Central Asia, Part 3

The next cities were a whirlwind of beauty, history, and culture, which began at 2:00 am when I disembarked from the train that I did not miss and picked up by a friend who kindly offered to take me around the city. After a few hours of sleep, we met back up, starting with a sumptuous breakfast of the fabled non; tandoori-baked Bukharan bread roasted to chewy perfection, fried eggs, local pastries, and fruit — featuring persimmons, which were a sweet and juicy first for me! We meandered through the magnificent Old Town, visiting endless mosques and madrasahs. I must say, though I had been amazed by the single mosque I experienced in Nukus, Bukhara was in a league of its own; Turkish-Islamic architecture, rich in high minarets, caravanserais, majestically swarming the city. I can’t begin to name everything that we saw, but for those interested, it included the Bukhara Fortress, Nasruddin Hodja, Magoki-Attari mosque, Nadir Divan-Beghi madrasah, Char Minar, Kaylan, and the Kok-Gumbaz mosque. My guide even took me to a synagogue, noting that “I can tell you’re Jewish, you look it.” I feel like that experience was supposed to have more relevance to me, but honestly not even my culture could compete with the gorgeous mosques that surrounded me.

We delved into every aspect of Uzbek life, discussing make-up trends (eyebrows are important), politics (the late president Karimov is still deeply and widely adored, despite being a “ruthless autocrat” that encouraged undemocratic aspects and corruption under his 25+ year rule), and religion (Bukhara being a mainly Muslim city with a substantial Jewish population, although it isn’t very religious; apparently religion not playing a large role in everyday life). In fact, Bukhara was just named the capital of Islamic culture for 2020 for its contribution to the development of Islamic civilization. The Uzbeks grew out of a mingling of ancient, settled Iranian populations with a variety of nomadic Mongol or Turkic tribes that invaded the region between the 11th and the 15th century. We ate consistently throughout the day, snacking on corn from street vendors, cake from a little German cafe, and my favorite — Uzbek plov, the main local dish, consisting of lamb, rice, and sweet carrots. We encountered dozens of tourists, nearly all Russians, with not a single Westerner in sight. “It’s not the season,” it was explained to me, “all the Germans and French come in the Spring, but the Russians come now because it’s still warmer than where they’re from.” 

My tour guide was an English teacher who ran a tutoring center, so we decided to stop by and visit his students to give them a chance to practice their English with a “real” American. Sitting in a circle, I was asked question after question about life in New York, but them being students, it mostly focused on my education and what advice I had for them for getting into good American schools, and more importantly, how to get a visa. After my brain being appropriately picked, we respectively returned “home” to rest a while, and then met up for Uzbek barbecue and shisha. This time, we fell deeper in the rabbit hole of politics and culture, discussing the death sentence (which Uzbekistan doesn’t have) and how long a prison sentence should be (Uzbekistan doesn’t lock people up nearly as long as the US does), racism (people of color being so rare in the country that Uzbeks are more shocked to see them, with the concept of ‘racism’ being relatively unconsidered), democracy (Karimov was popular; does it matter if he was president for half a decade or if the elections weren’t 100% accurate?), and American slang (provoked by my new friend asking “what does ‘thug life’ mean?”). 

Finally, I returned home, exhausted from an intense day of exploring and adventure, legs weak, stomach full, eyes and mind still overwhelmed at the beauty enveloping me — and my faith in men restored after such a wholesome experience with a new friend. 

I awoke the next morning at 3am, quickly cabbed to the train station, and entered the cleanest and most beautiful train I’ve ever sat on — Amtrak could learn a thing or two from the Uzbek train system. I soon arrived in Samarkand, and after a short nap, embarked on exploring the city I had been dreaming of for the past two and a half years. 

That first day, I walked for miles, marveling in awe at the architectural masterpieces characterized by their balance of traditional design and modern innovation. Unlike in Bukhara, the landmarks are slightly more spaced out in Samarkand, forcing me to traverse the city from corner to corner. Starting with the Registan, I entered the Tillya Kori Madrasah, the Ulugbek Madrasah, and the Sher Dor Madrasah. I made my way through a park, passing by an impressive statue of the late President Karimov, to the Bibi-Khanym Mosque and Mausoleum, and then through the Siab Bazaar. I passed through a beautiful cemetery, Shah-i-Zinda, (meaning "The living king," and connected the legend that Kusam ibn Abbas, a cousin of the prophet Muhammad, is buried here), until I reached the Gur Emir Mausoleum, at which point it started snowing — no, blizzarding would be a better word for it. I made my way through the sacred tombs, surrounded by incredible tile-work, each room with dazzlingly intricate patterns of blue and green, made even more stunning by the snow blowing around me. However, I did feel slightly sacrilegious with AJR blasting in my ears. After lingering through the mausoleum, I visited the Afrasiyab Settlement and the Jewish cemetery, eventually finding myself at the outskirts of town at the Ulugbek Observatory. It was a day of constant amazement and awe at the architectural wonders and religious sights, most of which dating back 600 years. 

