sunburntgypsy

[sunburntgypsy]

As I get older, I constantly think to myself that I’ve arrived, that I’ve found myself. Surrounded by this environment, this life full of growth, I declare inside of me that I am finally here, that I finally know who I am and what my purpose is. Suddenly, also comes this realization that I don’t get along with the people who I have come this far with. Is it then me who have outgrown? Or is it them? Maybe it’s a game of tug of war where one of us gives in a little, and the other one pushes right back. Except, it’s no game at all. And this never stops, since neither of us stops growing, getting farther and farther apart with each tug, with each pull.

[sunburntgypsy]

Uplift. Heal. Energy

Rest easy

The old me

Time to wake a new soul

In the old body.

You are no one’s

And no one is yours.

Just here, with everyone and everything

Together, now and forever.

[sunburntgypsy]

Under The Volcano

Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—as we sure employ a lot of them. Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, look after our children. As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy—the restaurant business as we know it—in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs”. But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position—or even a job as prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, provably, simply won’t do. 

We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them—and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.

So, why don’t we love Mexico?

We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires. Whether it’s dress up like fools and get pass-out drunk and sun burned on Spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.

In the service of our appetites, we spend billions and billions of dollars each year on Mexican drugs—while at the same time spending billions and billions more trying to prevent those drugs from reaching us. The effect on our society is everywhere to be seen. Whether it’s kids nodding off and overdosing in small town Vermont, gang violence in LA, burned out neighborhoods in Detroit— it’s there to see. What we don’t see, however, haven’t really noticed, and don’t seem to much care about, is the 80,000 dead—mostly innocent victims in Mexico, just in the past few years. 80,000 dead. 80,000 families who’ve been touched directly by the so-called “War On Drugs”.   

Mexico. Our brother from another mother. A country, with whom, like it or not, we are inexorably, deeply involved, in a close but often uncomfortable embrace. Look at it. It’s beautiful. It has some of the most ravishingly beautiful beaches on earth. Mountains, desert, jungle. Beautiful colonial architecture, a tragic, elegant, violent, ludicrous, heroic, lamentable, heartbreaking history. Mexican wine country rivals Tuscany for gorgeousness. Its archeological sites—the remnants of great empires, unrivaled anywhere. And as much as we think we know and love it,  we have barely scratched the surface of what Mexican food really is. It is NOT melted cheese over a tortilla chip. It is not simple, or easy. It is not simply ‘bro food’ halftime. It is in fact, old– older even than the great cuisines of Europe and often deeply complex, refined, subtle, and sophisticated. A true mole sauce, for instance, can take DAYS to make, a balance of freshly (always fresh) ingredients, painstakingly prepared by hand. It could be, should be, one of the most exciting cuisines on the planet. If we paid attention. The old school cooks of Oaxaca make some of the more difficult to make and nuanced sauces in gastronomy. And some of the new generation, many of whom have trained in the kitchens of America and Europe have returned home to take Mexican food to new and thrilling new heights.

It’s a country I feel particularly attached to and grateful for. In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, was there—and on the case—when the cooks more like me, with backgrounds like mine—ran away to go skiing or surfing—or simply “flaked.” I have been fortunate to track where some of those cooks come from, to go back home with them. To small towns populated mostly by women—where in the evening, families gather at the town’s phone kiosk, waiting for calls from their husbands, sons and brothers who have left to work in our kitchens in the cities of the North. I have been fortunate enough to see where that affinity for cooking comes from, to experience moms and grandmothers preparing many delicious things, with pride and real love, passing that food made by hand, passed from their hands to mine. 

In years of making television in Mexico, it’s one of the places we, as a crew, are happiest when the day’s work is over. We’ll gather round a street stall and order soft tacos with fresh, bright, delicious tasting salsas—drink cold Mexican beer, sip smoky mezcals, listen with moist eyes to sentimental songs from street musicians. We will look around and remark, for the hundredth time, what an extraordinary place this is.  

