My mother always told me I should write about my travels.

I sincerely doubt this is the type of writing she had in mind.

People often ask about my overseas journeys. Although I’m eager to share, I’ve never been able to appropriately convey the absurdity of some of the situations I’ve gotten myself into. I mean, how does one summarize experiences of living in places like Japan, Greece, Argentina, Mexico, or begin to explain how she ended up in a room full of hookers in a hotel basement in Morocco? The best stories are ones of randomness, and I’ve kept most of them to myself until now. For years, I’ve had these turbulent tales floating around in my head, gathering dust.

I mean, what’s the point of keeping a head full of really weird stories to oneself?

Many people like to collect things; I like to collect experiences. And experiences are to be shared. Because at the end of our time, when we’re going to the grave, all we take with us are the places we’ve seen, the people we’ve met, and the really stupid shit we did while we were tramping about.

This is a synopsis of some of the stupid shit I’ve done. I hope you enjoy reading it.

back to stories.