travel blog
One of the things I loved the most about Dubai was the huge population of Indians and Pakistanis. Of course this is for purely selfish reasons: it’s my favorite cuisine.. ever. (In fact, my friends would probably tell you that it isn’t even worth asking me what kind of food I want to eat when
I’d always sort of thought of Italy as my first and only true love. And then.. I met Iceland. I’ve never considered myself much of a nature-y type of gal. I don’t enjoy getting dirty; hate sweating; I don’t like camping; I need to wash my hair every day; I’ve never liked being isolated. I’ve
When you travel for a while, you encounter all manner of people, and I’m sad to say that sometimes those encounters can sour you on humankind. I’ve always wanted to believe that every person is truly good at heart, but when I look at the state of the world, I know that it’s naïve of
Tucked away almost in the middle of nowhere exists a restaurant so charming and so lovely that you’re happy it’s almost a secret. Walking into Trattoria Montepaolo in Dovadola, Italy, you’re transported to another time–a simpler and rustic era. The views of the rolling green hills invite you in, the Victorian-era-meets-farmhouse decor welcomes you, and
Morocco is a colorful place, and as such, it’s a great opportunity to step out of your usual blacks and browns and into something that it inspired by the sights surrounding you.
Let’s face it—sometimes being single can be a totally awesome thing. Like those times when you don’t feel like showering for two days or leaving your couch because you’re glued to a crappy crime show marathon on TV. Or, you know, like when you decide you want to quit your job, put everything you own
source There are lots of things that really gross me out. Especially food-wise. And black pudding is one of those foods. When I first learned that it was a sausage made of blood mixed with some kind of filler, it was enough to make me gag. Even now, as I write that, I kind of
“This is our language,” my taxi driver said after honking his horn for about the fifth time as he weaved between lanes of traffic, whisking me to the airport to pick up my luggage (which finally arrived from Barcelona). He explained how dangerous it is for foreigners to drive in Morocco; something I picked up