The next day, after a cozy sleep in my quaint yet very polished hostel, I went back exploring, retracing my steps and ensuring I didn’t miss a single inch of this gorgeous city. Along my way, two girls heard me loudly singing along to my Black Keys on the street and invited me out to lunch, wanting to practice their English. They sang their local music to me, and inquired about life in America — dating culture being their favorite. The people I’ve met in Uzbekistan have all been enormously kind and helpful to me, wanting to learn everything they can and share their views as well. It’s been especially surprising to hear their reactions when I note I’m a human rights major, themselves commenting on the poor human rights situation present in Uzbekistan. Under Mirziyoyev religious persecution and arbitrary arrests have decreased slightly, but still remains present, along with extensive forced labor practices in the countryside. It was inspiring to see the people critical and watchful of their country, yet still hopeful at the promising steps being made to reform the country’s awful human rights record.

After a few days in Samarkand, I took on the next country in my journey: Tajikistan. It was similar to the process of entering Uzbekistan, with a shared taxi to the border, crossing by foot, and then finding a car on the other side to take me to Dushanbe. But unlike the other drives I endured, this one was gorgeous, with five hours circling through mountains, initially purely rock and dirt and then transforming to towering snow, with the sun glowing upon them. I could hear Genevieve in my head saying, “that’s GOD up there.” The Varzob and Zeravshan rivers streamed through the hills, with the bluest, turquoise water I have ever seen accompanying us along the drive. Two young boys of 7 and 12 sat in the back, giggling while trying to make conversation with me. I polished off my book by Terry Pratchett an Neil Gaiman, Good Omens, during the ride, and to the extreme delight of the boys gave it to them after. With traditional Tajik music filling my ears and nothing but snowy mounds in sight, reminiscent of my birthday drive to Andorra, it was one of the happiest experiences this trip. 

I arrived in Dushanbe late at night, to a hotel room that was way too nice for what I paid for (thank you Booking.com for the free upgrade), excited at what the next day would bring

Central Asia, Part 2

This next part is a doozy. After arriving in Beineu and exploring for a couple days, I miss my train — not because I was late; in fact, I was waiting for several hours at the station. No, I purely didn’t realize that the train had arrived, and by the time I located it after asking around for several minutes, it was departing right in front of my eyes. Turns out the next train left the following day, but was sold out, just like the train leaving the day after. After begging the train clerk for help, they said I could try to come the next day and bargain with the conductor for a spot on the sold out train. 

This is where my big problem began: I had no money. In this small village, none of the ATMs accepted my American debit card so I couldn’t get cash, and neither the hotels nor the train station would accept my card. Plus, I couldn’t buy a ticket online because the train I needed was hosted by Russian Railways and thus required a special form you could only get in Russia. Essentially, I was stranded in this village abound in billowing dust and small shacks; the vague smell of fried food permeating the stale air. I genuinely thought I might have to stay and work at the hotel washing dishes until I gathered enough money to leave. However, I scrounged up my remaining cash and, despite being a bit short, convinced the hotel to let me stay an extra night. 

The next day, I trekked in the fresh snow to every bank in a 5km radius to no avail, until I finally found a small hotel that accepted debit cards and made a deal to swap a charge for cash. However, they could only give me 10,000 tenge, which is about $25 — not enough to get on this 24 hour train by any means. So, I hired a taxi to take me to the border of Uzbekistan for about half of my remaining money, and decided I would wing it on the other side, either by hitchhiking or finding a cheap taxi that could take me to Nukus. A couple of incredibly sweet and helpful Uzbek boys coached me through messenger on what to do once I got to Nukus, and together we found a train to Bukhara and (free) housing once there, and a train from Bukhara to Samarkand. This meant one less day in Samarkand (which sucks as this was the part of my trip I was most excited for), but at least I wasn’t stranded in Beineu, which was the main worry. Plus, this way I got to explore Uzbekistan a little more, negotiating the socio-political and historical aesthetics of Nukus and Bukhara more thoroughly.

I crossed the border into Uzbekistan on foot in less than 20 minutes, the passport control being incredibly easy despite the ominous “good luck” sign that loomed over customs. And, compared to the first one I ever attempted, a harrowing border fiasco between the West Bank and Jerusalem, this was remarkably painless. 

