Letters from airplane mode
on stolen journals, soulmate friends, and starting over
Happy July 1st!
I disappeared again haha.
I always feel very self-important when I apologize for taking a few weeks off and not posting, as if my work is so necessary. But I did take a few weeks off traveling through Europe, and it was such a magical time meeting up with friends.
Travel is the most meditative thing for me. I completely get lost in the moment—the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, the people. I check out of the real world for a bit and become incredibly present. This is probably why I enjoy it so much and also why I can't be fucked to post when I'm on trips... I'm just simply being, enjoying, and living.
I'll process later, romanticize the memories, be struck with a heavy dose of nostalgia and travel blues. I highly recommend this approach.
We could all use a break from the past and the future, a lovely embrace of the present moment, and our devices set to airplane mode.
*This one is so long, Substack told me I had reached my length limit, just an FYI.
I stole a journal in the Houston airport to write this passage. The only other thing I've stolen in my life was a gift bag with a kitten on it and a tiny bottle of nail polish when I was about five years old. What can I say—I love tiny, cute things. I didn't even mean to steal it, really. The self-checkout machine froze and I just walked away lol. It’s just paper bound together, anyway.
It didn't help that earlier I was walking around with a deep disgust for the amount of consumerism in an airport. You've got your stores for snacks, your watering holes, your neck pillow stores, and your luxury stores for clothes and jewelry and watches and sunglasses and perfume. What type of person can actually even afford this? So yeah, maybe I was a little agitated and didn't feel motivated to go out of my way to pay for the journal.
People at the airport—or in transit in general—are quite grotesque. Coughing, farting, whining, a lot like farm animals actually. We're all just cattle being ushered to our gates. It's: Do I take my laptop out? My shoes off? Here, put this weird shit on your hands so we can make sure you don't have a bomb in your backpack. Your flight is delayed by two hours. Now the gate has changed. A seven-dollar bottle of water. No more overhead space—that'll be $60. Stuck on the tarmac for 30 minutes. There's little glamorous about it, especially as a tall person crammed in the middle seat in economy, flying 30,000 feet in the air like a fucking sardine.
It makes me think of the Louis CK stand-up about how people at the airport act like they're being forced onto a cattle car in Nazi Germany, when really, if you think about the impossible act of flying through the air like a bird in a tiny chair, it's actually incredible! I really loved Louis before he started showing his dick to people against their will. Another one bites the dust, I suppose.
People really can be atrocious though. An older Asian woman and Middle Eastern woman were apologetically weaving through the security line because they were late for their flights. Four (very white) middle-aged people behind me very loudly complained about how they cut everyone off, and then of course their race was brought up: "Of course it's a Middle Eastern woman and an Asian woman. If that was me doing the same, I'd be called out." I made a deep gargling noise in the back of my throat and rolled my eyes as dramatically as an Aries could and said, "Have a little humanity." They all grunted and finally silenced.
I was in Houston because I was applying for my German citizenship. At the airport, my father (*different from my dad who passed) called to ask what I was doing with all the information I gathered for my application—a.k.a., he didn't want ICE showing up on his or my grandmother's doorstep.
Yes, this is the America we live in now, and it is absolutely bonkers. Of course I told him that wouldn't be possible since he and my grandmother both obtained their U.S. citizenship. "You never know," he said, "with all the crazy shit the president is doing."
"What's the benefit of getting your German passport?" he pressed. I told him I would have the option to move abroad to any EU state, go to school, work, and he said, "Why would you want to do that?" And I didn't really want to say "because it’s better there," so I just said it opens up more opportunities. He huffed and told me to be careful in Europe, to which I replied, "I'll say I'm Canadian if anyone asks," and he said, "They don't like them much either." Then he asked for my flight number and said he loved me in typical father fashion.
My flight was delayed and I arrived in Houston around 11 PM. My Uber driver was an older Black man with what I thought was a thick Louisiana accent, so I asked him where he was from and he said he was born and raised in Houston. He went on to tell me how Houston was one of the most diverse cities in the world and that I had to try some brisket while I was in town. We were silent for maybe five minutes, ambient music playing in the background, until he asked me, "So Taylor, what do you think about AI?"
I told him I was a writer and that it has the potential to take my job, and that I particularly didn't like video AI because eventually you couldn't tell what was real or not. He said it made people lazy because they don't think for themselves anymore and that it's taking hard-working people's jobs. Even making cars that drive themselves. He made me want to delete my GPT account promptly (I actually did after the fact). Then we began talking about Trump and how it's not illegal to protest in the streets of LA and how the power is with the people. How we can't just lie down and roll over.
