The Week Everything Broke Before the Trip
I’ve tried to write this piece at least a dozen times—if getting sidetracked by a dusty shelf I never use, a WhatsApp group chat about full-moon meditations I’ll never attend, and a random YouTube commentary on a celebrity I don’t follow counts as trying. I wasn’t avoiding the writing. I sat down. I meant business. But somehow, without fail, something mildly more urgent always pulled me away.
Now, finally, I’m here. Fingers on keys, fizz from a bottle of sparkling water still tickling my throat, trying to pin these words down before another half-meaningful distraction sneaks in through the back door of my brain.
Coming back to Dubai wasn’t so much a transition as it was a headfirst dive into a to-do list someone else had scribbled in the dark. First order of business: the still-missing security deposit. The landlord — a man fluent in bank transfers and avoidance — had already made himself scarce, answering messages like they cost him something. Naturally, he passed the torch to his chosen real estate agent, a woman who treated follow-up like an optional luxury.
She didn’t disappear right away. No — first came the drip-feed of empty “I’ll check” replies, each one as useful as a chocolate teapot. Then came the vanishing act. By the time she ghosted completely, I was already neck-deep in unfinished tasks. So I looped back to the landlord and spelled it out: either he got involved, or I’d loop in RERA and we’d see how much that deposit would really cost him.
To his credit—or maybe out of sheer fear—I finally saw movement. Slow, reluctant, but enough to stop me from going full Karen. For now.
Of course, while I was chasing my own money just to keep a roof over my head, I was also clocking in—twice. Two jobs, both still in their awkward toddler phase, crawling when I need them to sprint. They pay in vague promises, polite emojis, and just enough to keep my phone from being disconnected. I nod, I smile, I over-deliver, because I keep telling myself that maybe this is what the climb looks like. Maybe one day I’ll be the one calling the shots, choosing which projects to take and which messages to ignore. Not the one grinding in circles, burning through ideas and energy just to feel productive. Not this polished, professional version of myself who’s somehow still waiting for it to pay off. Just… someone a little more free.
The last straw? Probably when a client from Job #1 made me race around town to find him the perfect ready unit—urgent, non-negotiable—only to vanish the second I delivered. No thanks, no reply, not even a thumbs-down emoji. Or maybe it was Job #2, where my boss gaslit me about a “new website” supposedly up and running, while I stared at the same prehistoric version as always. He wouldn’t send a screenshot—just kept repeating that on his screen, it looked different. As if I was hallucinating. As if I had time to play tech support on top of everything else.
That was the moment something in me slumped. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a quiet, slow-motion exhale that felt like a surrender. And my brain, always loyal in its escapism, slipped straight back to the only place that’s felt good in months.
The holiday.
The one Mo and I fought over and planned anyway.
The one I poured my energy into—itinerary, bookings, backup plans.
The one that changed our lives.
Let me start there.
Blueprints and Meltdowns
Mo and I had started planning this trip about six months before it actually happened—and, naturally, it came seasoned with drama. Misunderstandings, arguments, the whole performance. Two headstrong people with wildly different communication styles, trying to map out a joint European escape.
I’d told him I needed nature. Stillness. Something that could hold the weight of the job I’d just left, the one that drained me until my skin felt too thin. He nodded, understanding—or pretending to. And then, a few days later, he dropped the dream lineup: Monaco. Paris. Amsterdam. Barcelona. Ibiza.
Ibiza. The one place he remembered fondly from his last boys’ trip. The same one I went to when I was seventeen and foolish. I’m thirty-one now, allergic to overpriced cocktails and forced euphoria. I didn’t want escapism. I wanted quiet. And his suggestion—tone-deaf and soaked in déjà vu—made me feel erased. Like he hadn’t heard me at all.
We fought. Circles. Loops. Raised voices and lowered hopes. But eventually, we reached an agreement: I would be the Chief Architect of the Adventure. The planner. The booking agent. The logistic master. And so I did what I do best when left unsupervised—I orchestrated the whole damn thing. Chose the itinerary. Picked the transport. Handled the activities. Bought the flights. Made a currency exchange plan so we wouldn’t get robbed by airport rates. The usual over-functioning.
Then came the airline hiccup. One cancelled flight and suddenly I’m playing UN peace negotiator between logic and Mo’s meltdown. He wanted to rework his entire itinerary from scratch. I begged him to breathe and let me work my magic. In the end, I pulled off a miracle refund—even on a non-refundable fare. Everyone hates a Karen until they need one. Didn’t I already tell you I am that Karen? You’re welcome.