On the rationale for this trip, it’s necessary to know I’ve been obsessed with Uzbekistan for over two years now. In my early days of working as a political-military analyst for the Hudson Institute, all my assignments were about Uzbekistan, which led to me choosing it as a topic for several Sciences Po assignments as well. I had deeper knowledge about this one country than nearly anywhere I had previously visited, especially regarding the reforms made under the new president Mirziyoyev, and wanted to see it for myself more than anything. However, at that time, visas for most countries in Central Asia were very difficult to obtain, requiring an invitation letter or an official tour. But much to my delight, Uzbekistan and others opened up to tourism just this past year, providing me with the perfect opportunity to finally embark on my dream trip.

On the other side of the border, finally in Uzbekistan, I swapped my tenge for somoni, the local currency, and luckily found a shared taxi that was willing to take me the seven hours to Nukus. However, I didn’t have enough cash for the ride, there were no ATMs and all the banks would be closed by the time we arrived — so in a (successful) act of desperation, I bartered my somewhat broken bright pink noise-cancelling headphones to make up for the remaining 80,000 som (roughly $8). I was just happy it didn’t come to anything less easily replaceable, especially after all the recent harassment. Plus, I think my father would kill me if I traded his prized portable charger, which was a lifesaver during this trip, for a taxi ride.

This trip has not been one for particularly gorgeous photos (though that might change once in Samarkand), but it has definitely been the most exciting and difficult journey of my life. Crammed into the back of a cab with three other passengers, my huge backpack lay on my lap, compacted by an elegant older woman in a cozy fur coat sitting too close for comfort. For hundreds of miles, I gazed at the flat orange terrain scattered with nondescript towns marked by short clay huts and torn up billboards. Barren and oppressive, apocalyptic smoke rose from every building. For seven hours, we shook along dirt roads that rivaled those of rural Malawi (in regard to bumpiness). I was hoping to make use of my headphones one last time before we were tragically parted, but alas, they transferred me to a different car, which smelled like dog, with a different driver an hour away from Nukus, and I reluctantly handed them over.

Finally, Nukus appeared, a glowing city with ATMs and hotels with shampoo AND conditioner, and that accept debit cards!! I felt like I had entered paradise.

After a lovely sleep and indulging in a huge hotel breakfast of potato pastries, eggs, and chocolate, I went exploring through the city. Swerving through bicycles on the streets, I came across the central market. Stalls, wagons, boxes, brimming with everything from fruit to lingerie to electronics — providing me with a very cheap replacement set of headphones. The wafting aroma of freshly baked pastries and fish mingled in the air, and that with the feverish  tumult of hagglers all vied for my attention. I wove my way through the lanes of vendors, taking photos of those willing, my shoes getting increasingly muddy following the previous night’s downpour. I found my way to the Nukus Museum, where Russian avant garde art hung alongside that of Socialist Realism; I was especially taken with the art of P. Benkov, Z. Kovalevskaya, and V. Lysenko. Otherwise, the city was an interesting mix of half-built abandoned homes, ancient fortresses and mausoleums, offering much to see and eat and experience.

I rambled along the channel dividing the city, making my way across the glistening water to the Muhammad Imam Iyshan Meshiti mosque. This was what I was most looking forward to: the regal, colorful, classic mosques of Uzbekistan, with intricate patterns ornamented with turquoise tiles. I was too timid to step inside; as I didn’t want to disturb the ongoing prayers, but I lingered outside for nearly an hour, mesmerized by the bright domes and minaret, magnificently arresting in the midday sun.

After several hours of exploring, I finally returned to the hotel, slightly homesick as I passed very New York-looking yellow taxi cabs. I packed up my things, got cash so as not to get stranded again in the future, said goodbye to my exquisite lodgings, and walked an hour through dusty, rural Nukus to the train station, determined not to miss another train.

Central Asia, Part 1

My trip started off rough, with an important first lesson that all our professors would appreciate: don’t trust Wikipedia. I have historically relied heavily on its page “visa requirements for US citizens,” but apparently Azerbaijan only provides visas upon arrival when flying on Azerbaijan Airlines from New York, which sadly I was not. However, I was able to quickly apply for an emergency visa at the airport and only three hours of waiting and the second season of You later, I was able to finally enter the low-lying coastal hub of Baku. 

I was tossed in the front of a taxi, which leads me to lesson two: always sit in the back seat. No sooner had I settled in, the driver affectionately grabbed my hand, clearly excited at an American in his vehicle. However, this quickly evolved into him grabbing other parts of me while I awkwardly tried to bat his hand away. I won’t dwell too much on this part, nothing bad seriously happened, and while it did end with me shouting as I struggled to leave the car, I was able to escape relatively unscathed. 

