You may or may not know that I am the editor for a website/community called The Exploress, that connects women from around the world who travel and explore the world around them. Since I became an editor I haven’t had much time to actually write a piece, but this week I did and I’m so happy with how it turned out! Click the photo above to take a peek!
Did you know that there are two Ireland’s? It may sound humorous, now (since I’m developing quite a reputation as Irish obsessed), but I had no idea of that fact when I first landed in the Northern one. During my first backpacking trip to Belfast, back in 2013, I made the terrible mistake of thinking Northern Ireland was just an extension of what is formally referred to as the Republic of Ireland. True story. Now thinking back, it’s pretty ridiculous given that you would think that I had learned about Northern Ireland’s history at some point in school. But either I didn’t, or I retained none of it.
Luckily, a rather tart bus driver was more than willing to educate me on the difference as he kicked me off his bus for trying to use the wrong currency (N. Ireland = Pounds not Euro). There’s nothing quite like learning firsthand from the locals.
That was then, this is now. And on our two week backpacking trip me and one of my friends decided to take a day tour up to Belfast to visit (what turned out to be) one of the most beautiful museums I’ve ever been to. I didn’t get a picture of the outside of the museum but you can see, thanks to the interwebs, what it looks like, above. It’s absolutely immense, and you go through each level learning about a different aspect of the Titanic – from concept to construction to catastrophe. If you’re ever in Belfast I CANNOT recommend the museum enough – it was breathtaking.
In addition to sponging up as much information as possible, the overall bus tour itself was also great (despite the weather, which we’ll talk about in Part II). I’ve done three tours, now, with WildRover tours, and I’ve loved every single one. It really is one of the best ways to learn about the history of Ireland while seeing the countryside. Here are some of my favorite pics from this part of the trip!
While I was living in France I visited Ireland a lot. It was a cheap getaway, at about 30 euro a pop, and I loved being able to see my favorite country so often. On my last trip to Dublin, before I moved back to the U.S. I remember thinking, “This city would be so beautiful to see around the Christmas holidays.” And I was right. I didn’t quite get there in time for Christmas, but I did get to Dublin for the next best thing – New Years Eve.
After spending a couple nights solo, my travel companions joined me in my favorite city and we had some fun traipsing around the city, visiting the National Gallery, walking around Trinity College trying to (unsuccessfully) find the Oscar Wilde museum, and eating some damn good food at 300 hundred year old pubs. All in all, there were definitely still things that were on my list, that didn’t get done – but I guess that just means I have to do it next time!
New Years Eve, itself, was spent working (one of the beauties of having a job that is remote) and finally making our way over to Temple Bar ( a pretty touristy, but none the less charming part of Dublin where a plethora of bars and pubs are located), to hang out in one of the pubs. The thing about Dublin, I’ve learned, is that it’s not where you are in the city, it’s who you know. And luckily I know some pretty amazing people from the area, so we had a great time.
Also, can we talk about the holiday decorations in Ireland!? Talk about beauty. The best part about going late, is that people don’t rip down their Christmas decorations the second Christmas is over – the 12 days of Christmas don’t end until January 6th, so the Christmas spirit is alive and well, and the pubs are decked out like something out of a Charles Dickens story.
Something I noticed from the past times that I’ve been in Dublin has been that I never take pictures just of the city. Which is crazy. So, this time, I tried to take a few just of the everyday, walking around, scopes – here are some of my favorite pics from this part of our journey!
Memories are funny things. Childhood memories can be filled with imagined wonder, or overwhelming pain. And, looking back at my crazy bookworm artist braided hair younger self; I see so much more insight into who I am, and who I am becoming, as an adult.
Looking back, I see all of the laughter, the imagination, the beauty, the pain, the curiosity, the anger and confusion – and I sometimes think I was so much more intact when I was a child. Because, back then, I didn’t worry about being filtered. I laughed and danced because it was time to laugh and it was time to dance, not because I had been told by society to do, or not to do, one or the other.
Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about when I was 11 years old.
My grandma, who I had only met once, had died and I was laying on my bed, curled in a crescent shape. Alone. And wondering if I should cry. At the time, I suppose it would have been the right thing to do. But all I could do was sit there, curled up, wondering whether I was supposed to do it.
That was the beginning of a pretty unhealthy relationship with tears.