Once we arrived at my hotel, I told him I enjoyed our talk, and then I wished him a beautiful night and he giggled so genuinely and childlike, and said that he would because he met me. I'm sure he said this to everyone, but I'm also sure he meant it each time too. As I got out and gathered my bags, he said "Taylor" and rolled down his window. "It'll be alright because we don't want kings in our country." I smiled and walked inside.
I checked into my room and got situated. The Tom Cruise movie "Jack Reacher" with Werner Herzog was on in the background as I scrolled on my phone, making sure I had everything sorted for the morning. This had to be a good sign about my German citizenship, right? I mean, Werner Herzog.
But then something terribly embarrassing happened that has never happened to me before. I got an alert that my flight to Paris was boarding in New York while I was snug as a bug in a rug in Houston. I felt a rush of anxiety and nausea come over me. My trip was over, I thought. All the money I spent (all the nonrefundable shit because I'm always broke and trying to save a buck), all the plans I made with friends—over. And worse, I was stuck in Houston.
So I took a deep breath, calmed myself, and did what any person who's irresponsible with money would do: I booked another flight to Paris on my credit card. After all my years of traveling, I've never had an oversight like this or made such an expensive mistake. But you know what? It's all about how you handle the situation, and money comes back around (I would not be saying this if I didn't have a credit card). So I finally got myself to sleep, which was a miracle because my cortisol was spiked to the high heavens and I was nervous about my appointment because German bureaucracy is notoriously a nightmare.
My driver to the embassy was from Africa and had lived in Houston for 10 years. I asked him what brought him to Houston and if he liked it. He said work, and yes, it was home to him now. He asked me if I was German and I told him I was going to try and get my citizenship. "To live there?" he said, and I said yes, and he laughed. "So many people trying to come here and so many trying to leave." We let that sink in.
At the embassy, I took an elevator to the 18th floor, went through a metal detector, and locked my phone in a box. Then I waited with my thick folder of paperwork until I was called upon. The woman asked me if it was my first time applying for a passport and I said yes. She asked me if I was German and if I had proof, and I said yes, and yes. Then I handed all my paperwork over—paperwork that took me two years to gather of my father's and grandmother's German documents—and I sweat profusely. Anytime she asked me a question, I said "yes ma'am" and tried to be warm and agreeable without going unconscious.
Finally, after about 30 minutes of shuffling documents and asking me questions and making copies, she said, "Where do you want your passport mailed to?" It was so unceremonious that I asked, "So I'm a German citizen now?" and she said, "Yes, how do you want to pay—cash or card?" There was no celebration, no ringing bells, no flashing lights or confetti. Until I got back in the elevator and started jumping up and down, completely elated.
Of course, our flight to Paris was delayed by two hours, but luckily, I sat next to two lovely young women. I say young women because I was clearly 10 years older than them. Gavar was Egyptian and lived in New York and bought her ticket to Paris the night before to surprise some friends. The other was Loraline, a French American who lived in Miami and was flying to Toulouse to meet her grandfather. Women are amazing because within five minutes, we were swapping life stories, exchanging Instagrams, and giggling and sharing snacks. We feel safe in each other's company, completely non-threatened.
I was sharing all the French words I remembered from school with Loraline—funny ones like "discothèque," "super chouette," "pamplemousse," and other more practical ones like "Je voudrais un café," "ça va," "un petit peu," things like that. Though of course once you get to France, the French hate that you're American and don't try to speak their language, but they also hate that you do try to speak their language and butcher it, so they just speak to you in English all pissed off. So basically all I ended up saying was "bonjour," "oui," and "merci."
Once we landed in Paris, my cab driver asked me out like four times and I said no four times, even lying and saying I was married, and he said he had a girlfriend anyway so no problem, right? He asked me to dinner twice, coffee once, and then said he would show me Moulin Rouge. I wasn't sure he was going to let me out of the cab when we arrived at my hostel, so when I got out, I made sure I watched him leave so he wouldn't see me get into my room. I've yet to have such an experience while traveling, though I've had two cab drivers steal my money and say I didn't pay them. It's always the cab drivers, man. Such a stark difference from the safety I felt with the girls on the plane.
I decided I would take a nap around 4 PM when my two roommates from the UK went to explore. Which as a rule of thumb for jet lag: you should avoid naps at all costs. Yet I could not keep my eyes open. When I woke up at 6 PM, I felt like I could've slept all night until the morning. Though I forced myself out to get dinner and shower. I settled on a curry place and ordered delicious and warm green curry. But when I went to throw it away, the paper bag ripped and green curry juice spilled all over the floor.