I checked into my little bare-bones hotel and quickly went to explore the city. Baku is gorgeous, with a thriving city center full of European restaurants and stores. I ambled along the promenade by the water, lining the Caspian Sea, and got lost in the towering, regal mosques of the Old Town. Christmas decorations flooded the area, teeming with Santas and bubble-blowing vendors selling children’s toys. I walked for the entire day, through the cobbled walls and sea-lined streets, marked by looming towers of LED lights and Western enclaves, until I reached the borders of the city. Finally, I returned to my modest hostel and slept like a baby. 

Now, I had to figure out the boat. The Caspian Sea ferry goes from Alat, an hour south of Baku, to Kuryk, Kazakhstan or Turkmenbashi, Turkmenistan. I couldn’t get a visa for Turkmenistan, so Kuryk was my destination. The ferry doesn’t have a schedule, and leaves at random hours on random days 1-2 times per week, so the only way to figure out when I could board was to call every day (with the help of the kind people at my hostel). I found out it was leaving that day, my second in Baku, at 5pm, so I wandered the city a bit more and then hopped in a car down to Alat (this time in the back). I arrived cautiously early, at 4pm, and wandered the empty port by foot until I was able to get a ticket. I snuggled up in the heated waiting room in refuge from the cold outside with a handful of others, all going to Turkmenbashi, none of them English-speakers. I waited, hour after hour, every so often traversing across the port to annoy the security guards to ask when the ferry would be arriving. Finally, at 10pm, the freshly pressed armed guards came to my little waiting room and notified me that I could board the ship. 

This wasn’t entirely true - the boat had arrived at the port, but it needed to load the 43 cars and trucks before it took passengers. I waited out in the cold until it was my turn, but before that moment came a young Kazakhstani polyglot offered to let me sit in his car. Thus, lesson three: learn who to trust, and who not to trust. This is not my strong suit, but to be fair, it’s not the easiest task in the world. As a young woman, I’m often offered kindness from strangers, it just matters who expects what in return. This boy, just 25, having recently come back from studying in Canada, seemed decent enough to me, so I sat in his car and accompanied him as we all entered the boat. It turns out he was planning on driving to Beineu after landing in Kuryk, which is exactly where I needed to be for my next train, so we made arrangements to meet on the other end and drive together until that point. 

The most terrifying part of the boarding experience was when going through customs, during which the Azerbaijani authorities looked at my passport and realized I had an Amernian stamp. Apparently, it is forbidden to enter the country with such a stamp, and they simply didn’t notice it at the airport. However, despite their shock and horror, I was on my way out of the country and they anxiously let it slide. 

By the time we were all settled on the ship, it was about 1am. I was the only passenger traveling without a car or truck, the only Westerner, and the only woman — except for two lovely women on the crew who adopted me for the length of the trip. Even though my ticket was for a four-person cabin, they placed me in an empty, locked, two-person room with a private bathroom and shower. However, apparently this wasn’t good enough because about 30 minutes later they came back with the captain and escorted me to a private crew suite, afraid that the truck drivers would get drunk and harass me in the night. I ended up with a spacious single room with a gorgeous view of the glistening turquoise water, and after I put down my stuff, the captain gave me a tour of the bridge and declared that it was now “my boat.” With a big smile, I finally went to bed at around 2:30am, and the boat took off two hours later - a full 12 hours after I had arrived. 

The online reviews of this boat include horror stories, with people spending three days on the boat with no food or water. My experience was extremely different, with three meals served (mostly lentils and kasha, which was not particularly to my interest, despite my Russian heritage on my maternal side), and the trip taking about 27 hours from stepping on to stepping off the boat. In fact, one of the women even woke me up during a nap because she realized I wasn’t at dinner. The second-captain also took me under his wing, giving me tea and Azerbaijani sweets on the bridge as we discussed religion, politics, and gossiped about the drama of the ship. However, the conservation somehow veered into his sex life with his wife and how she never wants anal, and how he learned how to go down on her from his American colleagues. I quickly left to explore the rest of the boat after declining his offer to do the same to me. 

I had free reign, the boat being much more like a cargo ship than any kind of cruise. I wandered through its double decked hull, up and down the extremely narrow stairs, ducking through the engine and avoiding touching anything that could derail the trip. 