You see, I was raised in a very non-emotional family. We didn’t cry, hug, say ‘I love you’ or talk about emotions in pretty much any other way. We were strong. We were invincible. Or, at least, in my naivety, that’s what I thought.
Over the next decade I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry at sad movies, funerals, when pets died, or when sad things happened in the world. I was invincible. I was strong. Or that’s what I told myself.
I still can count the number of people who have seen me cry on one hand. It’s a pretty rare occasion, and like any natural phenomena it’s usually brief and then gone, like it never happened in the first place. Crying just wasn’t ever an acceptable means of communication in my life.
Then I moved to France.
Americans make fun of the French, a lot, for how emotional they are. And, to a certain extent, those jokes aren’t always wholly unfounded. In my one year in Paris, I saw more tantrums, and crying fits than I had in my entire existence. And I’m not talking about from the kids.
Maybe it was the culture that was surrounding me, or maybe it was the trauma of being alone in a country 5,000 miles away from your next closest friend. But, when I lived in France I cried – quite a lot. In fact, I wouldn’t even say ‘cry’ is a solid enough word. I wept. A lot.
And while it still wasn’t in front of people, and there still weren’t tantrums involved, I think I have to thank France for giving me back my tears.
You see, something I’ve realized, since being back in the US, is how much more emotional I am. When shit is sad, I cry (sorry, for the swearword, mom). When I’m upset, I cry. When I see something heartbreaking in the news, I care…and sometimes I cry.
And while I may not be single-handedly supporting the Kleenex industry (yet), that’s a really big deal for me. But what’s more substantial, in my opinion, is the realization that for so long, I believed a lie.
Crying and caring hasn’t made me weaker.
It has made me so much stronger. I’m able to invest so much more in the people and relationships around me. It has pushed me forward, and allowed me to focus on creating a solution, rather than trying to control the problem.
I hear a lot about people who don’t cry: they’re tough, they’re cool, they’re manly, they’re invincible. But the truth is that we are broken. And don’t get me wrong, that’s not necessarily a bad thing – brokenness builds beauty all the time.
But, speaking from the other side, I’ve learned so much more about my own ability to rise higher, dig deeper and pursue and dream more. There’s something empowering about the ability to cry. In a way, I like to think of it like a phoenix burning. It can hurt to feel pain, and to allow your body to process it. But, in the end, it creates something even more beautiful; something renewed.
My next stop, on our two week backpacking adventure (and after leaving Edinburgh) was Dublin. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t doing a happy dance in the airport line. While I had been in Scotland with my two companions, we split up a bit during this leg of the adventure, and I flew to Ireland while both of them stayed in Scotland. While it would have been fun to stay in Edinburgh a bit longer, we all had to be honest – there was only one place my heart and mind were.
So, I flew away solo, and arrived at Isaacs Hostel, the night of December 26th. Let me tell you a little bit about Isaacs. If you are in Dublin, and you stay anywhere other than Isaacs, you are a fool. It is, without a doubt, the best hostel in Dublin (I’ve tested other ones and they haven’t even come close). I’ve been staying at Isaacs for a few years, now, and the community and staff always makes it feel like a second home to me.
During my first couple of days in Dublin, I wanted to make sure I saw something new in Ireland, and I really wanted to do a bus tour. SO. I booked one with CitySightSeeing and headed out to explore a castle…at least that was the plan, but the original 9am tour got cancelled because there was only me and one other lady who wanted to go, which meant waiting until the 2:30pm tour. Normally this wouldn’t be a big disappointment, but one thing to note here is that I was in Ireland, and Ireland is very far north, and you definitely become aware of that fact in the month of January, when you’re in the dark at 3:30pm. But, nevertheless, I still jumped onboard with the tour, and had a great time looking around castles, and hanging out with a bunch of girls who were on holiday from New Zealand. The best part (per usual) was our bus driver, though. He was absolutely hilarious, and that really makes the whole experience so much better when a) The tour guide is Irish and b) He’s hilarious and makes your trip amazing.
Here are some pictures from the castle (Malahide Castle, in case you’re thinking about going to visit). Sorry about how dark the photos are, but the castle was definitely built with the cold climate in mind, and in a true medieval fashion, was quite dark to start with (and no flash photography was allowed).