But this wasn’t just a holiday. It was a litmus test. And the only times I’d felt this exact brand of static before a departure were the nights before I left for the U.S. and China.
I was twenty the first time. Italy had become suffocating—depression, self-sabotage, substances I used as Band-Aids, and my mom’s live-in boyfriend, a walking red flag who emptied her savings and tanked her business before vanishing. I hated the apartment. Hated the air. Hated myself. When my friends left after a clumsy farewell dinner, I sat on the couch in silence, my dog curled up on my lap like he knew I wasn’t coming back. The plan? A waitressing job in the U.S., arranged via Facebook chat with a restaurant owner I’d never met.
It wasn’t a job. It was an escape. And the escape nearly broke me. I landed in a place full of people just as lost as I was—except meaner. The seven months I spent there felt like a fever dream of exploitation and blurred morals. Then came the moment I tried to re-enter the country after a brief trip home: searched, interrogated, accused of working illegally without a shred of proof. Handcuffed. Detained. Deported. I remember being paraded through Miami Airport like I had smuggled something far more dangerous than heartbreak. They gave me my passport back only once the plane was mid-air.
A few months later, I said yes to China. Different continent. Different currency. Same ache in my chest. I boarded the plane with a face full of hope and a stomach full of dread. It wasn’t bravery. It was desperation rebranded.
This trip with Mo didn’t come from that same dark place. But it brought with it a familiar echo: the deep, aching need for clarity. Could I trust this? Could I trust him? Could we exist outside the scaffolding of our daily lives—no distractions, no crutches, no buffer—and still want to choose each other? Could he see the jagged edges and not flinch?
Two weeks. One campervan. One chance to find out.
Light Luggage, Lighter Heart
And just like that, it happened. Months of stress and anxiety vanished to leave space for the reality I had dreamt of; the one that fueled me through all the challenges and headaches I had been through for weeks.
When I landed in Italy five days before Mo, I swear I could breathe again—like I’d locked up all the noise and tension inside my shoebox studio in Dubai and left it there, padlocked behind me. I was carrying both our luggage, stuffing every corner of that heavy suitcase with his clothes and mine to save a few dirhams on checked bags, but honestly? It felt light. Feather-light. I wasn’t dragging my body across airports. I was floating on anticipation.
There were things to do—yes. Check-ups to squeeze in. My mom’s campervan to get ready for the road. Favors to run. Friends and family to catch up with like a rushed montage. But even with all that—appointments, errands, hellos, and backseat family politics—I felt serenely at peace. Like I’d stepped into a warm stream and just let it carry me.
And Mo, bless him, was so present—even through the screen. We were apart for those five days, but his voice was there, grounding me, checking in. When he landed in Barcelona for his quick solo layover before meeting me in Italy, he didn’t exactly fall in love with the city. He found it a bit… meh. Mo is a people person—he thrives in company, in shared jokes and spontaneous plans. A solo adventure for him is like watching a comedy alone: kind of pointless. He wandered around aimlessly, unimpressed, underwhelmed, waiting for the part of the trip that actually mattered. Me (or at least, that’s what I like to tell myself).
I, on the other hand, adore solo time. I used to thrive on it. I’ve traveled the world alone, relishing those quiet Sundays filled with books, playlists, long walks, and food made just the way I like it. I don’t fear being alone. I need it to recharge. Mo doesn’t. He sees solitude as a glitch in the system. He visits his family, calls his friends, always in orbit around someone.
Then, finally, it happened. The moment I’d imagined for months. He landed in Bergamo (don’t get me started on how they call it Milan-Bergamo, as if we’re just a Milan side hustle—no, we’re a whole province with our own soul, thank you very much). I saw him at the arrivals gate, and I couldn’t believe it. He was there, in my land, in the same place that shaped me. None of the men I’d dated since leaving Italy had ever crossed its border for me. And there he was—Mo—luggage in hand, heart on sleeve, ready.
My mom and her friend had kindly offered to drive us. We picked him up and stopped at a local bar—the kind with real Italian breakfast: cappuccino with milk so fresh you can still hear the cow’s sigh, and cornetti filled with tangy, homemade berry jam. Mo isn’t one for sweets. He’s not big on dessert, especially not in the morning. But something about that flaky pastry, the bold espresso, the creamy foam—it won him over. Italy has a way of doing that.
Back at my mom’s friend’s place, we found the campervan parked and waiting. We brewed another coffee, packed the last few items, and loaded everything. Inside the garage: the Vespa I’d bought at 15, my dumbbells, and a few other necessities. The fridge was stocked. The pantry was full. The tank? Filled. We were ready.
