What to write when you’re no longer crazy

July 2026: Barcelona.

When I started this blog I wanted it to be a collection of my most distinct memories: debauchery in Berlin, topless beaches in Mallorca, tumultuous backpacking sagas full of colorful and shady characters, falling in love, meltdowns, shagging, angst, and moments where I really could have ended up on the news (i.e. 19-years-old on the back of a motorcycle with a stranger in New York City).

Flash forward to this year: 24 going on 25. I have traveled but I really just…enjoyed it.

April 2026: Istanbul’s Galata Tower at night.

Istanbul was chaotic but refreshing and different. The call to prayer was mythical. As a corn-fed Midwestern girl, I’d never seen so many women in hijab, tea in every color, and more than one mosque in a city. I woke up to (NOT next to) this chunky, sweaty, shirtless Uzbek guy in my hostel room telling me he had just been chucked out of America, and came here - “Oh, ok,” I said, and laughed to myself.

I did befriend this tea shop worker who, as fate would have it, actually lived in Nottingham AND studied abroad in Missouri. He said his peers in Missouri called him “Turk”, and all adored him, which I found very sweet.

I sometimes think those weird little coincidences are someone up above knowing I am a bit homesick and orchestrating it for me.

April 2026: Prior Park, in Bath with Maddie.

Maddie and I explored Bath, got drinks, and nearly lost track of time yapping. She’s the girl who is always down for anything, and I love her for it. I almost missed my train after we’d just bought fresh ciders.

“Quick, you finish these glasses and I’ll take the two bottles on the train.”

Not my most elegant moment, but fun nonetheless.

May 2022: Chris, the host, posing for a picture with the painting behind him (painting of his ancestor who looked eerily like him and was the Mayor of London centuries ago).

Somerset was like being in a dream. I stayed in a real family’s country home tucked away by these Kelly-green country lanes, with a kooky artist Camilla and her Mr Slughorn-esque husband, Chris. I walked around the village, got drinks with the locals who all knew my host “Queen Camilla”, and drank margaritas in the dining room with the family. And as an author’s daughter, I had to buy a copy of my new friend’s mom’s book. Very good by the way, and now I’m on the sequel.

July 2026: Barcelona with Sarah.

And Barcelona this July was, as the British say, lovely; that’s the best word for it. Beautiful gothic streets, lots of reading, good catching up with Sarah and in bed by midnight.

No disasters. No regrettable romances (OK, there was one date that came out of all of this). No frantic identity crisis.

Yes to having a rough budget. Yes to age-appropriate (no longer half-naked) outfits. Yes to a plan.

Have I become boring or has my pre-frontal cortex just developed?

It reminds me of the scene where Donna Sheridan tells her friends she’s grown up, and they promptly tell her to grow back down.

And of Miley Cyrus’s “Used to Be Young.”

So, what are you supposed to write if you really just enjoyed a place but nothing that crazy happened?

Damn it. I think I’m finally growing up.