#I was craving pickles for like the third time this week and I keep forgetting to get some

[purplepeoplelickingtruthpeddler]

I’ve been saying something to people for a while, and honestly I don’t have the data to back up my end point. But what would ya’ll say if I told you that doctors are moving away from treating people who have PCOS with spironolactone specifically because the other most common use for it is HRT for trans women? 

The only half decent doctor I’ve had, and I really do mean half decent because he was useless outside of PCOS, backed me up when I told him that birth control gave me really high blood pressure, which is common for people with PCOS because A: we’re at risk of high blood pressure already, B: birth control is known to make blood pressure high in general, C: because birth control is estrogen based (and sometimes also contains progesterone if it’s a combo pill), D: PCOS already causes high estrogen, E: The same problem which causes low progesterone and high estrogen to begin with is worsened from birth control because it’s caused by a lack of ovulation, and birth control stops you ovulating. He warned me about going to a gyno and his exact words were “all they’re going to do is push birth control on you” and they did, that’s all they do. When I go in for literally anything, the entire appointment turns into a sales pitch. One particularly crooked and incompetent gyno told me that “PCOS causes too many hormones and birth control is one little pill to calm them all down instead of spiro, and metformin, and progesterone.” You know what that was? A straight faced lie. Because A: PCOS comes from insulin resistance in the cells of the ovaries which causes them to turn to other methods (producing androgens) for energy. Metformin, and metformin alone, addresses insulin resistance. That’s why PCOS puts us at greater risk of developing diabetes. We have low progesterone. Progesterone, and progesterone alone, addresses that. Estrogen makes it worse. Why take a combo BC when you can just take progesterone and not take one step forward and one step back? Spironolactone? Oh ho ho. Spironolactone addresses androgens just like it does for trans women, (oh, but don’t let anyone argue that PCOS is an intersex condition, god forbid). You know what doesn’t do all of those things? Extra estrogen, in the form of birth control. Like, okay, maybe BC slightly calms some of the less desirable symptoms in a transphobic, intersexphobic, and sexist world, like acne and facial hair. But, it’s the progesterone in the pill doing that. Specifically. If you consider yourself a cis women and you experience dysphoria because of these things, like I don’t on both counts, and that matters to you, that’s fair. sure. Your mental well-being is just as important as that of trans people who need to transition because of their own dysphoria, I’ll give you that. But BC treats the problems less than it creates more and spironolactone is way more effective for male sex characteristics specifically or else they wouldn’t be giving it to trans women. 

That’s basically a summary of why ya’ll should see an endocrinologist firstly. Stop going to your gyno unless you have really bad cysts and physical abdominal pain that could be a further complication from any of the other various things we’re at risk for. Either way home base is an endocrinologist, gyno is secondary at best. Go to an endo who won’t lie to you. Heck go to one that treats trans people. Go to one who has diabetes and PCOS listed in their profile. 

Finally, why in the entire f@#$! would the majority of the medical community move away from using a treatment that actually works? Could it be because uhhhhhh if they can separate us from the same treatment that trans women also happen to take, also happening to have male sex characteristics, (oh, but no worries, I won’t offend your cis sensibilities and call it an intersex condition), and then make the drug itself difficult to get, then maybe they’ll make access to HRT that much more difficult in general? Winner winner chicken dinner. I hate to burst bubbles. Actually, no I don’t. We aren’t getting appropriate treatment because of transphobia.

And you know who loses? Like literally everyone. Intersex, trans, women, chronically ill. We literally all go down with that boat. I’m waiting and watching the price of spironolactone to go up even further. 

Start caring. Do your research. Interrogate your doctors, because if they can’t give you more than vague spoon-fed “you wouldn’t understand this anyways because you’re just a patient” bullshit, you need to keep looking. Don’t let them relegate us to less than effective treatment so they can block trans people from access to the meds that they need too.

[feistypaants-archived]

False Positive [Chapter 7]

Rating: M Words: 1933 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When things don’t go according to plan and Anna finds herself alone and pregnant, she looks to her sister’s best friend, Kristoff, and almost makes a huge mistake.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: sorry for that wait! For.... something that’s not super exciting! Wheeeee. Might do some insert ficlets eventually but for now here we are :^)

Tryin to power through some chaps for a specific reason. Hope this doesn’t disappoint! 

Enjoy!

Slowly they had started telling everyone. Elsa wanted to know more specific details, and after staying up late on video chat, they felt like they had come to a pretty good story. 

It was about a month ago, she and Hans had gotten into a huge fight and split up. She had thought it was permanent and was frustrated and upset, and Kristoff wanted to help…. so they had a one night stand. When Hans found out, he was rightfully angry, which is why they’re not together right now. No, she didn’t know if they ever would be again, considering how angry Hans was.

No, she and Kristoff weren’t together, and no, they didn’t have any plans to be. They were still close friends and fully planned to co-parent, but that didn’t mean they had to get together.

Kristoff had an extra room in his apartment, and offered it up to her if she felt that would be easier. 

Anna, after crying because she couldn’t believe how nice he was being during all of this, agreed.

So they’d be living together, for now. Not dating. Preparing for a child. But… not dating.

That was exactly how people said it to them when they found out, as if they couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea of them not even giving it a chance. Clearly they had to have liked each other somewhat to hook up, and they were so close, it just made sense!

But Kristoff and Anna were not prepared to cross that line. A kid was enough of a commitment. They didn’t need or want to complicate it even further. “Besides,” Anna would laugh, pushing against his shoulder, “He’s too good for me. He’ll get someone way better. If we tried, I’d just screw it up. I’m a mess like that.”

Kristoff just forced out a smile, as if he were laughing along.

“You’re perfect,” he’d say, and she’d blush and turn her head away. 

He cleared out his guest room of all the junk he had been storing and helped Anna move herself in. It took a couple weeks of doing a lot of purging, but she managed to cut her important belongings down to just enough to fit in the room, with a baby and all to come.

Elsa wasn’t sure about all of this, and kept pulling Kristoff aside, as if she knew something Anna didn’t… but Anna tried her best not to worry. Kristoff was one of her best friends, and one of the best people she had ever known. He wouldn’t keep anything from her! If it affected her, she’d know about it.

So she did her best not to worry, and moved into the spare bedroom in his apartment. 

They had to share a bathroom which took some getting used to, but he gave her her space when it was a pregnancy issue, and she gave him his whenever they were spending just a little too much time together. 

Anna didn’t work at the moment and figured there wasn’t much of a point now that she’d have to go on maternity leave soon, so she spent most of her days lounging around his apartment. When she was particularly bored, she’d shove her swollen feet into his big shoes and make her way to the bar, smiling wide as he laughed at her appearance.

“You’re cute,” he’d chuckle, as she spun around to show off her ‘Sweet Fit’, as they kids were apparently calling it. Leggings with an extra stretchy waist, an old t-shirt, usually with holes, and his smallest sneakers that were still miles too large for her tiny feet. “Do I even own any of my clothing anymore?”