We pulled into the Kazakhstani port at about 3am, and while my customs process was fast and painless, we were only able to fully leave the area at about noon due to the car needing to go through registration. However, with a couple of Terry Pratchett books and it being the first time I had internet in over two days, I wasn’t complaining. Finally, the young Kazakh man who agreed to take me to Beineu and I began the drive, whizzing through huge swaths of empty road, surrounded by empty territory reminiscent of Namibia, Jordan, Iceland. He had no aux cord or radio, leaving one frustratingly annoying home-brewed mixtape CD to listen to, filled with mariachi, reggae, Blurred Lines, and Take Me Home, Country Roads. The area was known for its oil and gas industry, which was explained to me as we passed hundreds of drilling sites, and the occasional camel. We stopped in Shetpe for lunch at the driver’s brother’s house for a traditional meal of beef and potatoes, with hand-made waffle cones as desert. While eating, the brother’s wife inquired in broken English, while tending to three young boys and a baby, about life in America. “What do you usually eat? Do you cook? How expensive is food? How expensive is rent?” She was simultaneously horrified and amazed at my answers, and I felt a little embarrassed admitting to how often my roommate and I order in sushi. 

Soon, we were back on the road, and the driver and I awkwardly tried to make small talk. “So, you are married?” he asked. Fourth lesson of the trip: always say you have a boyfriend, or are engaged. However, I discovered a bit of a catch-22 in this regard: many men will only respect your space if they believe you are the property of another man. But, if you have a boyfriend and are not married or engaged, you’re clearly a slut and therefore open territory. So, next lesson: just wear a ring and pretend to be married. It’s so much easier that way, and I’m currently trying to make an acceptable ring out of a keychain and necklace to prevent further issues. The boy was very kind, I believe that I was correct in deciding to trust him for the drive; he only tried to hold my hand once before being swatted away.

Finally, at about 10pm, we pulled into Beineu, which to my surprise was not a city but in fact a tiny village that happened to have a train station. The streets were lit up with sparkling strobe lights, with children setting off fireworks in the street to celebrate New Years, and I was a bit overwhelmed. The handsy driver helped me get my ticket to Bukhara, and went on his way to finish his journey home. Turns out the next train left two days later, which meant I was stuck in this strange little place for roughly 43 hours, leaving lots of time to explore. I dipped around the corner and found a little hotel with a comfy big bed, which was much needed after being awake for 24+ hours. The most frustrating moment was when the hotel guy followed me into my room and asked if I really wanted to sleep alone, but he finally left after some strong words. Again, get that costume jewelry, ya’ll.

I sat in my little room, thinking back on the past year, very thankful for all my experiences thus far, the opportunities I have been given, the people I have met and hold close. I toned down my traveling this year — I wanted to spend more time truly appreciating where I was, to travel consciously, and not to visit incredibly “problematic” places, which were all part of my 2019 resolutions. I still want to work on being more environmentally conscious, and I definitely didn’t live up to my promise to act with purpose or to be better to myself. I still have a lot to work on, but I think I’m on the right path. I think this trip is an important chance for me to improve upon myself, being possibly the most intense and risky that I have embarked on so far, mostly due to its length and the fact that I am completely alone. I am absolutely loving it but it reminds me that I need to stay safe, and that despite all my past adventures, there is still quite a lot to learn. 

Menton

Menton is a bubble, an enclave where the rest of the world disappears, a parallel universe populated with only 300 people. It’s a place where you can’t hide - if you make a mistake you live with it, you are forced to face it head on, spending 10 hours a day staring at the person who you got into a fight with the night before. You are reborn in Menton, you are filled with opportunity, walking through the Old Town to school every morning and feeling the orange and pink walls tower over you as if you were Moses parting the Red Sea. Everything is at your fingertips, the beach, the mountains, the train station allowing you to go anywhere you wish. Menton is a prison, inebriating you with sun to prevent you from seeing how suffocated you may truly be. We live in a paradise, with classes that pique our curiosity and friends that become family within the first week. With Prosecco in our bags and our bathing suits under our clothes for when we finish maths, it is a place of bliss and distraction and fantasy. The Shabbat dinners, the drunk walks home from La Loca and Hardy’s, the days spent watching Gossip Girl on my couch, screaming into the sea during breakdowns, the Friday night dinners on the beach, the friends that I made for life, the relentless travel: these memories will never escape me. Menton is a place of improvement and renewal, the frequent smell of fire in the town signaling destruction and the restoration that inevitably follows: you too must confront that which you don’t like about yourself. You either come to terms with who you are, you put up a facade to impress those around you, or you become mindful of who you are and make changes for the better. There is no hiding in Menton. Menton is a bubble, an enclave where the rest of the world disappears, a parallel universe populated with only 300 people. 