For those of you who have been following along, you’ll know that I was on a backpacking trip from Dec 24th – Jan 4th. I was traveling with two friends, on and off throughout the trip, and I we travelled two four cities along the way. While this wasn’t my first trip around the UK/Ireland, I wanted to make sure to hit some new places, so we went to Edinburgh, Scotland (I had stayed in Glasgow before) and we visited the adorable town of Stratford-upon-Avon. I didn’t have much time to post on the blog while we were traveling, so I’ll fill you all in on what happened in the upcoming weeks.
Our first stop (after me sleeping in Heathrow on Christmas night with my Elf on the Shelf) was
Edinburgh. We took a Megabus up to Edinburgh because the UK takes Boxing Day very serious, and decided to close down all public transportation to prove the point. So, instead of being able to take a train up to Scotland, we hopped on a bus. Little did we know, the floods had cut off many of the routes that the buses usually used to get around, so the initial 9 hour trip ended up taking about 11 hours.
BUT, when we finally did make it to our final destination, we found our Australian filled hostel, more than welcoming and headed out to that night’s Pub Crawl. While usually I wouldn’t go out after sleeping in an airport, riding buses for over 12 hours total and being jet-lagged, I’m so glad we did because we had a great time hanging out with some Scots, and going to (without a doubt) the worst club in Scotland.
After a 10 hour exhaustion induced slumber, I was up and ready to go at the bright and early time of 11am. Thankful that my hostel didn’t charge me for checking out late, and even more thankful that they showed me the best spots for me to visit, I joined one of my friends on a walking tour and we galavanted around the hilly city of Edinburgh.
Our walking tour was more than a little bit entertaining, filled with Scottish anecdotes and history lessons, such as where the term “shit faced” comes from (referencing a saying doesn’t count as swearing, mom). We also got to see the grave site of the infamous “Greyfriars Bobby” which, you may know about if you’ve spent time watching the vintage Disney film, or are obsessed with stories about loyal little dogs, (both of which my mother is) which is why I was one of the few people in our tour to recognize the reference of it. 
The trip ended by a trip to the National gallery and a walk around the Christmas markets, and Edinburgh at night (which is a holiday scene you don’t want to miss out on!). A quick pop back to the hostel (luckily, Edinburgh has most of it’s main attractions within a pretty condensed area) to grab my pack, and it was off to the airport – next stop, Ireland.
My San Francisco adventures with Sherlock Holmes started when I stumbled across a mysterious invitation. That’s not a line – it really happened. I was searching for geeky things to do in San Francisco, and link after link after link eventually landed me on a PDF (with no website attachment) that was an invitation for January 10th, 2016 – a luncheon to celebrate the birthday of one, Sherlock Holmes.
I, being the naturally curious person that I am, looked into the matter. And after searching around (or should I say, sniffing, since my favorite book IS The Hound Of The Baskervilles – *gafaw*) I found an email address for the organizer of the event. I didn’t think I should send any correspondence, but then I realized it was such a once in a lifetime opportunity, that I had to. So I did, and as I waited for a reply, I looked up other Sherlock Holmes related things to do in the city.
It turns out that San Francisco has quite an obsession with Sherlock. Perhaps it’s because Arthur Conan Doyle once visited the city, or perhaps it’s because the city has hosted so many events such as the premier of the Ian McKellen film, Mr. Holmes and the restored 1916 masterpiece, staring the iconic William Gillette (who, by the way, is responsible for most of the iconic Sherlock Holmes imagery we associate with him, to this day). Whatever the reason, the obsession is there.
The way I discovered this obsession wasn’t so difficult.
Right about the time that I walked into the San Francisco Public Library and was faced with an entire wall of 1st editions, manuscripts and other collectables by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I had an inkling. Another guess came when I was walking down the street and happened to walk by a bakery named, “Mr. Holmes Bakehouse.” I figured it must be good, since the line was stretching down the street. And as if fate needed to prove the point, when I walked back up the street I was met with a “SOLD OUT” sign. (Never worry, I woke up first thing the next morning and received a completely mouthwatering apple danish that was well worth the 20 minute wait to get.)
But back to the invitation!
The invitation was from a Sherlock Holmes society chapter called The Scowrers and Molly Maguires of San Francisco and looked all the right types of mysterious and intriguing. Finally I got an email back that the woman in charge had asked that I could join the otherwise closed event (only 25 people were allowed in attendance and the RSVP cutoff date had been a week before I had emailed her). I waited for an update, and several hours after the first reply I got another one saying that someone had cancelled, and I would be welcome at the birthday celebration of Sherlock Holmes (who, in fact, turned 162 years old on January 6th – huzzah!).