“Nope!” Her smile grew brighter, if it were possible. “Pregnant Lady gets to take ownership of whatever she so chooses.”

When he got home from work, they’d sit on the couch, her legs draped over his lap as he ran his fingers over her warm skin. He’d tell her about his day, she’d let him know all the current happenings of her soap operas and television dramas. She’d fall asleep against the arm rest and he’d carry her into her bedroom, hesitating in the doorway as she mumbled a soft and sleepy goodnight. 

Every once in a while, Anna would wake up in the middle of the night, and slide her feet shamefully across the hallway, knocking on the other bedroom door. “Kristoff? Psst.”

“Hmm?” He woke up slowly, blinking up at her backlit form.

“I need something.”

“What’s that?”

Anna toed the ground, biting at her lower lip. The problem is, she never really knew. They’d go to the late night corner store and she’d look at everything until it struck her. Usually it was something standard like pickles or cheese or salami, but occasionally they’d come home with sauerkraut and she’d eat it straight from the jar. 

Kristoff tried to forget about the time she piled the sauerkraut onto chocolate and said it was the best thing she had ever eaten. 

When he started to deny her the weirder cravings, Anna decided she needed to learn how to cook. She’d try her best to make him dinner most nights, especially if she was bored at home all day. Some things were great successes! They devoured her slow cooked pulled pork sandwiches. Others, like some sort of jellied meat dish, didn’t go over so well. 

“Why. Just… why?” Kristoff asked, poking at it with his knife. 

“I dunno!” She was already scraping the remainder of it into the trash. “It sounded good at the time and seemed like a fun challenge.” 

They ordered pizza that night. 

He rubbed her back and feet when she was aching, and ran her a hot bath if she was particularly miserable. She brought him cookies at the bar if she felt like she could move. He went with her to all of her doctors’ appointments and mommy classes and helped her learn to breathe through the pain with the Lamaze technique. 

She couldn’t help but kiss him on the corner of his mouth when they found out it was going to be a boy. He had turned bright red, but a dorky smile tugged at his lips. 

Anna decided that was the perfect time to go to the store and work on their registry. So she grabbed his hand, smiling as she scanned practically everything in the store, and Kristoff wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he took off everything that was even bordering on superfluous. 

They had found a balance and it was seeming to work for them, even if their friends and family were saying they should just go for it. Kristoff didn’t want a relationship, and Anna was, quite frankly, still a little damaged from Hans. So this worked. They were content to be best friends, and stay best friends.

——

Anna sighed as she moved around the room. She had just entered into the third trimester, and everything was becoming very, incredibly real. They had rearranged her room, making space for the crib, changing table, and anything else that was needed. Kristoff had built a little baby dresser, just to hold all the littlest essentials, and Anna had almost wept when she saw it for the first time. It was so tiny. She was having a hard time realizing anything could be so tiny. 

She sat down hard on the bed and sighed, rubbing circles over her belly. When Kristoff appeared in the doorway, she looked up at him with tired eyes. “I can’t sleep on my stomach anymore. This is the worst.”

“I know.”

“And he just keeps kicking me.”

“I know.”

“Why did I agree to this?”

Kristoff shrugged and walked into the room with a laugh. “That, I do not know.” He sat down beside her and immediately moved a soothing hand across her back. “You okay?”

“It’s…” she sighed and leaned against him. “It’s really real. And this plan… really worked…” 

His hand stopped for a fraction of a second, but Anna noticed. 

“It did.”

“I hate being pregnant.”

Kristoff’s cheek was now pressed against the top of her head. “Don’t you want a ton of kids?”

“Not anymore.”

She was pouting.

“You’ll change your mind when you meet him.” He shrugged. “Or there’s always adoption.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Anna couldn’t help but sniffle as tears were brimming her eyelashes. Damn hormones. “Thank you,” she mumbled, pressing her nose into his neck. “Seriously. For everything.”

“Eh,” he shrugged, waving a hand in front of them. “It’s nothing.”

“I figure once he’s born and we’ve settled down we can do the paternity tests and…” she paused, her arms squeezing tighter around his waist. “You’ll be off the hook.”

“I’m not on any hook.”

“Well, you can leave if you want. And no one will think anything of it.”

“Anna, I’m—.”

“Like… I get it. You don’t want kids, right? This isn’t your responsibility. I still can’t believe you invited me to live with you.” 

“I wanted—.”

“I should’ve said no, though, I think. I think this is going to be harder when I have to leave.”

“Anna, you don’t—.”

“I’m sorry I put you in this situation. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Anna!” His voice grew louder and more stern. “Stop.”

She quieted then, keeping her eyes trained on the floor in front of them. “Sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have invited you to live here if I didn’t mean it. I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I didn’t care, okay?” 

She looked up at him with wet eyes, wiping at her face and nose.

“No matter what, you’re my best friend, okay?” He placed one palm to her cheek before pressing a firm kiss against her forehead. “I care about you and want what’s best for you and your kid. No matter what.”

Anna stared at him for a moment, for hours, for days. He couldn’t tell you. But when she leaned up and kissed him, really kissed him, he felt his entire body melt. Everything about her warmed him from his core to his fingertips, and he wasn’t sure why, but right in that moment he decided he was going to tell her how he felt.

Not now. 

But soon.

His hand flexed at his side, desperate to touch her and kiss her more, but knowing that this wasn’t the time. When she pulled away, eyes panicked and cheeks flushed, he immediately lifted that hand to the back of his head.

“Sorry!” Her hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide and still damp, looking anywhere but at him. “Oh, jeez… you were just being so nice and you should know that I can’t help but kiss nice m—“

They both froze, and Kristoff shook his head. “No worries. It’s all good. Just…” he patted her shoulder before letting it fall back to it’s spot between her shoulderblades. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Okay. Okay.” She sat up and looked around the room. “Geez….” Anna lifted her fingers to her chin in thoughts. “Hopefully anything else we need we’ll get at the baby shower tomorrow…”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded, letting his hand slide off of her back. “Ma said to be there a little early so we can do just a family thing before all the friends get there. That okay?”

Anna nodded and smiled, stretching her arms over her head. “Absolutely. You’re the best fake baby daddy a girl could ask for.”

He laughed, but felt his heart tighten. “What are friends for?”

What are friends for.

[lire-casander]

47. Crave

this is part of my family is everything arc. i hope you like it!

Max is running late to work for the third day in a row. His alarm didn’t work, the water heater broke when he was about to wash his hair, and the coffee machine exploded when he tried to plug it. He’s about ready to give up and call in sick, when he hears his name coming from the bedroom.

Wearily, he steps to the door and peeks his head inside. “Good morning, honey,” he greets Liz, who’s still lying in bed, covered by the duvet and yawning. “Go back to sleep, it’s way too early.”

“But I don’t want to,” she pouts, stretching, although her voice betrays her – she’s still half asleep. “I don’t want you to go without kissing me goodbye.”

