We arrived to the tiny international airport within an hour of each other and were in a cab by 11:30pm.

25 minutes later we were being greeted by Alegria, a petite Colombian with welcoming smile with only a hint of weariness from the day.

From the minute she said hola, she had a way about her that made you put complete faith in anything she said, a matter of factness mixed with a warmness that made you feel like you’d been friends for years.

We found ourselves being ushered into the best room in the house as all the other rooms were full. With huge windows on both sides we had a panoramic view of the city. That and a ticket to la villa, a bar about 15 min away in taxi.

It was midnight, I was dead tired not having slept for 2 days and to be honest going out was the last thing I wanted to see before a pillow, but how could I not rally with the woman who rose from the dregs of a Zanex induced coma in Bangkok the year before.

By 1 we had a cocktail and had already begun swapping stories with a few travelers from the hostel an some locals. A bottle of Johnny Walker red surfaced while a loose footed Colombian passed out shots. Thankfully, it was only a few hours before the lights came up signaling it was time to head back.

Not even 24 hours passes and I can’t help but remember te first lines of Charles dickens, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It started innocently enough. A leisurely walk through La Candeleria off carrera 2 we came across a lovely little vegetarian cafe called quinoa. Having no tables available we meandered on and found a typical columbian restaurant serving ajiola. A traditional Colombian dish made with shredded chicken in a potato broth topped with creme.

Sated and wanting to explore the city more we walked to the square off carrera 7. Llamas, ponies, Santa clause, shriek, and a grouping of protestors filled the square that seemed littered with pigeons. As the crowd seemed a little denser as we walked on, Emele warned me to put the camera on an inside pocket. Since we wanted easier access to it I told her to put it in her purse…well, it wouldn’t be a missadventure if it didn’t entail a robbery of sorts.

I turned around, seeing we’d passed our destination and looked back to hear Emele in the face of a Colombian woman yelling give me back my camera. I darted back and grabbed the thief’s wrist. Emele trying to open her jacket which she had zipped up and would not remove claiming she had no shirt on. She thrust her chest forward, but not wanting to grope the woman there was little left to do. She walked away just minutes before some police showed up.

Feeling bad for us the officer decided to give us an impromptu tour of the city enthusiastically pointing at sites of interest, concerned that we not leave bogota with a bad impression.

While Christmas is a great period to get vacation time, it’s also a time when crime is on the rise, the poor, struggling to make ends meet with the added burden of gift giving. Turns out we could consider ourselves the lucky ones as two Germans came back to the hostel after having been held up at gunpoint and machete, escaping with no violence but having lost all their valuables.

We arrived to the hostel with our evening plans set by Alegria who informed us that we’d be heading to a concert close by. What transpired was nothing short of magical. Each moment seamlessly flowing into the next. We walked into the concert and found ourselves on stage with the band a song later. The energy was palpable, intoxicating even.

Later we’d walk through candle lit streets dancing to a live Mexican mariachi band as Alegria passed out shots of aguardiente. More people joining the group as the night continued. An hour later and we were inside a bakery/market turned night club dancing salsa and ended early in the morning at a jam packed apartment of Cesar. Apparently everyone knows Cesar…

Muchas gracias a Alegria! Por un tiempo que no podemos olvidar.

Let’s be completely frank, the full moon party has nothing to do with the culture of Thailand, it’s an adult playground where thousands of 20/30 something Europeans roam the fire dancer filled beach with literal buckets of alcohol and a mushroom shake or two and dance till the sun comes up only to sleep the day away to do it all over again the next night. I still marvel at how the locals can cope with the constant influx of tourists looking for their next drug induced good time. wooden booths line the beach touting buckets of thai whiskey and red bull. each vendor trying to outdo the other, “no bucket, no boom boom,” “fucking buckets cheap,” “me love you long time bucking fuckets.” The atmosphere is more than palpable, it practically thumps through your body and clobbers you over the head till your unconscious.

After 3 days I’d had enough. Bags packed, ferry tickets bought, music still pumping from the beach at 10:00 am I was ready to get the hell out of there as was Emele.
Was it a good time? Of course it was…do I ever need to do it again? No, can’t say that never stepping foot on that island again will covet any response more than the nostalgia of time well spent and thankfully behind me.

