial Mist

I love taking a facial mist with me on the plane to help hydrate and perk up my skin after travelling all day. It’s also a great accompaniment when you’re dealing with hot days and need a little cooling off. Vichy makes a great travel sized one that will last for many trips and has been my favourite brand of facial mist for over a decade.

Roll Up Compression Bags

Sometimes, you just need to shove a little bit more into that suitcase, and that’s where these compression bags come in handy! You can fit a surprising amount of stuff in these bags. Car travel, train travel, plane travel, now you can fit a little bit more without adding another bulky suitcase.

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Family Travel My Favourites

Family Travel Favourites

Photo by Josh Willink on Pexels.com

Some links are part of the Amazon affiliate program, and if you buy something from the link, I will make a bit of money.

Joovy Gloo

I absolutely love this travel tent. It folds up small enough you can pack it in a checked bag or take it on as one of baby/toddler’s carry on items. If your child isn’t fussy, you can zip it up and have them enclosed, or keep open. Perfect for floor bed families as you can lay down next to baby/toddler while they fall asleep. Works great for the beach as a nap station or a place to get out of the sun, too! We bought the regular, but this large would fit into their pre-school years! I wish we bought the bigger one, as we are now looking at travel inflatable mattresses that will fit her next year.

Mini Voyager

Sure, you can go out to the store and pick out some toys for the flight/train/car ride, but sometime you’re lazy or overbooked and just want it all to arrive all packaged up in a little backpack. Pick out from age appropriate toys and which ones your child would be most interested in. Worth it for the instagrammable backpack, but also because the toys are great to hold their attention. Our little bag of fun kept our daughter entertained for four flights, a very long plane ride, suppers out in beautiful squares, and when you need a little downtime in between exploring places.

Easy to Take Along Water Bottle

This guy comes along with us anytime we leave the house. Small for little hands, easy to velcro to yourself, or toddler, and an easy-to-open-and-close lid. I love that it’s stainless steel and not plastic and that it comes with an extra straw in case it gets wrecked, lost, or just extra icky and needing a good soak. So far, this water bottle has held up well from being thrown, dropped, and bumped everywhere.

Dry Bags

I love using dry bags when we travel. I started using them when we cloth diapered our baby, and I’ve been using them for swimsuits, as a backup in case an extra pair of pants need to be changed (great for potty training accidents on the go), for dirty clothes in my suitcase. For the longest time I thought that they were wet bags, but they do NOT keep in sopping wet bathing suits. Those that are still damp? Yes, this is perfect for those. Those that are soiled from spilled drinks? Yep. That works for us! I did well, considering I didn’t notice this over a year and a half into using them, though!

They have two zippered pockets, so you can keep clean items clean while the dirty ones wait for the wash. Great for those who are still in the diaper stage and heading out to where there are no garbage cans; just pop your clean diapers and wipes into one pocket, and dirty ones into the other.

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travel

Why you Should Always Know Where you’re Staying When Travelling

Photo by Tranmautritam on Pexels.com

So, you’re getting quite happy at a pub down in Edinburgh, when the club downstairs starts hopping. Downing your whisky sour, you bop your way down the stairs and into the dark, smokey, and dancerific club. You have yourself a real good time and decide to leave. The bloke out front tells you that he will take you home on the cheap in his bicycle rig. Feeling bold from the whisky coursing through your veins at an alarming rate, you and your friend take him up on the offer.

You learn about his girlfriend and how he would love to invite you over for a cuppa, but she would probably be mad. You shrug and giggle, thinking you’d love to head home with this sexy scotsman for a ‘cuppa’. You had told him where you were staying, in a B&B not too far away, but he didn’t seem to know it. You described the park that is across the way, and he nodded, now sure he knew where he was going.

He pedaled, you and your friend laugh, and you wish that your rickshaw ride would never stop. Alas, he pulls up to a dark park, and feeling horrible for letting him bike around with no fucking idea as to where your B&B is on either side, you jump off, promising him that you’ll be fine. His look of concern and clear indication that he’s wrestling with making sure we’re 100% safe and getting the fuck home has you waving his worries off. You’re just on the other side of the park, you see? You and your friend jump off and wave, happy for the ridiculous travel moment.