The received wisdom is that Mexico will never change. That is hopelessly corrupt, from top to bottom. That it is useless to resist—to care, to hope for a happier future. But there are heroes out there who refuse to go along. On this episode of PARTS UNKNOWN, we meet a few of them. People who are standing up against overwhelming odds, demanding accountability, demanding change—at great, even horrifying personal cost. This show is for them. 

[sunburntgypsy]

Thoughts

It kind of sucks, but I think I just realized something.

Let’s start at the beginning. It is a June Friday. A sunny, cheery, positive...pretty much how a perfect day should be. There are lots of people out and about, strolling through town. And I’m one of them. I’ve just gotten out of work. Now, I’m going to head home, but not before stopping by to get some drinks and see some live community driven work. The youth are playing today, and they’re amazing performers. It’s a blessing, and I’m blessed to be able to live here and experience this.

Over the course of the day and night, though, something happens. You see, I’ve been purging a lot recently, exorcising a lot of demons, healing past trauma. Today, I try go a little deeper. And, it cuts deep.

This brooding realization starts dawning on me that I am not very good with maintaining relationships. Not only that, but I’ve been incapable of creating meaningful relationships that can be peeled off past the surface layer.

That sucks, but why is that? I start digging a deep further. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a deep, fruitful relationship with my family, where for the past few decades, all of the young, deep rooted, essential, innocent memories have slowly been covered, layer over layer, with surface level interrogations such as life plans, and what I’m doing, as if any one of us really knows.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been displaced so many times over that now, my roots have been torn, shredded, spliced, and messed with so much that I have no ability to connect on a higher level besides the surface. Maybe I can’t connect because I don’t remember having a long lasting friend, someone who I have shared my life with.

Maybe it’s because it’s damn hard to make connections with people when you don’t even know where you’ll be tomorrow. When you know that your whole life is a game of restrictions on where you can go, when you can go, who you can go with, can all change on a moment’s whim. And not your own whim, but someone else.

Maybe it’s because I just don’t connect with people the way other do. I’ve become lucky to find some amazing friends recently who I can talk to. But, it’s so hard to trust in oneself when the crippling realization hits you that the nucleus that you’re part of is so fragile that you haven’t been properly trained to keep a good relationship, and I am afraid that the good relationships I do have, I will lose, because I can’t do any better.

So, yes, there may be a chance that I can’t talk to my own friends about things that bother me, things that make me dream, and things that make me dream. And yes, there is a chance that the relationship between this journal and I might be deeper than what I have with any person. Fuck.

FUCK.

[sunburntgypsy]

[sunburntgypsy]

[sunburntgypsy]

Pair

Growing up, I had a strange disdain towards odd numbered anything, including odd numbers. Something about them always felt lacking. I’d very quietly scream in my head and admonish this rival of mine with this imaginary idea that something is not fulfilled in its life. “Go. Go and find some one, or some thing. You’re making me sad by your lonesome.” Maybe it was concepts that was shoved through like “man is a social animal”, “go be a nice boy or you’ll end up alone”, “if you don’t listen to me, you’re grounded and you don’t get to see anyone”, etc. that foundationalized the idea that I am not complete, without something, or someone. Even the word ‘even’, which means to be in balance, in counting numbers, only works in pairs...2 is 1 AND 1, 4 is 2 AND 2 (or 3 AND 1). My favorite number was 00, and I’d predicate my success/failure in school based on my roll number. I am number 10? Great, I’m acing everything this year AND participating in track and field. I am number 11? Why should I even bother trying to do anything?

Grown up, I have a sudden disdain towards even numbered anything, including even numbers. Something about them feels conforming. I want to scream to myself and admonish myself for ever believing that anyone is lacking, without something, or someone. My favorite number now is 13, I love being the odd 1 out, and I get movie tickets for 1. I have so many friends who love me, and so many friends who I love. But, I also love being by myself on some days, and I love feeling not guilty about it. I love to fly off to Jupiter in my own space bubble, grow and tend to my herbs, and play the guitar as I watch earth and her people from a distance, in pairs, living, fighting, loving, living. I love to be in my ranch, in the middle of nowhere, with my guitar, gently sawing back and forth, as I watch the world fly be me. Something about the calmness feels like meditation to me...it’s just me and my thoughts.