For those dying to visit the largest full moon party in the world a couple of helpful tidbits:

1. Neon paint does not come off of towels and sheets and guesthouses may charge you extra for it.

2. While it’s almost inevitable that you’ll need to put your bucket down be wary, many a traveller winds up drugged only to awaken on the beach with no memory and no money from the evening before.

3. take only what you absolutely need. enough money for a couple buckets and if you dare your camera. I’d donned a belt with small pockets which worked out well. so far this trip, muggings/ theft 0 (though the moped dealer might as well have had thief tattooed on this forehead)

4. if you want to get any rest ear plugs are essential. All the resorts lining Haad Rin on sunrise beach are susceptible to the drum and bass beats of the seemingly endless party scene.

4. the bungalows towards the edges of the beach tend to be quieter with cactus bar at it’s epicenter, though when full moon comes about there is no escaping so you might as well consume a red bull and dance off some alcoholic calories till the sun rises.

5. If you are a new couple beware, the number of travelers who arrived together only to depart alone or with someone else was evidently quite commonplace.

I had scoped out parts of the island in the morning since Em, a little tired from a late evening was napping so I went to return my moped first. The nonchalant dealer, who’d seemed so easy going was quick to point out a small scratch on the side of the bike, literally less than a cm in width. I told him i hadn’t noticed it and it was probably there before, but he was insistent. Not wanting to be there too long and knowing we’d be back to return emele’s bike I said we’d discuss it later, thinking at worst I’d have to pay another 10 bucks or so. fast forward an hour later and we would come to find out my estimate was far from accurate. He wanted 6000 baht, close to 200 dollars. I was floored and in no position to shell out that kind of cash for something I’d not even done. our first tactic was frankness, it was a small scratch and there was no way such a thing would cost that much to fix, he dropped the cost to 3500, which was still ridiculous. so we resorted to the “I’m a poor student tactic and have no money” with a couple of tears thrown in for good measure. little did I know I could put on such a performance, Emele put her head down trying to mask the laughter, but when it became clear that wasn’t going to work either, she flipped and tried yet another tack. “GIVE US OUR F’iNG PASSPORTS!” she screamed. it was enough to get the old obese woman in the corner out of her chair. he returned the volume telling us to F’ ourselves. at that point we decided to leave, regroup, and try to talk with the police, which was a complete waste of time.

With his shirt unbuttoned the officer simply pointed to a sign warning tourists about renting vehicles and asked why we didn’t think more about it. We were obviously not going to get any help there. After another pow wow we decided I would return alone since em’s outburst was probably not quite so helpful and try to offer all the money we had in our money pouch, which amounted to a little over 30 usd.

I would ultimately burst out in tears, amazing even my own self with my Oscar worthy performance and plea with the con artist about how with only a few days left he would be taking all the money I had left, which technically was sort of a truth. it was all we had left in our pooled monies. after rounds with the owner, a police officer, and the sleazy moped dealer I would ultimately leave $30 poorer but with passports in hand. But not before witnessing the same scam on two incoming Brits who got slapped with a 3000 baht bill and a group of Aussies who were told an entire part would need to be replaced for the bargain price of 11,000 baht. they would fork it over and demand the part for a keepsake. what they would end up doing with the slightly dented metal piece who knows but it makes for an interesting souvenir.

it’s a bit flooring to realize someones entire career is built on shamelessly extorting money, but then again it wouldn’t be a missadventure without some instance of theft, robbery, or con game.

I leave off with a few tips for those traveling to these parts:
- Never give your passport as collateral, at one point the Max Rental attendant blatantly admitted he could sell my passport for more money.

- If you plan on going to Ko Phangan stay away from Max Rental located across the street from Same Same.

- Regardless of the outcome, don’t let it ruin your holiday. The bitterness of the event passes quickly and at the very least you’re left with an entertaining story.

Our plans were to leave Cambodia this morning, but an hour before our bus was scheduled to pick us up, we decided that we hadn’t had quite enough of Siam Reap and decided to stay a bit longer.

