LATEST POSTS
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How we drove into it — A campervan, a coastline, and a sharp turn (part 6)
Rastoke, or the Place Where the Questions Caught Up With Us We found Rastoke through a practical question typed into ChatGPT while trying to optimise a route without exhausting ourselves. A small place on the map between Zagreb and Plitvice Lakes. Close enough to make sense. Far enough to feel intentional. We decided to stop
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How we drove into it — A campervan, a coastline, and a sharp turn (part 5)
Southbound, With Questions We left Otočec in the late afternoon. Zagreb was our next destination. It hadn’t been part of our original plan. I had been persuaded — by a YouTube video, by articles and comments describing it as “one of the most underrated capitals in Europe,” and by Mo’s calm confidence that it deserved
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How we drove into it — A campervan, a coastline, and a sharp turn (part 4)
Quiet Places Hold Things Longer We were supposed to drive to Triglav National Park, but instead we chose to descend. South, toward Zagreb. Not because we didn’t want more rivers or hikes — we did — but because reality tapped us gently on the shoulder. Triglav would have meant an extra day. And we were
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How we drove into it — A campervan, a coastline, and a sharp turn (part 3)
Between Bohinj and Bled We drove from Lake Bohinj toward Lake Bled late at night, exhaustion settling deep into the bones. I was at the wheel. Mo sat next to me, finished too, but doing his best to stay awake, eyes open, body angled slightly toward mine — the quiet kind of vigilance that says
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How we drove into it — A campervan, a coastline, and a sharp Turn (part 2)
About Touring Ljubljana and the Europe of My Books We woke up to rain drumming gently on the campervan roof — not like bullets, but more like a lullaby we hadn’t heard in years. In Dubai, rain is rumor. Here, it was real. Heavy, sure, but beautiful. The kind that coats the windows in soft-focus
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How we drove into it — A campervan, a coastline, and a sharp Turn (part 1)
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
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Polenta, gossip, and the smell of home
I’ve been around. Over forty countries and a lifetime of airports, but there’s still no place like home in summer. Not the lemon-scented Italy of films. Not the chaotic postcards of Rome, Florence, or Venice. I mean the part no one talks about. The one most don’t even know exists. And maybe that’s part of
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Notes from seat 20a: A woman in transit
I fly often. Too often. And I always write mid-air—perhaps because it’s the only moment I’m suspended from everything: gravity, timelines, expectations. Back in 2016, when I first started flying regularly, my writings were painfully romantic. Not Disney-roses-and-happy-endings romantic, but gothic romantic. Think The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli—I was the woman lying limp under a
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Finding peace where sadness sits
I’m in a weird season right now — a limbo made of sharp edges and soft sighs. I’ve just walked out of my main job. I’m arm-wrestling my side hustle to shape it into something structured, fair, rewarding. I’m poking at new opportunities too, the kind that promise real money and a shred of sanity
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He’s moving, I’m floating
I crossed paths with S. the other day — the same way we always do: a bit by accident, a bit by orbit. Sometimes it’s at the beach, sometimes it’s elsewhere, sometimes it’s not planned at all. We’ve only known each other for about a year, but certain people slip into your life like they’ve