[sunburntgypsy]

Transformation of a Stranger

I see her just about every morning as I walk to work. I go towards the train, as she is walking out of it. I go to work at her city, and she comes to mine. At first, it wasn’t her who drew my attention, but rather the older, diminutive, dark skinned lady in front of her, who always carries a life sized cutout of someone, walking towards some unknown destination, both to her and I. She also has a predictable routine, and maybe, a much more intricate background. But, it’s the girl I always look at. She has baby blue eyes, and walks as if she’s lost in the woods. We have gazed at each other in passing a few times, and now, we’re both acutely aware of each other’s existence, amongst the chaos of a morning rush. At this point, we both know that the other exists, and nothing more, and that’s OK.

Isn’t that strange? This being, whose minuscule sliver of a routine, five days out of the week, I can predict, but who I haven’t said a single word to. I know exactly where we’ll cross paths if I leave my home at 825, and I know that I’ll miss her if I leave my home at 840. I know that she arrives on the 822 train, and I know that she’s not from here, because I saw her walk with a suitcase and a backpack the last working day before Christmas. I know that she’s dyed her hair a few times, and I can tell that she’s not a coffee drinker. I sense that she’s an introvert, and I wonder if she wonders, about me, as I wonder about her. Has she noticed my hair, as it’s gotten longer? Or my beard, as it’s gotten darker? Or the change in my fingers, as they went from bare to clothed with rings? I wonder if she wonders where I am, on the days we don’t cross paths, as I do when I don’t see her. Is she on vacation? Is she sick? Did she miss the train and running late? Most importantly, is she OK? I wonder and wonder and wonder, and then it’s all OK, the next time I see her. 

There are seven billion beings in this place; that is  7,000,000,000. I am only 1, as she is 1. There are so many people I come in contact with every day, every hour, every minute, and every second. Everyone filled with their own horror, laughter, sorrow, tears, and through each contact with everyone else, I pick up something from them, whether it’s bad or good, or happy or sad. I am an empath, and I can read people. Except for her. And I wonder if she is an empath too, like me, in this world, just passing through...

San Francisco.

[sunburntgypsy]

Missoula

It’s 3 AM on Thursday. I haven’t slept enough, or at all. But there’s this energy inside of me, it’s a mix of anxiety and excitement. I’ve been back from backpacking for a while, and I’ve been working pretty hard for the last few weeks. But, there’s been this restlessness, this itch to get away, from my friends, from my family, from the responsibilities. But get away where? I need newness, somewhere that’s different, somewhere outside my comfort zone. So, I pull out the map and start looking at cities east of Seattle, with the goal being to find the next big city (or town) and start traveling my way east. I see Missoula, MT. OK, I don’t know much. Let’s do it. And that’s why I haven’t slept. It’s the rush of somewhere new, but at the same time, the anxiety of dealing with the unexpected, the unpredictable.

I won’t bore with the details of how I got here, but I’m here, in front of my hostel. Wait, one detail. The first person from Montana who I meet is Hundley. She’s 75 going on 28, coming back from a solo excursion from Mexico. She’s my co-passenger on our journey from Seattle to Missoula, and she loves me, advises me, and hugs me and wishes me good luck. She’s spunky, full of stories, and just radiates good vibes. I’m going to find her on Facebook and connect. People like her fill my life with contagious love, unconditional love, positive love.

This is my home for the next day or two, we’ll see. My latest obsession while traveling has been hostels. There’s just so much…life. It’s a constant flux of people going in and out, and with them, constant flux of different expressions, emotions, perspectives, food, culture, and life. Each hostel I’ve stayed in has been a good metaphor for its people, community, and culture. I’m hoping this one is the same.

I enter the place. Chris, the owner/manager/employee/guest welcomes me, with such an utmost smile and warmth. I needed that too, as anything but warmth would’ve frozen me right there in the Montana cold. He gives me a hug, a warm blanket, and shows me my bed, and gives me a rundown of the place. It looks like it’ll be only me staying that night, and Dennis, who’s been there for the last 6 weeks. He’s from the Netherlands, and he’s here to host the 41st International Wildlife Film Festival. He tells me that he hasn’t found a more stable place, and the people who have come and gone through this place have been interesting, fun, and in some cases, difficult to deal with. Great, the whole gamut. I’m already in!