“You know the cobra snake?”  I asked the hotel receptionist.

“Yes” he replied, giving me a weird look.

” I want to eat the heart and drink the blood”.

“Are you sure?”

“I am absolutely positive”.

“I can help you. Let me call a friend”.

And just like that we were off in a tuk tuk to the outskirts of town for our illegal quest of reptilian slaughter.  We pulled into a driveway and met a few Cambodians.  They gave us a discount if we did not take the meat with us. We assured them that we were only after the blood, the heart and the liver.

Our slithery friend was brought out in a mesh bag in an Ankor beer box. One of the men gave him a poke and he angrily hissed. Next, one man held his head down while the other beheaded the beast. Even after his head seperated from his 4 foot body, his mouth continued to open and close as if saying “how could you cut my head off, you pricks?”

The crimson blood was drained into a bowl filled with whisky. The snake was then slit from top to bottom as they searched for the prizes inside. And there it was. The cobra  heart, in all of its pink and purple glory, still beating.  I have found what I have been searching for over the last five days.

The heart was placed in a small glass as was Mihae’s liver (apparently the latter is great for your eye sight).

Cheers! And they were gone in a single gulp.  The blood was mixed with whisky and we took a few sips. the rest was packed in a plastic bottle on ice for us to take with us.

Mission Accomplished.

It’s hard to describe the city, which seems to oscillate between third world poverty and 5 star western opulence. The ride along the single straight main road has you passing everything from massive modern tour buses to motorbikes strapped with pigs bigger than the bike and driver put together. With all four legs in the air, strapped back to the bike, we’d thought the pigs were already dead, but upon opening the window to get a better look, the unmistakable high-pitched squeals of an animal off to slaughter could be heard. Apparently the animals are tranquilized for transport, but that doesn’t mean a stray kick or squeal doesn’t escape every few minutes…the scene stayed with Emele who later declared, “I think I’ve now seen it all.”

Siem Reap, the capital of northwestern Cambodia, is probably most famous for it’s jumping off point to the Angkor Temples, ruins made famous by Angelina Jolie’s movie Tomb Raider. We’d grabbed some bicycles and rode to the temples taking in the surrounding environment and marveling at how quickly scenery changes from street to street. Go to Pub Street in the middle of town and the manicured alleys make you feel like you could be in Vegas, walk two blocks in another direction and you’ll come to a pot-holed riddled dirt road and dimly fluorescent lit shops of knick knacks, which all seem to cost $1.

We’d walked through Angkor Wat, doing the usual photo shoot and making a little bit of a spectacle of the moment, to the amusement of other visitors…pics to come…but while worth the visit, it somehow lacked a bit of the majesty that had been built up in our minds prior to entry; maybe it was the line of Japanese tourists that snake through every path, hall and courtyard, or the bombardment of children with their postcards and bracelets on exit, but somehow the memory doesn’t pull with it that same sense of awe that came with viewing the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids of Giza…it was, well, “same same but different.”

About a year ago, I decided to wish love on everyone. When I was living in New York, I doubt I would have come up with that wish, for during my youth and young adulthood, there were winners and there were losers. I did everything I could to try and stay on the winner side, letting fear of failure chew my sense of peace into little bits. This pretty much involved every aspect of life that could be lived or measured. But now, I’ve reasoned if everyone gets love, that would include me.

One would probably guess my first entry here regarding love, relationships, sex, boys, men, etc would focus on a lustful, wistful or otherwise romantic encounter with an Italian. And, yes, if you are wondering, there are many stories that fill that space in all their naked, bruised and drunken abandon. You can include some French and Portuguese in there, too. But right now my head and heart is spending time with an American man I met while traveling.

I went to Portugal a bit reluctantly, on the advice of my psychic. I speak with a woman for guidance about every six months, and have done so for the past four years or so. It’s a little known fact that I rarely share with friends. But about a year ago, I had been on the phone with her and while talking on and on about another man, she had interrupted me to speak a destination, a word that couldn’t wait for me to pause. “Portugal. There I had to say it.” She had mentioned Portugal before, and I had pushed it aside. For some reason, the thought of going there left me with a strange feeling, like I had eaten spoiled food. But a few weeks ago, while on the Iberian peninsula (a place I feel a strong mystical connection with) for a festival, I decided to extend my trip to, yes, that place.