“I wouldn’t!” Max protests, sauntering over the bed and leaning in to drop a kiss to her forehead. She reaches out and grabs his arm, tugging him in until he almost collapses over her. “I’m running late, though, Liz. What about I pick you up for lunch?” he offers, trying to disentangle himself from Liz’s embrace that’s keeping him in place. “Liz,” he whines.

“You’re already late,” she reasons, hugging him tighter. “And I am in deer need of some cheese and pickles,” she continues. Max groans.

Her cravings have become almost unbearable as her pregnancy carries on. First it was strawberry jam when the only one left at the store was orange jam. Then it was grilled cheese sandwiches at three in the morning when Max had to wake up at five to get to his early shift. He was late two days ago because she’d craved a brand of chocolate bars that was only sold at some store four towns over, and then yesterday as well because she needed him to make churro pancakes.

He loves her, but if she doesn’t relent he’s going to fall asleep on the clock, and that’s only going to make Sheriff Valenti mad enough to fire him.

“Liz,” he tries to reason. “Can’t it wait? I really need to go to the precinct, you know, to work.”

She lets go of him with another pout. “You don’t love me anymore,” she says, lowering her gaze to her hands. “I’m gross and fat and you don’t love me anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Max assures her, leaning in and kissing her forehead again. When she turns her face, he sighs. “C’mon, Liz, you’re just being unreasonable. I have to go.”

“Then by all means go, go work with Cam and forget about old, boring, gross me.”

“You’re not gross, you’re *pregnant,” he corrects her, sitting on the bed and reaching out to pull her close to his chest. “And you couldn’t be more beautiful if you tried. I love you, Liz. That doesn’t mean I can lose my job because I’m late for the third time this week. I promise I will make it up to you.”

She sags against him, sighing shakily. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he smiles into her hair, ruffling it as he stands up. “Will pick you up for lunch, and you’ get to decide where we’re going. I may even talk Sheriff Valenti into giving me the rest of the day off if I manage to get in in time this morning.”

She beams at him before closing her eyes and dozing off again, and Max can’t help grinning. He doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day, even if he does get in late and he has to beg Sheriff Valenti for some time off in order not to get a divorce because his wife thinks she’s gross.

[merrrcurius]

some step-papashi for you hoes

i’ve written several scenes for myself and i’m having a lot of fun with this au, but i’m not sure if i should add to my growing pile of wip’s on ao3 lol... lotta pressure, but i’m down if y’all are?

the gist: kakashi is a fine-ass soccer coach who cares. the following circumstances bring our two fav people together.

Fingers thrumming against the steering wheel in rhythm to the rock song playing on the radio, Kakashi drove down the winding exit of the park debating the pros and cons of cooking dinner or picking up takeout. The barbeque colored street lights illuminating the road made him crave some type of meat, but that would take too long to cook and he was feeling particularly lazy tonight.

Dealing with his latest team of brats tend to put him in the mood to sloth out for an indeterminate amount of time. Tonight had been rough. It was only the third week of practice with his new team and already he wanted to strangle these kids. They were a bunch of little shits that needed an ass-whooping, especially Tenzo’s team. Unfortunately, he could only dole out so many laps and exercises as punishment before the kids began complaining to their parents and then the parents started complaining to them…

Kakashi had to remind himself that he actually enjoyed coaching.

Whatever his food choice, or lack thereof, a hot shower and some smutty fanfiction on the back porch would conclude his day. Forget answering emails, cleaning his cleats, or managing the gym’s finances. All of that could be saved for tomorrow. He'd rather starve than waste any precious time relaxing, especially since The-Toad-Master's new chapter should have updated during practice if the last author’s note was anything to go by. Kakashi glanced at the clock on his dash and shift impatiently in his seat. Oh yeah, I'm way late.

Slowing down for the stoplight at the end of the drive, the man looked both ways out of habit despite the empty highway only to do a double-take at the sight of one of his U-10 soccer players sitting on a bus bench. Yanking up the mask he'd left hanging around his neck to hide his “degeneracy”, Kakashi rolled down the passenger window and called out to her. “Yo." 

She was either really smart or really stupid for ignoring him. Kakashi cleared his throat as he turned the knob down on the radio and said a bit louder, “Sarada.”

“Coach!” The little brunette startled, fumbling her flip phone like a football before turning to gape at him. “Ah - hi! It’s you!” She squeaked and tucked her phone away. “W-What're you still doing here?"

“Aa?” Kakashi cocked an eyebrow and withheld the amused chuckle bubbling in his throat. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Oh, um, this…" She gestured to the bench nervously and stuttered out, "I… I was just… er, you know… waiting."

“By the highway?” Kakashi asked and set his forearm on the steering wheel, giving a discreet glance around to emphasize that this was not acceptable. He cocked a brow. “What happened to the ride picking you up at the pavilion?”

Sarada pursed her lips angrily for a moment and tugged on the sleeves of her red jacket as if she were uncomfortable. Then muttered. “Er, s-something came up…”

“Okay…” Kakashi trailed off with a frown pulling at his mouth. Narrowing his eyes, Kakashi wiggled his fingers against the gearshift. Who the fuck leaves their - “But, wouldn’t it be safer to wait back at the field?”

“I’m fine, Coach! Really!” 

“Maa," Kakashi sat back with sigh and ruffled his hair as he thought about what to do in this kind of situation. He wasn’t fit to be a parent - or a coach really - hell, this whole gig had only started out to log hours for community service. Considering that, did he have any right to judge another parent for something like this? He cast an uneasy eye at the kid. Yes. Yes, he did. Consternation coloring his tone, he said, “I dunno if I can let this slide. Come on, I’ll drive you back. We can practice drills while we wait for your ride.”

Sarada scrambled for the laminated square hanging on her backpack as she tried to explain her situation and said, “You don’t have to, Coach! I take the bus all the-”

Perhaps he had been to open handed with his instructions. Kids these days.

“That wasn’t a question.” Kakashi interrupted firmly and stared at her. The girl crossed her arms and attempt to hold a glare, refusing to move despite the nervous bounce to her leg. Kakashi raised an eyebrow at her attitude and stated grimly, “If you make me step out of this car, you won’t be playing in next week’s game, Sarada. Get in.”

Sarada attempt to hold her ground a few more seconds until she heard his car door open and the overhead light came on. With a yelp, she ran to the passenger side door and yanked it open. Moving some binders for their stats and strategies out of the way, Kakashi eyed the large overnight bag she situated on his floorboard wondering if she was homeless but quickly dismissed that ridiculous thought. She was ten years old. And she had a mom. Although, that had never deterred him as a child...

Sighing inaudibly to mourn the chunk this would take out of his reading for the night, Kakashi twist in his seat to look for any cars behind him before pulling a u-turn in the entrance of the park. The ride back to the soccer field was quiet and tense; Kakashi pondering whether he had been too harsh on a child that wasn't even his about something not even sport related and Sarada embarrassed, worrying if opening the car door count towards her suspension.