All I had to clean it up was a towel that I rented for five euros, so when I was done slopping it up, it looked like I'd had too much fun at the hostel bar and either puked all over myself or shit myself. I knew the housekeepers would come to the worst conclusion. But I decided this trip was all about caring less about what people think. Let them think I shit the bed, you know? Whatever.
I woke up and drank several espressos. I walked the city, stumbling upon the Eiffel Tower (wow), which I didn't realize was so massive and looked like a giant chess piece. Then I sat down and enjoyed some grilled sea bass and veggies swimming in olive oil at a cute café. I then fumbled through a book by Henry Miller, Colossus of Maroussi, a travel log of his time in Greece, which is a destination I am currently obsessed with.
It's ironic too, as Henry Miller's time in Paris was crucial to his development as a writer. He arrived in Paris with little to his name in his 40s but left as an important figure, deeply intertwined with the city's artistic and literary scene. Pieces of his work that were too smutty and therefore banned in the U.S. were published in Paris. I try to look at the city through his eyes, the eyes of a writer and artist, though I imagine Paris is much different now than in the '30s.
Afterwards, I walked through a park and fondly admired all the old buildings with their iron-clad balconies and hanging flower pots. It was hot as fuck though, and soon I had to go and catch a flight to Split.
When I arrived back in Croatia (five years later), everything felt as perfect as I remembered. The pink sunsets, the comfortable weather, the swallows, the language, the people. I was sure to yap to my taxi driver all about my love for Croatia on the way to Split. I booked a cheap hostel in Old Town right above Charlie's Backpackers Bar, where I met all of my friends on my previous Croatia trip, and lucky for me, I had the whole bunk to myself.
Before getting some drinks at Charlie's, I decided to get some risotto and a glass of wine at a nearby Maltese restaurant, and by the time I arrived at Charlie's, it was packed full of people and the door guy said it was too full for me to go in. Which is funny. I wanted to go down memory lane, but instead, life changes and moves on and you have to make new memories sometimes.
I walked across the alley to another bar and ordered some rakija and chatted with all the servers. One of them grew fond of me. He asked me out after they closed and I asked him his age. "Twenty-two," he said, and I about shot the liquor out of my mouth. "Why, how old are you?" he asked. "Thirty-one," I said, "much too old for you." Then out of curiosity, "Do you like older women?" "Of course," he said, which made me laugh. I walked home alone, passing by a tisak I used to hit up for cigarettes. I bought a pack for drunken nights with friends and smoked one.
The next day I caught a ferry to Hvar, meeting up with one of my best friends Caleb, our mutual friend Chloe, and her new partner Thomas from Germany. I'm not well-versed in traveling in groups, but the dynamic was nice and easy. We rode scooters to a remote beach, then took a boat tour to several islands. Caleb brought mushroom mints so we popped a few and set off with others: two gay retired LAPD cops who'd been together for 24 years, a sweet German family with teen sons who showed such healthy affection it made me rethink being childfree, and a mother-daughter duo from South Carolina.
Our skipper (I just called him Popeye) was the perfect amount of fun, sarcastic asshole. Poking fun at us when we pronounced Croatian words wrong and being generally disagreeable and snarky.
We jumped in stunning turquoise water, ducked into the Blue Cave, swam to Stiniva Beach in Vis, and toured the Pakleni Islands, having a nice lunch seaside with the whole lot. Over the next few days in Hvar we had more rakija, prosecco, and gelato and a bit of rain, and then we all drove to a cabin near Plitvice Lakes. The park was lovely and full of green-blue water and waterfalls and fresh air. Later, I turned all of my clothes an ugly light blue color in the wash, which is still an unknown phenomenon to me. It mattered to me in the moment, but I completely forgot about its importance later. Funny how that happens.
We then flew to Barcelona, where Chloe and Thomas live. It was nice to have my own space for a few days, catch up on work, and meet friends for balcony aperitivos or dinners. It was blazing hot and I'd walk miles every day, but I fell in love with the place. I'd wake up late, tiptoe around sleeping hostel mates, grab espresso next door, work in the common room, walk to tapas or paella for lunch, nap, then meet the gang for drinks or dinner. Repeat.
I met up with another travel writer friend, Adam, whom I'd met through a virtual job interview. He and his girlfriend were traveling through Southern Europe and it worked out serendipitously. He was even lovelier in person and makes me feel less insane about how I move through the world.