First stop was Porto, a city I was happily surprised by. When I stepped off the plane, I felt warm and happy. I hopped on the train to head into the city center, where I wandered and enjoyed the streets, a collage of colorful tiles and painted wrought iron. The city (and the rest of the country, seemingly) was filled with short, dark and handsome locals. Men that carried a familiar machismo, but offered friendly smiles filled with a welcoming warmth. I found a small, but substantial contemporary art scene, something that I have wanted to find in Florence, without success. Maybe that is what is there for me.

I traveled onto Coimbra, a small university town located a short distance from what is supposed to be the most remarkable Roman ruins of the country. I never made it to the ruins, but I met a few interesting people, including Dani, a Spanish researcher and writer from the Canary Islands who now emails me poetry. Maybe this is the connection I was looking for.

From there, I hopped the bus to a small beach and surfing town and planned to stay two nights. I can’t remember the name. As the bus pulled into an industrial town, I thought to myself, what is this dump? As in, is this a garbage or chemical disposal area? I walked from the bus station to the hostel and was stuck with a sudden urge that I was in the wrong place, that I needed to be in Lisbon. One of the things I like about getting older, is that I trust my instincts and I do what I want if it seems somewhat reasonable. Yes, somewhat is good enough. So, instead of staying the night as planned, I put my pack on, and turned back around to return to the bus station to continue onto Lisbon. It was a moment when I took full advantage of traveling alone. Instant decision making, no debate.

I arrived in Lisbon without a reservation, but ended up with a private room in a very social and friendly hostel for just one night. With the hostel full the following night, I checked my book for another spot and moved a few blocks. There, at the new location, on my first evening, I met an American man. We’ll call him T. His eyes, a clear, light, fantastic blue, bearded, his hair showing a little gray in curls of brown-ish red. He told me he walked long distances, climbed mountains and wrote haiku and I was instantly hooked. In retrospect, I imagine he uses that bit of info to loosen the panties of girls around the world, but I don’t care. I hope he beds one hundred women with it. In fact, may he bed a woman for every haiku he writes. Let every syllable be an embrace and every line a kiss.

Later that night, after a romantic dinner where we shared our travel stories and our common search for a home outside our place of birth, outside our native land, him slightly drunk, me sober, he groped my ass in a dark alley and I struggled to keep my head on straight and just have a good time. We are traveling, and this is what people do when they travel, right? After running my heart wild with European boys (I started the habit back when I was living in Brooklyn, trying to imagine a life outside the city, letting foreign accents soften my frustration with the life I had created for myself), being in the arms of a man with a bit of a Texas twang transported my head to the place I had failed to find the satisfaction I had searched so hard for. America.

When we finally got to the large open air market, the sun had already set and some shops were packing up for the day. We meandered through the aisles of produce coming to what appeared to be the meat area and figured we were in a good spot for it. Equipped with cameras and our note, we approached a seated gentleman and politely presented our handwritten message, snake side. Not quite certain if what we were doing was ill-advised or not, we were hesitant, but when he approached a security guard who gladly pointed us in the correct direction, we were relieved and excited all in one breath. Guided by another on looker, we reached the “cobra heart” vendor, which was pretty much a street stall restaurant, where 3 seated army officials sat peering at us.

We’d learn that the live cobras had sold out earlier in the afternoon, but that a dried variety of the same quality was still available. Rather than miss the opportunity in it’s entirety we sat with the military officials and ordered up a blended cobra heart whiskey.

A shot and cab ride later, we’d find ourselves marveling at its effects. Granted Emele’s heart was pounding out of her chest as we approached the market and the adrenalin mixed with a strong shot of whiskey might have also had a role in the euphoric after effects, but we’ll definitely be back for the real thing.