You walk through the dark park, wondering that maybe you actually made a mistake. It’s 3:00am and spooky as fuck. You don’t really know this neighbourhood, could there be hoodlums? Or the scariest people of all? Youths? You walk a little faster and come to the street across the park. Your B&B doesn’t show up. You walk down the road, thinking ‘yeah, it’s just up there a bit’ and try not to show the worries that are now neck-and-neck with that whisky in your veins.

You walk and walk, and still no B&B. Finally, stressed, scared, and feeling like a damn fool, you and your friend stop under a street lamp. You turn on your blackberry (yes, a blackberry), not caring that it will probably cost you $30 a minute just to look on a map and find your blasted B&B. You find it and follow the directions back. You weren’t that far away, but far enough. The park your new friend dropped you at wasn’t the park you had told him about, but one a few blocks before your accommodations. Funny how parks look the same in an alcohol haze in the middle of the night.

You arrive home, exhausted, relieved, and still a little giddy from the night before. You both collapse on the bed in a fit of giggles, feeling that invincible feeling you only have when you’re 21.

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travel

Why you Shouldn’t Believe the Internet About Morocco

Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com

I’m writing this post on a sleepy morning in Chefchaouen; the call to prayer long ago waking me up and my stubborn body deciding that it really is time to awaken. A rooster is yelling his good mornings off in the distance and my husband is snoring softly beside me. Everything is quiet except my brain. I can’t help but think about all of the blogs, articles, trip advisor posting and comments about Morocco and how far off they were from the truth. There are so many horrible things you are going to read about Morocco. Honestly, unless they all happened in Marrakech, I’m not sure how they happened at all. I’ve still a couple more days here in Morocco, and all of the stressful and crazy stuff mentored in other blog posts can still happen, but my journey thus far has been a good one…definitely not as relaxing as Europe or a resort, but pure relaxation wasn’t expected.

Being a Woman In a Muslim Country

Okay, so this one problem people talk about (usually in regards to your clothing) is one that started to get on my nerves near the end. BUT, it was never as bad as it was made out to be. No one called to me, no one leered at me, no one made me feel unsafe. If I were traveling alone, or with some other women, the problem may have exacerbated itself. I did see three women get cat-called from a couple of teenage boys in Chefchaouen…but this happens in the streets of Winnipeg, Toronto, everywhere.

The men will address my husband only, even at restaurants when they told us the specials or asked about something. They’d only take his suitcase to help out, which is so hilariously far from the ‘women need help with everything’ mentality in North America. Which, after a long bus ride, I very much appreciate! If we aren’t going to have equal rights, then might as well have the ones that lend us a small helping hand, I suppose.

The Dress Code

Guys, there isn’t really one. Walking around in shorts, rompers or shorter dresses? Probably not the best idea (unless you’re in Casablanca where I saw many locals in shorter skirts and tank tops and no head scarves!). Just remember that you’re in a Muslim country and to dress appropriately. Which doesn’t mean full coverage. Ask yourself if your grandma would approve of your outfit and go from there.

The Aggression

If you haven’t read about aggressive sales people in the souks, then you haven’t been reading about Morocco. But, you can relax. They’re not that bad (again, Marrakech may hold all of these issues…but there are so many other places to go — just skip the circus!), and they will only hassle you for a second. The Fes shop owners would let me look at my leisure, asking me if I was interested in something every so often, but generally being very nice.

I’ve had more annoying sales associates in a mall in North America. People will call out to you to come see their shop, and will always yell out ‘bonjour!’ and ‘welcome!’ To you as you pass. A simple ‘non, merci’ will suffice if you’re not interested in their shop and saying hello back will not get you suckered into buying anything. A quick smile and a ‘bonjour!’ is something everyone can do.

The cab drivers were honestly the worst, always hovering and asking you if you want a taxi, never giving you a minute to collect your thoughts in this new city you just arrived in. Keep telling them ‘one minute’ while you give your brain time to adjust to where you’re going. You WILL get sick of them asking, and if you’re tired and over it, you may tell out ‘UGH WE’RE FINE!!!’ when someone has asked you 10 times if you need a taxi or hotel. I’m not going lie, I did yell this out at a taxi driver who followed us even after we politely said we do not need a taxi (we could almost see our hotel from where we stood) about 20 times.