I made my way to the event the next day and was welcomed by a room full of smiling elderly faces – I knew I had hit the jackpot. Why? Because, let’s be honest. The only people who wouldn’t be getting together to talk strictly about how hot Benedict Cumberbatch is, at a Sherlock Holmes meeting, would be the elderly. It was time for some real, down and geeky conversations. And I couldn’t wait.
Despite the fact that the next youngest person was twice my age, and the average of the room was three times, I found myself situated next to a man in green tweed pants who whispered to me, “Don’t be afraid to leave whenever you want. These old people talk for ages.” I appreciated that he excluded himself from said “old people.” I jumped right into conversations with those around me, and soon realized that the combined knowledge was astounding! My main conversationalist was a film professor at Berkley, and others sitting around me had been part of this society for 30+ years (it was originally founded in 1944, but none of the founders are still living, to my understanding).
One of my favorite parts, though, was when I was met by the woman who I had initially emailed. She was quick and fox like in her movements. You could tell that she was a woman in charge, and she knew it. Her glasses were perched perfectly on her nose, and her sweater draped just-so. The moment she saw me she said, “Oh! It’s so good to have a young person at one of these, again! Everybody keeps moving away and dying.” I appreciated the honestly, and tried not to burst out laughing.
After dinner, a series of canonical toasts, a lecture on the different cinematic versions of The Hounds Of The Baskervilles and a 30+ question quiz about the book, a ‘Happy Birthday, Sherlock’ cake (as well as a special presentation about all of the best of 2015 Sherlock Holmes related materials), I felt very validated in my decision to crash the party. I also learned that I have a lot in common with 70 year olds – such as a love for Dick Tracy and Abbott and Costello. I’m sure they all had some questions for how a 25 year old knew so much about entertainment two generations ahead of her (#homeschooled), but we had some great conversations, nonetheless.
Overall the weekend was lovely, and having spent an hour previous to the party, pouring over the library’s collection, I felt like I had truly experienced Sherlock Holmes on a whole new level. Naturally, I finished out the night by watching The Abominable Bride.
P.s. Here’s a video about the restoration project that I think is awesome!
To bun or not to bun? That is the question. “What kind of bun would you like?” is more of the question. I was so glad to find this little shop this week, among my lunchtime shenanigans with my coworkers. At this shop I had, what has now OFFICIALLY been documented as the best hamburger of my life (even though the people at the front counter would like to add that it is like a hamburger, not a hamburger…it’s a hamburger) and I got a salad the size of Rhode Island. In addition (oh yeah, there’s more) I also ordered some delicious apricot soda, which was completely weird at first, and then my favorite thing ever. The location of this venue, while seeming a bit on the rough side, is worth pressing through to get to this delicious food. I’m no foodie – but I’ll be raving about it for years to come.
Ordered: Coca-cola braised pork baked roll, seasonal salad, apricot soda
Where: 670 Larkin St San Francisco, CA 94109
Went: Thursday January 7th, 2016
Wifi: ? (You’ll be too busy eating to notice)
Reservation Needed: No
Tip: Do your research to see if you would prefer a baked or a steamed roll!
Website: http://www.hailthechairman.com/#modern-baos
I have been absolutely terrible about keeping up with blog posts since I’ve been traveling the past few weeks, but since writing is something that I do while I have alone time, and down time, it was harder to do while traveling with a couple of friends around the UK/Ireland.
Fast forward, though, and I’m not sitting in the cutest apartment EVER in San Francisco, CA.
I am absolutely in love with San Francisco. I love the city, I love the vibe, and I love all the crazy that makes it what it is. This is my fourth time here, and I’ve loved every time, for a lot of the reasons I love other cities around the world – each time I come here I have SUCH A GOOD TIME. And it’s always for completely different reasons.
This time I’m here for work, but since I have an extremely rewarding workplace, it doesn’t feel that way at all. Yes, we’ve been working hard, but I feel like I’m on vacation more because I’m not sitting around lazy (which is my least favorite kind of “enjoyment” ever).
I’m reading this book right now called, “Reality is broken” and it talks about how humans aren’t wired for “fun” in the way that we often think about it: ie. binge watching TV. What actually motivates us to be happy with out days/lives is “hard fun” or things we have to work at. That’s how I feel about my time in San Francisco. I love being able to work hard, love where I am and have a little apartment dedicated to my own time of reading, writing and sleeping off jet-lag (real talk).