Most memorable moments in Menton:

• canasta and boxed red wine with Hamish and Jozsef 

• Sunday morning walks with Genevieve to Roquebrune 

• Shabbat dinners 

• philosophical nights with Carl, Jay, and Rhe 

• boozy Sunday brunches at Iberia 

• learning econ while walking to Monaco

• daily runs to McDonalds 

• chicken and waffle dinner party

• trying to speak French with the Villa Jasmin ladies

• living with 10 people in three rooms whenever Nikos and Morgane and Lili had friends over 

• being the photo bitch for all of Menton

• hearing “bella” while eating the chicken run bagel at Edwidge

• taking shots with Javi the night before MEDMUN

• my parents partying with my friends at La Loca and the Purple Palace

• listening to music behind the fortress by Bastion

• being made fun of by Jade at Poivre et Sel

• screaming Menton chants on the way to Monaco

• weekend excursions to Italy for all you can eat sushi 

• brainstorming new projects with Oskar (and rarely following through)

• sleeping on a mattress on the floor even though we had three beds

• Friday night dinners on the beach 

• ice cream with Vivek

• dancing in the streets of downtown Nice

• getting heatstroke while hiking to St. Agnes 

• sneaking into MDL to cook (tbt kitchen goblin)

• taking home plates of pasta from Dolce Vita 

• my friends playing AJR out my window on my birthday

• playing my switch at Christmas Ball and Gala 

• staying up all night playing Limbo and listening to Jacques Brel

• dancing with Grace at Wayne’s 

• James running with me over his shoulder

• MEDMUN meetings at Le Bordel

• dancing in the rain after 3A placements were released

2019 Resolutions

This may be late, but I thought it would be a good move to write down all the changes I intended to make this year in order to keep myself accountable. Even better, put it online so if I fail, I can have the entire internet shaming me for it! While a list may have been enough, I thought it would be useful to articulate and explain my full intentions. My theme for this year is conscious decision making, so why not start by thinking through all these changes?

Don’t be a hypocrite
I more often than not play the role of the “triggered liberal,” seizing the change to point out every instance of cultural appropriation and offensive commentary that I notice. Then, I’ll do things like wear Moroccan dress or travel to North Korea. Essentially, I need to learn to practice what I preach, because if I don’t, then nobody is going to take anything I say seriously (which they certainly don’t at present), and I’m just another White woman not willing to put in the work.

Be good to yourself
This whole “not being a hypocrite,” thing extends past just my liberal beliefs, but also to my treatment of myself and others. I spend extensive amounts of time reassuring my friends of their beauty and brilliance (as we all do in this time of college-induced imposter syndrome and low self-confidence), why not internalizing the advice and love that I dish out so easily. Therefore, one of the main things I want to do this year is to be good to myself, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I want to eat healthier (not less), start running, drink more water, take my meds every day, dress more professionally instead of wearing only clothes that are 5+ years old or those of my friends.

Act with purpose
Along this line of thinking, I want make conscious decisions instead of just doing. As one of my best friends Rhe-Anne often points out, I don’t always think things through before I act, which often leads to emotional chaos and extensive backpedaling in order to fix the mistakes that my impulsivity creates. I want to only do things that I actually want to do, and to explore why I do certain things. This sounds both selfish and obvious, but most of you know that I’m a very emotionally confused people-pleaser, and don’t always do things for the “right” reasons, which only ends up hurting myself and those around me.

Take up less space
The most difficult point on this list is something I have been grappling with for a while - my position of privilege as a middle-upper class American White woman, and how to stop using this privilege in a way which perpetuates the current unfair systems of power. How do I, as Rachel Cargle advocates for, do the work? To start, I need to cease any of my casual cultural appropriation, to listen, to stop being so defensive, and possibly most importantly, to not take up so much space. White people have taken up so much space for so long, we are constantly told that our voice should be heard, and often we take the spotlight instead of giving those who have been given so much less power an opportunity to finally speak their own truth. I want to use my privilege to empower others, and need to stop imposing myself in spaces that are not my own (which includes reconsidering where I travel to, as maybe White people have spent enough time in Africa and other places we should have never been in the first place, and need to fuck off now). I try to be a good ally when I can, but know that I still have a lot of work to do, especially regarding my photography and general white savior complex internalized from years of studying the Middle East in a French university.

Be more environmentally conscious
This relates back to not being a hypocrite - I have worked for so many environmental focused organizations that it’s unfair if not completely absurd to claim to help the environment when I’m not even doing something as simple as cutting out meat. I am trying to limit plastics and be more environmentally conscious in general, including going vegetarian, using my dishwater (even though I prefer hand washing dishes), and finding alternative methods of travel. I wanted to go vegan, but cutting out dairy and such in France and while traveling is practically impossible, plus I depend on my friends to feed me most of the time and I don’t want to be even more of a pain in the ass.

There are other simple changes I want to make: write more articles, spend time with people I love, improve my photography, remind the people around me how much I care about them, learn how to actually film and edit my videos, focus on positivity. There are easier said than done, but hopefully if I keep acting with purpose, then they will come naturally.