The Gaudí architecture was incredible—curving, organic shapes that look like they grew from the earth. I spent a few hours in the Sagrada Família with Caleb, feeling like I was in a fever dream designed by a genius madman. It's impossibly beautiful and intricate. It’s hard to understand how someone can even conceive of something like that.
My last day in Barcelona coincided with the Sant Joan celebration. The streets were wild—people drinking openly everywhere, an Elvis impersonator belting out songs (lol), explosive fireworks going off. Kids were lighting off fireworks in crowded streets like it was nothing, and you’d have to duck and dodge them. We joined locals dancing to music, passing around a bottle of cava. The whole gang walked me back to my hostel, all slightly drunk and emotional because I had a flight to Amsterdam the next morning.
Amsterdam was completely different—more mellow, and about 20 degrees colder, so my friend Rana immediately lent me a sweater as I only packed for the Mediterranean heat. The weather was grey and rainy. We biked everywhere (not for the weak keeping up with the Dutchies), ate escargot at a tiny wine bar, and I became obsessed with pistachio gelato. There was this dish everywhere: meat stew with applesauce on top, which sounds strange but was actually delightful. One morning, Rana's father made us a traditional Turkish breakfast of the most delicious eggs I’ve ever had.
Rana and Nina, her fashion designer girlfriend, are disgustingly in love. They finish each other's sentences and touch constantly but not in an annoying way—in a way that makes you believe in soulmates. Rana and I stayed up late talking about existential stuff: whether everything as we know it is just a social construct, whether we're brave enough to live the lives we actually want. These conversations with her always make me feel less crazy about my own internal spiraling.
One night I went to sleep feeling deeply lonely, having been the third wheel in so many situations. Everyone else seemed coupled up. The prospect of moving to Europe started to feel overwhelming rather than exciting. Starting over, alone, being far from family. It made my head spin with anxiety.
The next morning I missed my train to Antwerp because I couldn’t find the train station in time, and so I had to buy another ticket. So many unfortunate events on this trip (even though I carried a good luck charm from Japan with me), but I guess that’s just travel sometimes, and I wouldn’t change anything.
Antwerp was where I got to tap into my feminine side. Being with my friend Greta is like being with a sister—we're so comfortable we were getting ready completely naked, sharing clothes and spraying each other with lovely perfumes. She dressed me in vintage finds, her French bulldog Homer following us around with big, doting eyes, and her sweet Belgian husband Mel taking the lead on the tour of Antwerp.
Meeting Greta's male friends was hilarious because they were all basically fighting for my attention, and Greta kept saying "Down, boys." One particular guy, Jenz, wanted to ask all the hard questions about my current relationship, which is hard to explain at this point in time. I usually just say I've been seeing the same person for six years now, and they usually ask what he does and I say music, and then they ask why he's not with me and I say he lives in California, and then they press more and more.
Jenz asked if I was comfortable being second to his music career, and I said yes, because I think your passion should always come first. He said, "Music is important, yes, but the woman I love always comes first, above all else. You can balance both." I asked if he would move to another country for his girlfriend. "Without hesitation," he said. I believe things are not so simple or so black-and-white, but it really is some food for thought, especially as I plan to move to another country. Greta later told me the boys were all coked out, which explains why he was so locked in on me with those big black pupils.
The next day, Greta and Mel drove me to Brussels and there was a bomb threat at the train station. As I zoomed away to Paris, they were stuck at the station until the bomb was detonated. Then my aggressive cab driver in Paris weaved through traffic like a maniac to get me to the airport on time (bless him), and then I made it back to the states. My mom picked me up in Dallas and we stopped at In-N-Out, had Starbucks, and hit a snow cone place. It doesn't get much more American than that.
There's a deep sadness when I arrive back in the U.S., as if a major part of my identity and freedom is lost, but also comfort because things aren't so hard. I know the language, the food to buy. I become native again and it's easier—I can settle and relax. But easy has never suited me. I think I've always had adrenaline coursing through my veins, a natural fight-or-flight response, which makes travel a great default.
I'm sure depression will soon set in and I'll ruminate about all the money I spent and spend hours on Idealista looking at homes for rent in Spain, Italy, and Portugal (which I can now do because I'm German!). But for now I'll be watching copious movies in bed and snuggling my dog.
Until I can get back to the continent, I'll enjoy time with family, friends, the blazing hot and humid Oklahoma summer, road trips, and all the snow cones and burgers I can consume.