This weekend I’ll have a little bit more free time, as well. I’m trying to come up with some great stops to visit (specifically geek oriented) but I’m really just grasping at the dark, since I have no idea. Here’s my list so far:
San Francisco Public Library: “First editions, foreign translations, criticism, periodical and biographical material relating to Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes are included among these 250 volumes.”
Artist in Residence, Rachel Dukes, hosted by the Cartoon Art Museum
Mr Holmes Bakehouse: French Bakery with an awesome name
Lovejoy’s Tea Room: British tea done right
Haas-Lilienthal House museum tour
Borderland Books – Geek books and comics
Great Fire/San Francisco fire tour
Big Bus Tour
What am I missing out on San Franciscans!? Leave your suggestions in the comments below!
Also: Here are some of my favorite pics so far:
When I was a kid I had this idea for my life. I thought I would grow up, go to college, graduate, meet this perfect person who would change my life, fall in love and check that off my list of successes – next step, world domination. Needless to say, life didn’t happen that way.
It got messy. Relationships got messy. And I got my heart broken.
I remember sitting in my room and wondering what I had done to have brought this upon myself!? I felt tainted. I felt like I should never be accepted or loved again. I remember my heart feeling like it had been put through a shredder. I remember feeling so much shame and so much despair.
But I shouldn’t have.
Because human heartbreak is something we all experience. Whether it’s from people, circumstances or the realization that dreams we once had aren’t turning out the way we had hoped. It’s a fact of life – and it’s one that I don’t think is talked about, enough.
Heartbreak is something you can write books about, warn people about, lecture about and it will still happen. And it will still hurt just as much.
But the story doesn’t have to stop there.
Heartbreak isn’t the end. It’s merely an evolution and transformation of who we are, to who we will are meant to become.
When I went through my first particularly bad break-up I remember calling my mom, snot-nosed and weeping, and her saying, “Emilee. This does not define you.”
I’m pretty sure those were the best words she could have said. In all of her Scandinavian directness (*cue Elsa singing “Conceal, don’t feel.”*) she hit on a valid, logical and very poignant point.
At the moment I wanted her to weep with me. I wanted her to pity me. But now I realize the wisdom of those words. My current situation didn’t define me. What did, was what I did with it. And THAT is what the conversations about heartbreak should be about.
Fast forward two years. Life is a lot better.
I took my heartache and I bought a plane ticket. I wrote about the journey. I found a community and met people who changed my perspective on life. I got some tattoos. I lived in a different country. I joined Twitter. I wrote about my travels. I rediscovered my love for writing and story telling – and you know what?
I did meet a “perfect” person who changed my life. And I did learn, slowly but surely, how to fall in love with them – the only thing was, the person I learned to love was me.
It might sound like the corny line at the end of a Disney Channel original movie, but when I look back, I’m not sure that I would have changed the way things happened (except I might not have stopped myself from slashing the tires of my ex). Life had a way of pushing me in the right direction, and I’m happier on this path than I ever was before.
Heartbreak taught me to love myself. It taught me to push forward even when I felt like I was being sucked backward into a vortex of despair. I didn’t know it at the time, but those experiences were paving a way for me to find my own purpose and meaning.
It’s been a while since I took that first backpacking trip. I had no idea what I was doing as I stepped on an airplane, headed to the UK. All I knew was that I was worn out emotionally, and I needed to get away. And now, just a month after my two-year anniversary of that trip, I’m headed back in the same direction.
It’s amazing how much can change in such a short period of time. This time the plane ticket wasn’t bought because of heartache; it was bought out of love. I’m not traveling alone I’m traveling with two of my closest friends, and I know quite a bit more about what the travel experience will be like, having now lived in, and travelled frequently around Europe.
Life has changed. It has kept moving forward. And the dreams that I have now are so much bigger and deeper and so much stronger than they ever were before. Heartbreak is not tarnish; it’s a badge of honor. It means you risked. You dared to love, dared to dream and dared to ask life for more.
So risk. Risk your heart, risk your dreams, risk your expectations and then rise. Regardless of the outcome of your daring ventures, make the outcome excel you to new heights. Because heartbreak is merely a transformation. And, like a phoenix, your circumstances only prove that you now have the opportunity to soar.
Darkk Horse Travel 