Travel

I never choose the window seat, because I want to be the first one racing out the door when we touch down. I’ve been trained as a New Yorker to never stop, to take lines as a mere suggestion and to treat slow walkers like obstacles in a maze. I use my travels as an exercise of my quick upbringing, identifying the must-sees and trip-advisor day-tours, moving a mile-a-minute through the streets of new cities with simply my camera and a backpack. I refuse to take cabs from the train or bus station, walking is my preferred methods of transport - which has led me to some interesting experiences gallivanting around Yerevan, Chisinau, Beirut (...) in the dead of night, reassuring myself of all the comforting things I tell my mom to make sure she doesn’t worry. It’s also led me to my best photos and most authentic experiences, to the neighborhoods filled with genuine people outside the urban centers, setting up their restaurants and preparing for the day ahead. While the big touristy experiences can be interesting (if not extremely overwhelming), it’s the meandering journeys I take to get there through markets and parks and even along highways, the street food I discover on the way and the sounds of people chattering, that truly make my quest not just another page from a guidebook.

I never plan what I’m doing, quickly finding a hostel on my phone using the airport wifi while going through customs and finding some distant point to make my way to using google maps (honestly my travel savior, I would be literally dead without it and honestly was close when in China - Baidu just doesn’t do the trick). I search for experiences that continue to push me to be my wildest self - from skydiving above the Dead Sea to sinkhole jumping in Oman (not my best moment) to stealing currency in North Korea (probably shouldn’t publicly admit to that), I tend to make decisions that aren’t the smartest. And while I admit that many of my reckless choices are a product of my desire to uphold my reputation, it’s more to myself than to anyone else. I want to continuously prove to myself that I am the brave girl that my parents raised me to be, that I’m not growing weak as I get older, but rather that I am taking every opportunity that I am presented to ensure that I will never have to face the regret of what I could have done if I just weren’t so cautious. I yearn for experiences that interrogate normative patterns of thinking and being, environments that urge me to question my standards.

However, I understand that my travel can be extremely problematic, on a number of levels which deserve to be acknowledged. As a human rights major and self-proclaimed politically correct semi-“woke” bitch, I need to learn to separate my search for wild stories from actually supporting violent and abusive regimes that go against all that I work to deter (which is why I will ​not be going to Saudi Arabia any time soon), and from taking advantage of my opportunities in a way that simply furthers modern day white imperialism (no voluntourism thank you very much). And while I preach traveling as if it were a sprint, I often forget that I am not a machine. I abuse my body through lack of sleep and food and water, forcing it through hours of just ​going in shoes that are not made for walking and clothing that should not be worn in negative degree weather (you’ve all seen my skirts-only wardrobe). My parents and friends have to beg me to take a break and just sleep on occasion, which is a concept that completely defies my sense of self-image. Half my decisions are powered by my mental health, or lack thereof, with anxiety that tears through my chest on a near-constant basis, forcing me to power through so that I don’t waste any second I am awarded outside of school or work. There is a pressure in my heart whispering that I will never forgive myself if I don’t take that jump, that with every time I decide to relax instead of tackling some new adventure, I am that much less impressive.

My heart races thinking about all the places I have never been and all the time that I do not have - my mind fills the future with dreary classrooms and desk jobs that won’t permit me to escape at any impulsive urge. But hopefully, I will find new opportunities which will allow me to adventure in more productive ways, through work that is less selfish than simply wanting to see everything that I possibly can. People criticize my travel for just wanting to cross places off my list - but it’s most of a manifestation of how daunting and big the world feels, and how I’m terrified of not being able to see it all. I will continue to walk the Earth, tearing through countries as if I were running away, but I’m slowly realizing that sometimes it’s necessary to stop rushing. I never choose the window seat, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate those moments when I forget to specify a preference and end up taking a hundred photos of sunsets on my phone. It is when I finally slow down and abandon my hectic New York mentality that I can actually appreciate all the little moments along the way and see just how lucky I am to experience all that I have.

New York

New York. Manhattan. The city. I talk about it a lot. Most people look fondly back on their childhood homes, referring to wherever they grew up as the best city in the world. However, very few have the privilege of being right when they say it.

New York encapsulates more than just my childhood, it’s a place of opportunity. It’s a liberal wonderland. It’s a bubble. And while some areas become lifeless and bleak as grey office buildings tower over tiny people in suits, some streets contain more culture than entire regions in the United States. Times Square and midtown will never be able to compete with the hole-in-the-wall comedy dens in the West Village, the vibe of Spanish Harlem during the Puerto Rican Day parade, the lights that illuminate Bryant Park in the winter, Union Square after dark when the artists come out to play.