Parked once more near the fields they'd claimed earlier in the evening, Kakashi reached under the seat to pull the lever and scoot his seat back for extra space to put his cleats back on. They were wet and muggy. He sighed.

“So, that’s what that smell was…”

Kakashi shot Sarada a look and retort. “More like your upper lip.”

Sarada blew a scoff through her lips to hide her laugh and turned away, crossing her arms defiantly. She muttered to the window, “What a lame comeback.”

“You’re just mad you don’t have anything to comeback with,” Kakashi mocked sassily, bobbing his head as he bent his leg for a better angle. Once his socks were snug in wet ass cleats again, he grabbed a ball from the backseat and stepped out. 

Sarada didn’t budge from her spot. 

Glancing back, Kakashi shrugged and decided to juggle while they wait. He couldn’t care less if she sat in the car and ignored him. After removing the doubts of his behavior, he'd decided it would simply be irresponsible of him to leave her by the highway and there was no way around that fact, even if Sarada chose to be stubborn about it. Perhaps, if she’d been smart and waited inside the pavilion like she’d originally said she would do... they wouldn’t be here. To think he had thought everyone was picked up. How had she managed to walk all the way to the exit without him noticing, anyways?

It didn’t take long for Sarada to get bored. She climbed out of his 4runner and stomped across the sidewalk to join him, a scowl maring her face. When he didn’t acknowledge her, she called out for him to pass. Looking all the world as if he were blatantly ignoring her, Kakashi turned away to take in the field with his hands on his hips. It was another cold night in January, a fine mist settling on some of the fields. He was glad the city park kept the lights on after dark, otherwise they would be in a pickle.

When asking didn’t work, she huffed and puffed before charging to take it by force. Kakashi smiled and adjust his mask as he await her approach. Her pigtails were whipping around her shoulders. Poor form. He needed to teach these kids how to run properly otherwise this season was going to suck. When she was close enough, he kicked the ball through the open stride between her feet at the last minute and walked around her.

Spinning to face him, Sarada growled impatiently, “Why won’t you pass? You said we would practice!” 

“Why should I?" Kakashi teased as he dribbled circles around her. "It’s no fun passing to a grump.”

“I’m not a grump! You’re a grump, old man!”

“Old man, eh?” A chuckle huffed through his mask as he backpedaled away from her, dragging the ball with him as he taunt her. “At least, I can keep the ball.”

“I’ll show you!” Sarada yelled and dove in, leaving her stance wide open when she ran up. 

He nutmegged her a second time and kept running toward the goal in case she tried to kick him like a savage brat. These kids were vicious. He called over his shoulder, "Maa, what was that, Sarada-chan?"

Now, normally, he’d feel bad for showing up a little kid, but not tonight. Sarada and Boruto had argued all two hours of practice about something completely unrelated to soccer. She deserved it for giving everyone a headache. Everyone being him and Tenzo. The kids thought it was hilarious.

“What a coward! You can’t run away!”

Stopping short with one foot on the ball and one hand rubbing his masked chin, Kakashi looked to the sky and said, "What were you showing me again? I can’t remember.”

Sarada bellowed a funny little shannaro he'd learned the girl favored over the last few weeks before he heard her running at him again.

Kakashi tucked his hands in his sweats as he waited patiently and listened to her cleats tearing into the ground. He had to admit, for a nine-year-old with poor form, what Sarada lacked in defense, she made up for in speed when she got going. Glancing behind him to confirm her position, he wait three more seconds and rolled the ball behind him, effectively nutmegging her again with his back turned. She squeaked and ran straight into him since he didn’t move. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Hmm… how should I put this? You suck, Sarada-chan."

“O-m-g, whatever! I’m done!” Sarada yelled and kicked the grass angrily. “I should have caught the bus. This is stupid!”

“You’d be waiting till six in the morning for that.” Kakashi said, idly dragging the soccer ball back and forth under his foot as he watched her throw a fit.

Sarada stopped suddenly and looked up at him. “What? Why?”

“The bus doesn’t run this late, goofball.” Kakashi crumpled his brow and said incredulously, “Maa, you weren’t kidding when you said you were new in town.”

“Seriously?” Sarada cried and threw her hands in the air as she fell back on her butt. “Why is this place like this! What am I supposed to do now? Mom will have to drive all the way across town just to pick me up now. This is terrible!”

Kakashi hummed quietly, allowing his judgemental confusion to bubble for a moment as he swayed back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Then, he asked, “Doesn’t she usually?”

“Yes sir, but not this time.” She mumbled and crossed her arms angrily. 

“Well…” Damn, now he had to know. Sarada’s mom was pretty exotic and hella feisty. She punched one of the dad’s in the head at open tryouts for saying something or another. He’d never seen anything like it. It was one of the only times Kakashi wished he indulged in gossip with the parents. After a moment of deliberation, Kakashi adjust his mask nervously, afraid of overstepping boundaries and asked, “What about your dad?”

“Um… He’s not...” Tiny fingers pulled at the grass beneath her, ripping patches out until she found words. She looked across the fields and said quietly, “Around… very often.”

“Aa, I see...” Kakashi said, gaze flickering between her face and her angry sundering of the grass. He hadn’t known Sakura was a single mother, although he shouldn’t have been surprised. Both parents usually showed up for Opening Day, took turns picking their kids up, or showed up to watch the first game at the very least, but he hadn’t seen any male that fit the description. “And you don’t have anyone else to pick you up? Maybe a grandmother?”

“We don’t have family here. My mom was offered a better job at the hospital, so… we moved.” Sarada shook her head at the ground, too busy cleaving grass in two to notice his awkward inner dialogue. She ducked her head and sniffled. “I’m really sorry, Coach. I didn’t mean to… for this...”

Mild panic shot through his system realizing this little girl was about to cry. Fuck. Why? It wasn’t that big of a deal. Things like this happened. It couldn’t be helped. Kakashi sucked in a breath of air as he crouched in front of her and plucked a few grass strands of his own. He wasn’t good at small-talk or emotions, he knew this and that was fine. Coaching was easy in a way that allowed him to be a hardass, strict and precise without all the extra stuff, but this… He really should work on his people-skills if he wanted to continue working with kids. 

What could he say? What exactly should he do? The girl claimed she rode the bus often, she even had a laminated bus pass, although it was for a different city, but leaving her unsupervised was just… not his forte. Children weren’t supposed to be left alone so young. It was strange that her mother would allow this and yet it seemed she actually wasn’t, somehow. “Sarada... next time your mom has to work late, just hang out at the field. Alright? It’s no big deal, I’ll wait until-” 

“No! It’s not her fault this time! Please don’t kick me off the team!” Sarada cried out suddenly, big watery eyes gazing up at him imploringly. “Dad was supposed to be here, to-to pick me up f-for dinner - but... but something came up-” Sarada snapped her jaw shut and looked away, face twisted with all the fury of a child betrayed. Tears steadily dripped down her chin despite how fast she was attempting to wipe them away.