It’s Friday morning now. Last night, Dennis and I talked about art, politics, sustainability, the rings on his fingers, and life over some Brazilian vegan food. At some point, we must have gone to sleep. I don’t know what I want to do today just yet, this place is so new. I try making coffee for the first time ever using this strange machine, and it doesn’t go well. Chris is up now, and he just laughs at my struggle. It’s his turn to show me the way, and now, we’re just chatting, over this locally sourced coffee that his friends grow right in town. Pretty soon, I realize that this whole hostel is a culmination of some very inspired, artistic, and enthusiastic people who are from this community. The logo of the hostel is based on a cross stitch that his friend made for him, the pictures on the wall, well, they’re just shot by an aspiring photographer who captures people on their bicycles. And the folks who pick you up from the airport are just dudes who owe Chris some beer money, and this is their way of paying him back. The whole thing is so smooth, yet so chaotic. There’s no process in place for any of the stuff, but the whole operation is smooth sailing. And Chris, always full of smile, and armed with topics ready to jumpstart any conversation, is there to guide people through this journey. I tell him about my dreams of having my own hostel one day, and he embraces me like a brother, as if I’m already part of this tribal group. Wow.

It’s time for me to go out and see some of this place. It’s gorgeous, a winter fantasy. I’m bundled up, hiding under two jackets, three shirts, two pairs of socks, and a leather boot, but none of that is enough. I need some food, fast.

This is Market on Front Street, a cafe/organic grocery/performance venue/reprieve from the cold. I get a cup of Americano and a Hot Hippie. Good food, good drink, good music, and good people. I’ve encountered 15 or so people since I’ve been here, and everyone, everyone has been so nice. It’s a different kind of nice. Like, that’s just how the people are; it’s not a face to put on when one goes out to deal with the world; that’s just how they are.

I ate too much. I have to head back to the hostel and get ready. I’m meeting up with an old friend tonight.

I’m back at the hostel. This is my last night here. I’m going to miss it. But, I’ll be back again, I know it.

I’m ready for my friend. She’s going to take me to ALL the bars in Missoula, which is a dangerous proposition. But, I play along. 

She drives a van now. We go to Stockman’s. Everyone knows her, and she knows everyone. This is her favorite place, and it shows. I’m treated to this concoction, which is vodka mixed with basil and lots of sugar. This is just our first drink. Before I know it, we are at our fifth bar, on our seventh and/or ninth drink, catching up. She’s doing well now, with some boy troubles. I meet Dan, who drove eight hours to come to party in Missoula. Dan is 68, and his wife is back home, so he’s having fun. 

I think it’s time to go back. She drives me back, and I run into Dennis, as we both stumble into our quaint temporary home together, both out of our minds, but never out of wit. We drunkenly, over some grilled cheese, decide to drive to Jackson Hole, WY at six in the morning. It’s three right now.

It’s 11 AM on Saturday. I wake up. Dennis is still sleeping, and snoring. Neither of us are going to Jackson Hole, WY today. 

I can make coffee now. Chris wakes up, and I treat him to coffee that I made. It came out strong and bitter, just right. I pack up, hug Dennis and Chris, and head out. There are some new people coming in, and they’re already here. There’s a guy serenading his girl. He has a raw and soulful voice. I want to hike in the mountains today.

I’ve passed so many people to get here. Everyone seems ready for this. I’m not. I have my backpack, my camera, my clothes, and my vanity with me. I’m only wearing a pair of sneakers, some shorts over compression tights, and two jackets. I’m simple and I travel light, but this is impractical. But, I’m here, and I want to do this. I start walking up the M. It’s the iconic hilltop of Missoula, and I want to see how the valley looks from up there.

I don’t make it up. Quarter of a way through, the girl coming down tells me to try walking down, just for fun. I do, and fall on my ass. Going down is harder, more slippery, and full of treachery than going up. I look down from where I am. It’s nice, I really wish I could’ve gone higher. But, it’s OK.

