The photo might be a dead giveaway, but if you guessed that I’m about to talk about travel insurance (which I’m sure you did, because you’re a smart cookie), well… you’re right!
Remember when I said I’d joined a netball team and that epic athletic fails were on the horizon? It turns out I’m a bit of a prophet: it only took three games before I was being helped off the court by an ump, my ankle (and my pride) battered and bruised.
You may be wondering: what the heck is netball, anyway? I’ll tackle that in a future post, but here’s the Reader’s Digest version: netball is basketball without dribbling, backboards, or (much) contact.
Friends and healthcare workers alike have since reassured me that “doing your ankle” in netball is something of an Australian initiation, proof that you’re successfully integrating into local culture.
I must say, my fat ankle and I are feeling mighty patriotic… and a wee bit pathetic.
As I’ve mentioned before, a writer’s homework is reading.
Since moving to Australia, I made the conscious decision to incorporate more Australian literature into my homework routine. This also doubles as a measure of my cultural competency: where once I used to trip over “textas” and “trackie dacks,” I’ve now mastered many of Australia’s colloquialisms. (I think) thats a good thing.
At the recommendation of one of my housemates, I dove into Jennifer Down’s Our Magic Hour, an aerial view of life after loss.
In an exchange between the protagonist, Audrey, and her partner, Nick, Audrey is scolded with a hard-hitting metaphor:
“Your religion is other people’s happiness. It’s absurd.”
Yes, this post is inspired by a Justin Bieber song and no, I’m not sorry.
A few months ago I posted this photo–cheekily captioned “Love your self(ie)”–to Instagram:
Now that we’ve covered the nagging issue of packing, let’s delve into the fun stuff: traveling!
Something to know about me is that no matter where in the world I find myself, every four to six months the ground will tickle my feet and I’ll know it’s time to pack my bags and go exploring. An unequivocal First World Problem, I know…
When I shared with friends back home that I could feel the all-too-familiar travel bug biting, I received the same response on repeat:
In my last post I hinted at adding two fancy new stamps to my passport: Sri Lanka and the Republic of Maldives. Cue celebratory “Woo Girl” giddiness.
Today, I’m writing to you from Gulhi, a Maldivian island (population: 800) about an hour south of the national capital of Malé. The rain chased me out of my beachfront lounge chair and into my room, so I figured it’s high time for a bit of travel blogging.
To ward off reader fatigue, I’ve decided to break up my travels into a series of blog posts. As is storytelling etiquette, let’s start at the beginning. To kick things off, I’m tackling the necessary evil of any jet-setting adventure: packing.