Kakashi rotate his jaw as he bowed his head to give her a moment of privacy, and if he also happened to be avoiding her emotional display, well, he never said he was a good coach. Her words weighed heavily on his chest, uncomfortably close to his own childhood wounds and he didn’t want to think about it. He pressed his thumbnail into a blade of grass and watched it split.

“It’s just… It’s so embarrassing! I don’t want everyone to know and I didn’t want them to think I was getting extra p-practice like my last team. They started a whole crap ton of drama and Boruto w-would only make fun of me and call m-me a loser if he knew.”

“Hey, don’t worry about that butthead.” Kakashi said as he tossed his grass blades at her, jumping on the chance to turn this conversation elsewhere. “If they thought you were getting special training, they’d probably ask me for extra on the sly, too. You’d be a trendsetter.”

Sarada’s face lit up with a small giggle, but it died out quickly. She wiped her nose and looked up at him nervously. “S-Still, wouldn’t you have to wait here the whole time? I mean, my last coach got… he got really mad when I had to stay late and eventually told my mom to stop bringing me... I-I don’t wanna h-hic-old you up…”

Kakashi frowned at the thought of a nine year old taking the bus in a city as big as Konoha and wondered what in the fuck was wrong with whoever she’d had last year. Coaches had a duty to the kids while they were in their care, they owed that to the parents. To abuse or neglect those unspoken vows was just... wrong. Kakashi suddenly felt lucky to have had the kind of coaches he did growing up. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for his next words. If she had no one else to tell her what was wrong with this situation, then he would have to. That’s something he had loved about Minato-sensei. The man never let bullshit fly. 

He picked at the bottom of his mask nervously, wishing he didn’t feel so constricted, wishing he felt more confident. Failure wasn’t an option, though. Lessons like this were imperative to learn at a young age, no matter how uncomfortable. Leveling a finger at her, Kakashi said perhaps too blunty, “Screw that guy. And your dad. It isn’t safe to sit by yourself next to the highway of all places, especially at this time of night… Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Sarada?”

Sarada looked down at her twisted hands and nodded meekly, eventually managing to croak out a weak ‘yes sir’ as another trail of tears dripped down her cheeks. Kakashi felt his insides twist painfully at the wobble in her lip. He hadn’t meant to make her feel worse or feel like it was her fault because it damn sure wasn’t. Maybe he should have worded it differently? 

Running an anxious hand through his hair, he tugged at the ends as he bowed his head and tried to think of what to say to make her feel better, at the very least, turn this conversation to something easier so as not to end on a bad note. How would this look for her mom to drive up and see her daughter crying? There would be hell to pay, for sure. She may even take her daughter off the team and Kakashi couldn’t afford that. They only had two substitutes this year… He didn’t have kids, but he considered his soccer team to be pretty close to what it would feel like to have some and he didn’t want her to quit the team because of this or have hard feelings towards him and he hated to think of what she might be going through at home.

“Listen,” He began, dropping to his ass to mirror her as he took on a more gentle tone so it wouldn’t sound as if he were attacking her. “You don’t even have to say anything next time, okay? Just kick the ball around and if you haven’t left by the time everyone else has, I’ll understand what’s up. And I promise - Hey, look at me,” Kakashi wiggled a cleat in her line of sight and ducked his head to catch her watery eyes past the glare of her glasses. “I promise I won’t be mad. Or kick you off the team. That’s stupid.”

“Really?” Tears welled up in her eyes again as her face screwed up with emotion. Then she held out her pinky and wheezed out. “Pinky promise?”

“Aa,” A quiet, uncomfortable chuckle escaped him as he looked down. “My big toe’s stronger. How about that?”

“Ew, no! I’m not touching your big toe!” Sarada giggled a bit hysterically and scrubbed under her glasses to wipe her eyes. 

“Are you sure?” Kakashi asked quickly and wrangled off a cleat to wiggle a sweaty sock at her. “Perfect timing. Big toe soup right here.”

Sarada shrieked and jumped up to run around him. He couldn’t help snickering as he pulled his shoe back on. Good. Things were… better. Okay, at least.

They passed the ball around a bit and he attempted to explain how to time a nutmeg until her mom arrived.

===

now that i’ve put this out, i’m debating whether or not to add their meeting when Sakura picks her up... i dunno yet. lemme know whatcha think peeps!

[eirabach]

Glow [2/5]

Emma Swan always gets her man, and not even a little thing like death is going to stop her.

A ‘Just Like Heaven’ AU for @cssns and for my lovely pal @killiancygnus.

This has been up on Ao3 for a couple of weeks now while I dealt with only having tumblr mobile, so apologies for those of you who’ve been waiting!

Stunning artwork by the incomparably talented @seastarved who I am beyond blessed to know. You rock my darling.

3k. Rated M. TW: Violence, Death… Ghosts?

AO3

He wakes slowly, eyes creaking open against his will as an entire flock of songbirds bellow at his window.

 “Wonderful,” he mutters, squinting at the clock beside the bed. 6:34. “Ideal.”

 He blinks blearily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, letting the steam from the shower blur the edges of his haggard expression, and scrubbs a hand over his too long beard.

 “The fucking state of you,” he mutters. “What the hell would Liam say.”

 Fuck all, he’s dead, supplies his internal monologue. Dead people don’t judge.

“You look like shit.”

 He yelps, snatching a towel from the rail and scrabbles to cover himself from the frosty glare of the woman he thought he’d dreamt: blonde and beautiful and absolutely not supposed to be in his bathroom.

 “What the fuck?!” he squeaks, mortified, as her eyes flick down his chest to the ragged edge of his threadbare towel. “Get out!”

 Her jaw drops, and she makes a choked sort of gasping sound that has him clutch his towel a little closer for the sake of his dignity.

 “This is my house!” she growls, hands settling firmly on her hips. “That’s my toothpaste!”

 He splutters a little bit, struggling to regain his composure when he’s naked and she’s - well. There.

 And now he thinks about it, when did he buy the stripy toothpaste?

 He tries not to think about it at all.

 “Your house?” He scoffs as well as any naked man faces with a furious woman would dare. “I don’t think so love.”

 The woman looks him up and down and sneers. It doesn’t improve his towel situation.

 “Not your love, not your house, how the hell did -“ She waves her arms in the air and shakes her head. “No. I’m not having this conversation with a figment, goodbye.”

 She points to the bathroom door. He settles his weight against the edge of the sink.

 “I’m not the figment, you’re the figment! I’m not going anywhere.”

 “I live here!”

 “You do not!”

 She shakes her head again, but this time it seems to be in exasperation.

 “Listen up, buddy, I know you were drunk last night.  I’m sorry you’re having a rough time, I’ve been there I get it,  but that’s no excuse for breaking and entering - get yourself together and get -”

 She reaches forward, as though she’s decided to just bodily remove him and be done with it, but before her hand makes contact with his shoulder -

 He’s alone with his gooseflesh and the hiss of the still running faucet. The bathroom door still shut firm.