I’ve made it to the base now. I didn’t fall any more, although I would’ve been OK with it.

I’m staying with Cat and Jed, a couple who I met through Couchsurfing, today. This is my first time Couchsurfing. I don’t know what to expect.

I’m here. I knock on the door. Jed opens the door. Kind eyes and a warm smile. He takes me in, shows me around their place, and gets me settled in. I’m lucky enough to get the private room. 

I settle in, and head to the common room. There’s another Couchsurfer there, Verena and she’s from Austria. She’s been in the country for a few months, studying geography. She’s doing a talk at the campus soon, and then, she’ll head back. She’s an experienced Couchsurfer, and I’m not.

Jed and his band the Dodgy Mountain Men are playing at the Top Hat tonight, and we’re all invited. He calls their music Stompgrass. I don’t know what that is…yet.

Jed is rehearsing and doing the final run through as we all chat about where we come from, what we’re doing, where we’re going, etc. I try some of Verena’s roasted tomato chips from Trader Joe’s. They are really good. Jed gets a call from Kacie and her boyfriend. They Couchsurfed the night before, and they’re still in town. We all should go to the distillery, and so, we go.

We’re here, on the same street I was getting drunk last night. Jed parks on the street, and it’s OK. That’s what people do here, and everyone is OK with it. No stress.

Verena, Jed, and I meet Kacie and hers. They’re from Rapid City, SD. They’ve already had a couple of drinks. I sit across from Kacie, and Verena sits across from the guy. Jed separates us from them. We order our drinks. I get Nightburner, it’s fused with tobacco rinse. We start talking, getting comfortable with each other. There are lots of travel stories between the four of them, some good, some horrific, all being great stories to share. Kacie travelled through India, and her train was robbed, so the only guard on the train naturally decided to protect the one lone American girl, who’s the only person in that cabin. The boyfriend, while teaching English, had food poisoning and had to learn to squat poop in Central America. Verena, in Sri Lanka, had interesting experiences all around, traveling by bus, sometimes on train, always on the edge of death. Now, she’s traveling through the States on the Greyhound, and she tells us that it’s a very similar experience to her travels in Sri Lanka. And Jed, who met Cat through Couchsurfing, had a horrible time finding anywhere to stay in South America. And, I’m here, enjoying these wonderful humans and soaking in some parts of their lives.

It’s time for the show. Jed, Kacie, and the rest of the gang is already there. Verena and I, after getting some food, walk over. The music is already happening. Jed is on the stage, strumming along with his group. There’s Cat, cheering on her man. I go up and tell her that I’m here. She introduces me to Desi, her friend, who thinks I look like Nash, another guy who stayed with them through Couchsurfing, and who also must have come to one of Jed’s shows.

The Dodgy Mountain Men are so good. It’s Bluegrass with spunk. Everyone is dancing. Kacie shows me to dance and just groove to the music. I fail and everyone laughs; I do too. I’m feeling the music, the people, the drinks, the town, the love. 

It’s close to 1 AM now. Verena wants to head back, and I accompany her. We talk about her life, her parents, Austria, the politics and the philosophy, her purpose, her wants and needs, and I share some of mine too. I tell her about some good music, and she tells me to listen to The Glitch Mob and IAMX. One day. She has tattoos from Harry Potter. She’s very interesting and easy to talk to. She tells me that in Austrian, Tramp Stamp translates to Butt Antlers. I like it.

We’re home. It’s cold, and we fall asleep. At some time, everyone else gets back. We realize that Kacie and her plus one don’t have a place to go to, so we decide that they’ll Couchsurf with us for one more night. I give the private room to them, they deserve it.

It’s 10 AM on Sunday. Everyone is still asleep. I miss them already. I miss this town already. But now, it’s time. Time to go somewhere else. I’ll be back.

[sunburntgypsy]

Ugh

One of those days,

Nothing seems to go right.

Or go at all.

Body is breaking

Mind is crumbling

I am dying

And I am not complaining.

Too much chaos

And uncertainty

A feeling of doom, and

A mood of gloom.