We are the coastal elite, only out for ourselves in a way that would horrify anyone attached to Southern hospitality. But our extreme focus on individualism does not mean we are selfish – we do not fit into any stereotype, but are a part of so many communities. We pride ourselves on our fashion, on the way we stick out and the way we exist as if nobody is watching, while also constantly performing for an invisible audience. The world’s a stage, and New Yorkers are the actors. You can visit anywhere from Italy to India to Kenya to Brazil to Shanghai while traversing the boroughs; you can do anything, from trapeze overlooking the sunset to upper east side wine tastings to fully immersive art exhibits; and most of all, you can be anything.

As Colson Whitehead wrote in The Colossus of New York, “Our streets are calendars containing who we were and who we will be next. We see ourselves in this city every day when we walk down the sidewalk and catch our reflections in store windows, seek ourselves in this city each time we reminisce about what was there fifteen, ten, forty ears ago, because all our old places are proof that we were here. One day the city we built will be gone and when it goes, we go. When the buildings fall, we topple, too.”

I was born and raised in New York City. I am the hipster, stuck-up norther easterner that I am fully aware the rest of the country despises, honestly sometimes for good reason. Every time I enter the city I am overcome by a wave of empowerment and every time I leave I feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. And while gentrification eats away at my city, with remnants of the past (RIP Sunshine Theatre) being replaced with beautiful yet cold cafes and juice shops (and so many fucking salad places), they can never take away our attitude. Our pride. Our individuality and our unabashed and well-deserved arrogance. Just let them try.

42

Many people know that I am obsessed with the number 42. With it tattooed on my side, it better have some actual meaning. 

The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon states that a word, a name, or other thing (in my case, number) that has recently come to one's attention suddenly seems to appear with improbable frequency afterwards, which may explain why I see 42 everywhere. 

Humans have an inherent need to find meaning in every little thing, and often will attribute anything from poetically intricate to downright ludicrous meanings just to insert significance in the insignificant and simplify our understanding. This sense of understanding and value gives us relief, and for many it's a coping mechanism - while some use God to explain bizarre events and forces, I may use the number 42 to explain beauty or the encapsulation of everything. The importance isn't in the number, but rather the human condition of how we attribute connections and meanings to a seemingly trivial random number.

However, 42 also isn't just a collection of references. In Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the confusion surrounding the number forces the characters to explore what the question being asked actually is. These kind of questions - and answers - are what moves society forward, what encourages people to explore and find answers in what we don't understand. Therefore, 42 is a reminder to me to keep exploring, to find meaning in the meaningless, to establish small ways to spark happiness. 

So, here is a little list I've compiled over the years of some of my favorite references (I'm sorry there aren't 42): 

• The answer to life, the universe, and everything
• Alice's Adventures in Wonderful has 42 illustrations 
• 42 dots on a pair of standard dice
• In Romeo and Juliet, Juliet's death-state poison is supposed to last 42 hours 
• In Japanese culture, the number 42 is considered unlucky because the numerals when pronounced separately—shi ni (four two)—sound like the word "death"
• Mark 42 is the featured suit in Iron Man 3
• There are 42 questions asked of persons making their journey through Death by Ma'at, an Ancient Egyptian personification of physical and moral law, order, and truth, according to the Book of Pass
• 42 is the value of an essential scientific constant which determines the age of the universe - the Hubble Constant
• Board game Risk has 42 territories
• Countries have 42 years to repay the Global Environmental Facility for loans  
• Tower of Babel occupies 42 agrarian measures according to Mesopotamian tradition
• Titanic was traveling at 42 mph when it collided with the iceberg 
• 42 Egyptian gods and goddesses / 42 Naves of Egypt 
• Gale has 42 tesserae entries in the Hunger Games 
• 42 is the number with which God creates the Universe in Kabbalistic tradition
• There are 42 generations (names) in the Gospel of Matthew's version of the Genealogy of Jesus
• There are 42 elevators in 30 Rock 
• The Beast will hold dominion over the Earth for 42 months (Revelation 13:5)
• Doctor House's favorite number in the show house is 42 
• 42 men of Beth-azmaveth were counted in the census of men of Israel upon return from exile (Ezra 2:24)
• 42 Odes of Solomon 
• Fox Mulder's apartment in the X-Files is #42 
• God sent bears to maul 42 of the teenage boys who mocked Elisha for his baldness (2 Kings 2:23)
• In Toy Story, Buzz's spaceship is named 42 
• 42 is generally often a factor in Anti-Christian names 
• The Gutenberg Bible is also known as the "42-line Bible"
• The Forty-Two Articles (1552), largely the work of Thomas Cranmer, were intended to summarize Anglican doctrine, as it now existed under the reign of Edward VI
• 42 is an episode of Doctor Who ~~~ 
• On the game show Jeopardy!, "Watson" has 42 threads
• Jackie Robinson's number