 He fumbles behind himself to turn off the water before ripping open the door and half throwing himself into the hallway. She can’t have gone anywhere he’d have seen her wouldn’t he? Surely. Surely. The blackouts haven’t been this bad for months but -

 “Hello?”

 His voice echoes back at him from the hallway. From the kitchen he hears the low thrum of the refrigerator, the click of the keurig.

 “Hello?”

 Beyond that only silence and the sound of his too-fast breathing.

 He drops his towel, turns, examines his pale, wide eyed reflection. Behind him the apartment waits. Empty.

 “I need a drink.”

 —-

 Just because a bar opens at 10am doesn’t mean they expect patronage it seems. The young girl on the early shift had eyed Killian’s stumbling entrance with something bordering on disgust, her avocado toast held meaningfully aloft in his direction when he’d dropped a handful of change on the counter with shaking hands.

 His hands still shake now, even after two shots of top shelf rum, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood as he desperately tries to hide it.

 It doesn’t work.

 “I’m pretty sure joining you for liquor before noon is not in my remit,” Robin says mildly, sipping at his soda and lime. “Rather the opposite in fact.”

 “If you’d had the night I’ve had you’d have backed up all twelve bloody steps as well.”

 “You say that like this is unusual behaviour,” Robin says, and lays a hand on Killian’s frantic one. “No excuses, remember?”

 “I’m not - this isn’t one of those things you can fix Locksley. It isn’t my emotional state that’s the problem here.”

 “Sure, sure,” Robin smiles placatingly and a large, and until recently dormant, part of Killian wonders what it would feel like to put his fist right through it. “Talk me through it, then. Why am I here?”

 “I called you, did you forget?”

 “Because?”

 Killian groans, rolling his empty glass between his fingers.

 “You’ll think I’ve gone mad.”

 “Again?” Robin grins, but leans in a little closer, surreptitiously side eyeing the barmaid as he does so. “Come on. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

 It’s true that there’s very little of his sordid past that Robin hasn’t dragged out of him over the past two years. Intervention after intervention, night after night holed up in the dark of Regina’s safe room with a gun and a bottle of Pepsi when all he’d craved was rum and the ammunition Robin would keep in his pockets.

 So he tells him.

 “ - and for god’s sake don’t tell Regina.”

 Robin leans back with a low whistle.

 “Well that’s certainly an interesting tale.”

 “There’s an angry murderous blonde in my apartment. Interesting doesn’t cover it.”

 “Not for the first time, either.”

 Killian scowls. “They’re not usually dead.”

 “Well as the husband of your lawyer I’m both relieved and somewhat worried you felt the need to qualify that statement.”

 “You know what I mean.”

 “Killian.” Robin leans forward, brow furrowed in concert, and Killian feels his heart sink. “How much have you been drinking lately?”

 Killian can’t quite meet his eyes, scrubbing his hand over his face, and he cant exactly deny it. Not when it’s not even 10am and he’s halfway through his third glass.

 “Enough. Too much, I expect. But I’m not imagining her, Rob. She spoke to me.”

 “Did she tell you to change your ways by Christmas Day or you’ll end up unloved and pickled?”

 “Charming.” Killian lowers his voice slightly, aware of the barmaids eyes on the back of his head. “She wants me out of her home.”

 “Her home?”

 “That’s what she seems to think.” He shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “You don’t believe me.”

 “Do you find this tale particuarly believeable?”

 “Well, no. No, but -”

 “Killian.” Robin reaches over and gently takes the glass from his hand, his face softening into that oh so sympathetic expression that Killian has spent most of the last two years railing against. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

 ---

 He lets the door creak close behind him, almost holding his breath as he peers down the corridor leading to the living room and then back toward the bedroom.

 “No such thing,” he reminds himself. “No such thing.”

 “You!”

 The shriek seems to echo around the apartment followed by a gust of wind that sends Killian flailing back against the front door only for her to appear directly in front of him, her beautiful face screwed up in fury and her fist half an inch from his nose.

 “Oh bloody hell!”

 “What are you doing back here?!” she hisses. Killian shakes his head.

 “Losing my mind entirely it would seem. Do excuse me, if I’m to go completely mad I’d prefer to do it in the comfort of my bed.”

 “My bed,” she spits, and without meaning to he feels the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

 “I’m flattered,” he says, “but that’s a rather complicated level of self-pleasure wouldn’t you agree?”

Her jaw drops, eyes narrow, and he wonders what it says about him that his subconscious has seen fit to torture him with such a beautiful woman who looks at him with such disgust.

 “You’re gross,” she says. “Get out.”

 “Not likely.” He moves along the wall and makes to head toward the bedroom. “Since you’re a figment of my twisted imagination I’m sure you’re well aware of how poorly I take orders.”

 “I’m calling the cops,” she spits, following him into the bedroom, “you’re insane.”

 “Clearly.” Killian groans, flopping onto the covers and throwing his arm over his eyes. “But carry on, be my guest. I can’t imagine you’ll have much success.”

 “And what exactly is that meant to mean? I have contacts you know.”

 “Oh do you now,” mumbles Killian. “I’ve heard that before.”

 “I do, I -“ she pauses, brow crinkling as though she’s just realised she’s left the gas on. “I do.”

 “Of course, love.” He waves vaguely at her. “Of course. Please inform my hypothalamus that I’m just as fucked as usually will you, and be on your way.”

 “Are you drunk?”

 He wriggles his brows at her, strangely delighted by the way her mouth twitches when he does.

 “Darling I’m always drunk.”

 She rolls her eyes so hard he practically hears them.

 “All right, that’s enough. You’ve had your chance.”

 She reaches round him for the phone attached to the hallway wall.

 Stops.

 The two of them stare together, mouths open in disbelief, as her hand passes straight through the handset as though it were made of air.

 Killian rubs his eyes, hard, but nothing changes.

 She turns her hand again and again, fingers flexing against edges she can’t touch. She’s trembling, and part of him wishes he could soothe her but his own hands won’t seem to stop shaking. She looks up at him, green eyes wide.

 “What.” she says, “The. Fuck.”

 “Good question,” he manages, as she snatched her hand away from the phone and cradles it to her chest. “Believe me yet?”

 “I’m not a figment,” she says, but there’s no relief in her voice. “I’m not.”

 “What’s the alternative?” He barks out a bitter sort of laugh. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

 She bites her lip, staring down at her hand, then looks up at him, mouth open as if to speak and -

 Alone again.

 At the far end of the hallway a bulb flickers, and dies.

 —-

 He should probably leave. That’s what he always mutters to the heroines of the horror movies Robin makes him watch: get out now. No good will come of another night in that place. Run. Run and never return.

 So much of his own life has been a horror movie, and he the foolish anti hero waving a flickering flashlight in the faces of the monsters, that it’s hardly surprising he doesn’t take his own advice.

 Instead, he cooks enough for two and doesn’t really examine why.

 He flicks the remnants of the salt over his left shoulder, and, for good measure, scatters a handful around his feet.

 “Nice try Buffy, but it’s going to take more than that to get rid of me.”