This, too, will pass.

But that doesn’t make it any better

Right now, and right here.

This feeling of despair, and loneliness

And constant awareness,

Of everything that’s wrong,

And not of anything that’s right.

It’s a curse, it sucks, and I hate myself.

[sunburntgypsy]

Drenched in Sweat

I wake up, drenched in sweat

It’s become a common occurrence

My most recent fate.

Every night, every night

I am stabbed, over and over again,

Just to wake up in fright

Reliving it again and again.

Let me go, let me go, I say

You have no power over me, not to this day.

There is a smiling face looking back at me

This creature saying, 

Let me be, let me be.

I’m part of you, and you’re part of me

And together, we’ll never be free.

Oh god, what did I do?

Do I not anymore deserve

A right to my body, and my soul too?

Do I perserve? Should I suffer?

God tells me that he is me,

And I am him.

What’s his is mine

And what’s mine is his.

This kills me, lord, I say

Don’t worry, my son, for you see, he says

This creature isn’t just you, and you him

He is mankind, as are you.

Next time you die, think of him

Figure out a way to beat the evil

By helping to fix him.

See, you’re not the only one with these dreams...

For they are a vision, if you will, a means.

To get rid of the greed, violence, and evil,

And to instate peace and love to all, to full avail.

[sunburntgypsy]

Birthday

Birthdays are a finicky thing. I guess I should celebrate mine. In my defense, I don’t see the point. Did I ever have any say in choosing the particulars of my birth? Were my parents sage enough to formulate their “sessions”, so their firstborn is birthed in the early dawn of October 5th, and therefore becomes tied to a date that will forever be used as a way to for him to feel adoration, love, facebook posts, etc., all to remind him that he’s another year older and another year closer...to whatever the end is? Maybe they did, I don’t know, and not sure if I ever want to find out. What I do know is that I have achieved nothing but the best cakes, rarest pastries, and the most valuable gifts on a day that holds no significant value to me. Maybe I’m strange. 

What if I had a choice? I would choose a day that has a significant meaning to me. Maybe I’d pick the day I first fell in love. Or when I got accepted to my dream school (which never happened). Or when I was pulled out of a Greyhound bus by the California Border Patrol and put in solitary confinement for a week. I’ve grown from each of these events, and with these days, I can track some sort of evolution in my life. Better yet, if I could, I would celebrate every single day, every single breath, as if I am born anew every morning, every hour, every minute, and every second. To me, every day is a blessing, and every day is just as significant as a milestone. For it’s when I stop living for certain days and start living every day that I become the best version of myself, every day, every hour, every minute, and every second.

Portland. 2016/10/07

[sunburntgypsy]

Charleston was a great visit. Very different from New Orleans, which is the only other southern city I’ve visited so far. Very walkable, with good cuisine everywhere, nice people, and awesome culture. Downtown Charleston is as historic as historic gets, and it was great walking around like a local, meeting awesome people, and sharing interesting stories. Would I go back? If I can plan my vacations well enough, probably not, because I believe I’ve done almost all I can there.

With that said, the picture above is of where I stayed. Smack in the middle of downtown, this was an awesome location, which is why I intially chose this. However, some unexpected perks that came out of this were: Marina, Kiril, Pat, Asmus, Christian, Jemma, Britney, and Nick. These are some of the beautiful souls who I had the privilege of interacting with and getting to know in my short time. 

Hostels have always appealed to me. The idea of a communal space, where you’re sharing your bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom with people all over the world is still vintage, atleast to me. I don’t think it happens as much as it should, especially in the US, and a lot of the times, it’s looked down upon. The good news out of that means there’s just more availability for me. In all seriousness, hostels are an awesome experience, for any kind of traveling.This has been my 4th hostel stay in the US so far, and I can’t imagine traveling in any other way. It’s damn efficient, affordable, and you meet the best characters you probably ever will, until you check into your next hostel. I definitely want to invest in hostels one day, and the owner at NotSo, Vikki, has inspiring stories to make you fall in love with hostels as well.

Thank you, NotSo Hostel, and thank you, Charleston.