Two days ago I moved into a new apartment. This morning the light from the window in the new bathroom hit my mouth at just the right angle, and there they were. Feeling a twinge of shock, I had to look a few times. I suppose I could cry, but there’s a part of me that feels good to know I’m using my body and clearly putting it in harm’s way. Those cracks were meant to happen, my perfect little mouth has been waiting for them. I never broke a bone when I was a child. Friends and classmates climbed trees, fell, and broke arms. I was too scared to try, an anxious child. When I look in the mirror, I see those days have passed and I am pleased. I am much more courageous now.

The crazy thing is, I have no idea when they cracked, and the unfortunate thing is that I have no dental insurance. I can remember a few weeks back when I think I might have hit my face with something somewhere, possibly at an art festival out in the Spanish desert, but I really have no idea. So, I should go to my dentist. But wait, I don’t have one. I have memories of lots of dentists that I’ve seen, but I doubt I have their numbers, and they are all in their offices in cities in the US anyway, and well, I now live in Italy.

Before I get too far, here’s a brief intro to my life: girl grows up in the suburbs hoping to become an artist, moves to NYC for college, stays longer than planned without a real plan, moves in with the man she hopes to marry, girl gives up all hope of ever doing anything truly creative, relationship falls apart, work life becomes a disappointing and underwhelming routine, girl has an affair with a friend at the office, sundays are weekly markers of a life wasted, girl breaks up with boyfriend, doesn’t sleep more than four hours a night for six months, recovers, turns thirty, moves to Europe.

Of course, I’ve left out all of the good parts.

Now is when the really story begins anyway, sometime between the move to Europe part and this moment, as I sit here in my apartment, overlooking a very picturesque, scooter-lined Florentine block of the Oltrarno that I now call home, knowing that it is a temporary situation. Knowing from experience that the temporary states are the ones worth living – laughter, highs, hugs, orgasms – all almost over as soon as they begin. I wonder if I have always known that I’d come around and give up other people’s ideas of how I should live and be true to myself. That means being an artist, traveler and sexually liberated woman like those I met and watched and admired when I moved to the East Village of New York just before my 19th birthday.

My current to do list (in order, as chatted to a friend online this afternoon):
1. fall in love
2. be a better artist
3. travel more
4. keep grabbing life by the balls, etc.

To be clear, fall in love is not to be confused with get a boyfriend or get married. Not that would pass on either of those, but I am looking for something magical that does not require documentation, commitment or witnesses.

And there is a good story that literally goes with item number four. It begins with a drug-fueled night at a festival in 2009, includes consensual public groping with an Italian lover and two year crush that would dominate my heart for the worse, and ends in a medical intervention to keep me from dying of dehydration, but let’s not rush things. I have some painting to do and the sun just came out after a huge storm.

A recent missadventure took us to Harlem, America’s infamous personification of urban decay.  When a friend heard we were going, he sent the following text message, “Mihae, 134th Street is right near the ghetto, that’s right near the hospital, wait for me to pick you up.”  That just made us want to go more.

Many New Yorkers may still see this area as a no-go, but the truth is, I found it to have more culture and charm than much of the city.  Harlem musicians have been rockin the soul, reggae, jazz, gospel and afro-cuban music scene for years.  We went to a club call Shrine World Music for reggae night (2271 Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd. (133-134 st) New York, NY 10030 • 212-690-7807)

Shrine is a small bar and restaurant showcasing some of the hottest new bands in Harlem.  The venue is small but has a comfortable atmosphere. There are a few tables, but most of the crowd is dancing and mingling.

The bar menu consists of drinks called Afro Trip, Muslim Jew and Roofo Roofo.  Shots are $7 each, but if you buy more than 5, they only cost $5.  There is no cover charge before 11 p.m.

As the Bob Marley tribute band rocked the house, the entire bar broke out into song, dance, smiles, hugs and high-fives all around.  With a mostly local crowd, our party of four were minorities to say the least, but no one seemed to notice and we felt very welcome.  The venue offers live music nightly including jazz, Brazilian and soul.  For more inforamtion, visit  www.shrinenyc.com.

If you are seeking a dive bar that does not take you all the way up to Harlem, check out Cafe Wha in the Village.  It offers great live music from the 80s and buckets of cold beer, www.cafewha.com.

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