 She’s sharp again, sharp voice and sharp elbows where her arms are folded across her chest, and he’s oddly relieved.

 Better an angry ghost than a broken hearted one, he supposes. He’s enough angst of his own to be getting on with. So he smiles.

 “Should I try a stake?”

 He can see her reflection in the copper bottomed pans, or he might be inclined to try. She leans forward, nose wrinkling as she examines his dinner, and he tenses against the cold.

 “Your cooking ought to do it. What is that?”

 “Bouillabaisse”

 “Bless you.”

 He spoons a portion into one of the mismatched bowls and gives her a closed lip smile.

 “Just as well I won’t be asking you to join me for dinner then. If you could just pop off to wherever it is you go…” he waves the spoon at her and lifts an eyebrow. The oversized portion bubbles judgementally at the lie.

 She glares at him for a moment, but it’s not as harsh as normal and he feels a twinge of regret.

 “Would if I could,” she mutters. Then, louder and a little too bright. “What’s your name?”

 “Excuse me?”

 “Your name. I figure if you’re insisting on staying here -“

 “I’m contractually obliged to stay here.”

 “- then you could at least tell me your name.”

 He stops stirring, dropping the spoon in the pan with a clang, and turns to face her.

 “You first.”

 Months he’s been moving from sofa to bedsit to haunted apartment. Months and months of shady hire cars and furtive exchanges of money in quiet alleys. Months since he’s shared his real name with anyone who hasn’t had his casebook in their briefcase, stamped and sealed and secured.

 (And he doubts Robert Gold controls the dead, but he’s learning not to take the chance.)

 They glare at each other for a few moments, and it amazes him the way her eyes flash and her cheeks flush. Like she’s real. Alive.

 It’s been months since he’s told anyone his real name, but now he finds he wants to.

 “All right,” she says eventually. “I’ll bite.”

 (It’s been months too since he might have met that comment with a smirk, a quip, a promise for later.

 Years.)

 He lifts an eyebrow when she hesitates, and he wonders if this is the moment his brain finally gives up on the charade - if it can create her, flirt with her, fight with her, but not name her.

 “Well?”

 Her mouth moves, brows furrowed.

 “Swan?” she asks. His other eyebrow goes up.

 “You sound uncertain.”

 “Sounds like a fake name,” she says, and her nose wrinkles in distaste. “Don’t you think?”

 “I wouldn’t know,” he lies. “You tell me.”

 “You’re obnoxious.”

 “So I hear.”

 She - Swan - huffs out a long suffering sort of breath and he smiles despite himself.

 “It’s not funny,” she mumbles, rubbing at her temples, “I can’t -“ she shakes her head and he’s shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. “What’s the matter with me?”

 “Well,” he says, mouth running away with him, “you are dead.”

 He regrets it immediately - before her face crumples or her back is turned - the callous simplicity of the words tasting wrong in his tongue. He can’t apologise quickly enough but she’s already gone - a flash of gold and red down the corridor toward the door and he thinks for a moment he might have actually driven her away. Then she stops by the closed door to the spare bedroom. Stops. Shudders. Walks straight through.

 And just like every heroine in every horror movie, he follows.

 ---

 There’s no such thing as ghosts. Emma knows this, has always known it, has always been terribly, painfully, aware of the real terrors that go bump in the night, the ones whom no sage or priest could banish.

 But now she’s standing in Henry’s bedroom, and ghosts are all she can think about.

 The bed is made up neatly, the curtains pulled straight, and if that wasn’t strange enough the floor is clear of pencils and scraps of paper. There are no lego blocks to stand on. No headless Stomtroopers poking out from under the bed. No festering socks or stained mugs.

 It’s pristine.

 Silent.

 Uncanny.

 Haunted.

 The floorboards creak behind her, and she blinks, hard.

 “Please,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. But just please. Tell me what you’ve done with Henry’s things.”

 She hears the stranger sigh, but doesn’t turn round. Won’t turn around. Not until she can stop the tears from running down her cheeks.

 She won’t give him the satisfaction. She won’t.

 “Who’s Henry?”

 “My - “ world. My whole world. “My son.”

 His intake of breath is so sharp it stirs the hairs on the back of her neck.

 “I’m sorry. Truly.”

 “What’s happened to me!”

 “You don’t remember?”

 “I don’t -” she casts her mind back as far as she can, but everything seems a little dark, a little hazy. There’s a woman with a snake’s smile and a car the colour of sunshine and - she’d had a job, hadn’t she? She’d had a job. “I was at work?” She spins to face him. “What happened?”

 “I don’t know,” he says, and he’s closer than she’d thought he’d be. Kinder. Sharp blue eyes softened in pity and god she hates pity. Hates it. But she’s scared, so scared, and where’s Henry and why doesn’t she know - he smiles, a gentle little thing. “Killian. My name’s Killian.”

 And she knows that, at least. And it shouldn’t matter.

 But as strange as her life has become, perhaps the strangest thing of all is that it does.

[biofunmy]

In a Year of Perpetual Motion, Moments That Stopped Time

The 52 Places Traveler

Looking back on a whirlwind journey around the world, the 52 Places Traveler revisits the experiences that offered lessons for travel — and life.

Jan. 6, 2020

On my second day back in New York I walked into my neighborhood bodega and the Yemeni man behind the counter did a double take.

“Damn, bro, what happened? I thought you were dead!” he said.

The following night, I went to pick up an order at the Indian restaurant two blocks from my apartment.

“Long time, no see,” said the Bangladeshi manager who, since I’ve been gone, has grown a bushy beard. “Where have you been?”

What happened? Where have I been? After nearly a year in perpetual transit, hopping between the far-flung spots on 2019’s 52 Places to Go list, these are not easy questions to answer. Maybe a more cohesive picture of a once-in-a-lifetime year will crystallize with time. For now, the best I can do is draw out the moments that float on the surface of my memory, the ones I’m most grateful for, as they taught me invaluable lessons not only about the world, but also about myself. And isn’t that why we travel?

1. When I said yes to goat-carcass games and urban lions

By the third hour in a field on the outskirts of Samarkand, Uzbekistan, my hair had taken on the hue of the dust that filled the air in roaming clouds. Every time I smiled, which was often, more dust poured into my mouth. Two hundred men on horseback galloped back and forth across the dry grass, in pursuit of their target: a goat carcass stuffed full of sand. Shouts from the riders, the whinnying of horses and the cheers of thousands of spectators filled the air. At one point, being the only foreigner — and so a guest of honor — I was invited to ride on the truck that drove onto the field to drop the goat and start each round of kopkari, a sport that originated with the nomadic herders who inhabited these steppes 1,000 years ago.

Six months later and 5,000 miles away, in a small suburb of Dakar, Senegal, “false lions” — men channeling the spirit of the animal — growled, leapt and twirled in elaborate costumes. Drums thundered at earsplitting volumes and children shrieked in delight as the lions chased them through the fluorescently lit streets.