Mo insisted on driving—he associates driving with masculinity. Even though he had zero experience with manual vehicles. Even less with a bulky campervan. So I held my breath and prayed my way through the first five kilometers, winding through medieval alleyways barely wide enough for a wheelbarrow, let alone our mechanical beast. A Syrian man raised on Dubai highways was now navigating northern Italian goat paths. The anxiety? Palpable.
Still, he did it. Got us all the way through Veneto and Friuli-Venezia Giulia, smooth and fast. Close to the Slovenian border, I took the wheel. The fuel must’ve been dodgy because it barely got us 350 km, but Slovenia had cheaper prices, and we refilled before heading to Predjama Castle.
Two Helmets, One Vespa
We reached the village just before golden hour and parked the campervan in a quiet spot I found through my usual digital tricks — no need for roadside drama or overpriced tourist traps. A quick stretch, a shuffle of bags, and we were ready to switch rides. Out came the Vespa — the one that had passed from cousin to cousin like a legacy of teenage rebellion and summer errands — and now, years later, had somehow become ours for the week.
We zipped through the Slovenian countryside like two characters out of an old road movie: one helmet slightly crooked, the other one too tight, wind messing with our hair and minds in all the right ways. The landscape rolled out like it was trying to seduce us — soft hills dotted with hay bales, forests painted with every shade of green, crooked wooden fences, and a light breeze that tasted faintly of wild thyme and farms. Even the cows looked photogenic. Every curve in the road gave me a shot of something I hadn’t felt in a while: joy, maybe. Or just the temporary illusion that nothing back home mattered.
And then it appeared — Predjama Castle — not standing, but rising, as if the mountain itself had decided to become a palace. Built right into the cliffside, it blended into the raw limestone with such eerie perfection that it looked less like a construction project and more like nature’s afterthought. The kind of place that humbles you by simply existing. A fortress with secrets, watching over the valley like it had been doing so for a thousand years — and probably had.
We had dropped close to €90 on a combo ticket to visit both the castle and the Postojna caves. Of course, I hadn’t clocked that they weren’t actually side by side — a rookie mistake — and by the time we finished wandering around towers and dungeons, we couldn’t reach the cave tour without staying the night nearby. That wasn’t in the plan. Or the budget. My frugal side took the hit like a champ, even if it stung like throwing money off a cliff. I sulked for a minute, then let it go. Slovenia had already given me more than enough.
On the ride back from the castle, we took the same winding road through the countryside, but everything looked softer now — the sun had dipped low enough to paint the landscape in honey and flame. Somewhere along a quiet stretch of gravel, we spotted two curious horses behind a crooked wooden fence. Mo pulled over, and we approached slowly. They came right up to us, their soft muzzles warm and damp, their eyes the color of melted chocolate. We fed them bits of grass and wildflowers, our palms tickled by their velvet mouths. It felt like some cinematic cliché, the kind that makes you want to cry for no reason. I didn’t want to leave.
But back at the campervan, a small disaster was waiting.
Getting the Vespa out had been easy. Getting it back in? A different story altogether. Mo, brimming with confidence, thought it was a brilliant idea to accelerate it up the narrow ramp. I stood inside the garage, ready to receive it like a trusting fool — until the Vespa launched itself forward like a rocket and nearly took me out. My scream must’ve bounced off every cliff in Slovenia. I don’t know what was louder — the screech of the tires, my panic, or Mo’s laugh once he realised I was okay, echoing in the late evening air.
And after a cooling shower, we sat down to eat. Dinner was a cold rice salad my mom had packed before we left. A classic from the early 2000s, back when she was juggling a business, a household, and a tornado of a daughter. Chilled rice, oil, tuna, pickled vegetables, and a kind of practical maternal love that lingers longer than spices. That first bite cracked open a memory: summer evenings on the balcony, my dad’s sandals dragging on the tile, mosquito buzz in the distance, the sun painting the marble floor amber. Now, here I was, decades later, spooning it into my mouth in a campervan, across the border, with the man I loved watching me like I was the main course. I had to blink hard.
Water tank refilled. Bellies full. Limbs loose. We pointed the wheels toward Ljubljana.
An hour later, we arrived in an industrial corner of the capital. Nothing fancy — a patch of pavement near a warehouse. But it was quiet, and safe enough to sleep. We curled into each other like puzzle pieces and let the day dissolve into dreams.
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