Be polite, but be firm, and remember NOT to swear at them. Who knows how hard this is enforced, but I’ve read so many places that it’s illegal to swear at a man if you are a woman. Also, swearing at a complete stranger is rude. We got to witness an Aussie bloke have just enough of the taxi men and give it to them about how Morocco always asks for your money. From what I heard him yell about, I guarantee he came from Marrakech as I didn’t find this to be much of the case elsewhere.

Remember that this is their livelihood, that they don’t bring home much. That when you convert MAD to CAD (or USD, GBP or whatever), you’ve sometimes only paid your driver a dollar or 20 bucks. In the end, will 20 bucks make or beak you? Probably not. And if it will, you shouldn’t be on a trip.

Scams

I didn’t have a henna lady grab my arm, I didn’t have anyone be overly aggressive, I didn’t have anyone offer me tea (but I did witness someone doing so to another woman who gave him hell), and only once did we pay someone who ended up as our accidental ‘guide’. This bit happened in the airport when we were stressed, confused, and fine enough with paying. At that point, we just wanted to board the damn plane and little bit of money was worth it.

But, did we get ripped off from our cab drivers or in the souks? Absolutely. There are tons of cab drivers that will constantly rip you off, no matter the country you’re in, and especially if you’re coming or going to an airport. Guys, I once paid 60 bucks to drive for 3 minutes in Toronto. It happens. Budget for it.

Mindful Tip: before being annoyed at anyone for asking for more from you, convert that money back to dollars! That 200 dirham you may only have is only 20 bucks. That 100 dirham charge instead of 50 dirhams is the difference of five bucks in your life, but could mean so much more in theirs. I get it; paying more than you should is annoying, but you shouldn’t let it ruin your trip. Pay it and move on.

It’s not as Beautiful as it Seems*

*in some places

Those beautiful pictures of the beach in Casablanca? The winding streets in the medina in Fes? The desert and nature views? Guys, it’s all filled with garbage. The photo has either been expertly and painstakingly taken at the right angle to get none, or very limited, amounts of garbage. Or, it’s been edited out of every photo. It’s everywhere. You can’t escape it. It’s disgusting and ruins the landscape.

It can’t all be from Moroccans, so be mindful of your garbage when you’re travelling. We don’t need to ruin everything we come across simply because we paid to get there.

Animal Abuse

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to touch base on this or not because it’s something that definitely still happens in Morocco. Hell, it happens in Canada, too. After reading about all the horrific things that happens to animals in Morocco, I nearly wanted to cancel our trip, but I’m glad I didn’t.

Because it’s not as rampant as everyone makes it seem. At least, not out in public.

Spana Charity has done great work and there have been, no doubt, vast improvements. Working animals are a way of life. The only way for some people to get their products to market, to go anywhere.

There are thousands of cats in the streets and spay and neutering will help this problem, but they’re fed well by locals and tourists alike. Water, leftovers, and even kibble is left out for the adorable creatures who spend days lazing in the sun or in baskets found on sale in the market.

There are many stray dogs, and it hurts your heart to see so many stray animals, but they look content with a lot of the cats snuggling up with shop owners and getting scritches. I’m not a vet so I’ve no idea if they’re sick or not (nearly all look fine to my general eyes), but rest assured, animal abuse won’t accost you.

Moroccans are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. We’ve had some great experiences with cab drivers helping us out (like driving through a field to get out of a traffic jam or calling our hotel at 430 in the morning and making sure there was someone there and that we got to where we’re going) and amazing experiences altogether.

A lot of blog posts on the Internet like to paint them in a bad light, making them seem greedy and rude. Which can be true with some, as it always is everywhere. But, a lot of the issues we encountered were not unlike the ones we encounter on a daily basis at home. Perhaps the most annoying part of any issue while on vacation is that it found you on vacation. Any problem, even a little insignificant one, becomes 10x bigger because you’re here to relax and explore and the world should bend in your favour. But, you’re in Morocco, in friggin’ Africa! Things are not going to be easy because life here isn’t easy.

Take a moment to collect yourself and just get on with it. Your trip will be sunnier when you stop worrying about every little thing that could go wrong, or how you spent more than the cab than a local. That’s travelling, is it not?