There’s a natural tendency to plan our travels down to the minute: We want to make sure we’re getting the most out of a trip that uses up our valuable money and vacation time. Toward the beginning of the year, I spent hours planning each stop — going over notes on the plane ride and sketching out what each day might look like. By my final stop, I barely knew where I was going to stay until the day before I arrived. The sweet spot is probably somewhere in between, with enough planning to know where you’re going but enough flexibility to say yes to the unexpected. New friends and the currents of serendipity brought me to the horses and the lions — and gave me two experiences I’ll never forget.

2. When I became a member of the guild

Hanging from the zipper of my camera bag is a small, bronze key. It grants me access to the backdoor of the Christian IV’s Guild clubhouse in the Danish city of Aalborg. Over the past year, I’ve accumulated soccer jerseys, paintings and a handwritten poem about an Italian horse, but this key, a symbol of my membership in a Danish society with roots in World War II, has to be the oddest gift. How I got it is just one of many examples of how dropping your guard and letting strangers into your life can lead to experiences far outside the realm of conventional tourism.

It started with Kit Sorensen, a friend twice-removed, who I met on my first afternoon in Aalborg. By the evening, she had taken off work for the remainder of the week to show me around. She took me out for pickled fish and aquavit, the straight-to-your-head spirit that Danes insist on drinking with lunch. Together, we explored World War II bunkers and the city-within-a-city of Fjordbyen. Sensing that I craved a home-cooked meal, she invited me to her family’s house, where I made even more friends — and got invited by a stranger to join the Christian IV’s Guild because he felt that “I had what it takes.”

When traveling alone, it’s up to you how alone you really are. Sit at a bar and take a break from your phone and in minutes you’ll be getting a laundry list of things to do from a local — as I did in Munich, in Danang, in Tunis. You might be invited to their homes — as I was in Georgia, Puerto Rico, Bulgaria. In a quiet bar in the small Japanese city of Takamatsu you might find yourself the only customer, going on a deep dive into salsa and New Orleans jazz with a cat-loving bartender who you would have never known if you hadn’t smiled and said “hello.”

There are walls that as a man traveling alone I didn’t have to put up. Being ethnically ambiguous was also, it turns out, my superpower, blending into the streets of so many places around the world, walking home at night and not even getting a second glance from locals. One’s experience of the world so often depends on one’s identity, and I can only speak to mine. At the same time, I believe that, in general, travelers will encounter kindness far more often than hostility. An open mind, a willingness to learn and an acknowledgment of our own ignorance about a new place or culture flings the doors that separate us wide open. Just ask all my new pen pals.

3. When I became my own best friend on a Norwegian fjord

Before a six-hour solo hike in the fjords surrounding Bergen, Norway, I intentionally left my headphones at home. It was sunny — a rarity for one of Europe’s rainiest cities — and I wanted to be present. It worked. I felt the light, cold breeze; I could smell the dewy grass and feel the foamlike tundra giving way under my boots. Six hours is a lot of time to be walking with nothing but your thoughts, but not once did I feel bored.

When I started this trip, the thought of spending so much time alone was one of my biggest worries. I’m an extrovert by nature. By my third month on the move, I was getting used to it. By my ninth, I was having full-on conversations with myself — out loud.

There’s something beautiful about learning to be comfortable with yourself — especially on the road. I could zero in on moments more completely without worrying whether a companion was having a good time. I could create memories that would be mine and mine alone — building blocks for my development as a person.

I was lonely, too, of course. I cried on the side of a Wyoming highway because John Prine’s “Summer’s End” came on the radio (“Come on home, you don’t have to be alone”); during a nearly four-hour meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant on the Dutch island of Texel, I fell into the abyss of staring at my phone; more than once I dreamed about being on my couch at home, with my partner and cat. But over time, I learned to see those moments coming and lean into them. That threw the distinction between heart-wrenching loneliness and blissful solitude into relief; it made the moments of connection with strangers that much more magical. Solo travel is so many things, psychological roller coaster included.

4. When I crossed the risk line on a dark Chilean highway

It was stupid, plain and simple. After getting off a series of canceled, rerouted and delayed flights that took me from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, to Santiago, Chile, over the course of about 40 hours, I stumbled into a rental car just after sunset and hit the road for the town of La Serena. I was heading 300 miles north to get closer to where I’d be viewing the solar eclipse in a few days. It was about 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but I drove with the windows down and wore a T-shirt, hoping the cold would keep me awake. I blared death metal as loud as the car speakers could handle. I drank coffee like water. One tollbooth worker, seeing my disheveled and wired state, asked me if I was okay. I pulled into La Serena well after midnight.

This year was full of risks; they come with the job when traveling at the pace I was, alone and looking for stories to tell. Within just a few days of traveling this year, it was clear that some risks are worth taking. Getting into a car with that nice stranger promising a plate of life-changing pork in Puerto Rico’s interior? I can handle that. Solo hiking through the snowy Tatra Mountains of Slovakia? Armed with a trail map, I’m good. Driving for five and a half hours in an unfamiliar country, at night, after a hellish flight and no sleep? Nope: That was stupid.

In talking to friends, it quickly became clear that my threshold for risk is different from others’ (“Are you nuts?” my partner asked, after I told her about my night in the woods outside Batumi, Georgia, drinking myself blind with a bunch of strangers). But travel is ultimately a game of choose-your-own-adventure and part of that choice is figuring out the risks you’re comfortable taking. It’s a learning process and there will be mistakes — there sure were for me this year.

By Land and Sea

48 boat rides, 45 train trips

5. When my plans went to hell and I survived

There was the late night in a hotel in Salvador, Brazil, booking a trip to Mexico that would start the following morning, after my plans to get to the Falkland Islands, also known as the Islas Malvinas, had imploded. A total meltdown at the airport had led to check-in lines that extended past the terminal’s entrance. Despite arriving four hours before my flight and checking in online, I missed my flight — and as a result the once-weekly flight to the Falklands.

There was that scorching hot morning at the port in Banjul, Gambia, where my brother and I had no choice but to wait the four hours until a ferry finally arrived. I sweated out every drop of moisture in my body; I downed two liters of water and sweated that out, too, until the also-shadeless ferry arrived.

There was the carefully arranged Airbnb in La Serena that my host canceled with no explanation, just days before my arrival to watch the solar eclipse. I spent most of a night in Mexico, on spotty Wi-Fi looking for alternatives in a city that would be tripling in population for the eclipse.

There was the moment, three months in, when we had to make the call to cut Iran from my travel plans. The geopolitical situation had grown tense and even if I were given a journalist visa (unlikely), we had security concerns. It made the regular messages I received from Iranians on Instagram welcoming me to their country and offering to be my hosts all the more heartbreaking.

Things go wrong when traveling. And there’s something about the places of travel — airports, ferry terminals, train stations, hotels — that magnify feelings of panic and sadness. It’s a powerlessness we’re not used to when we think we have every detail of a trip planned out.

I learned that there’s very little you can do when your plans fall apart. I learned to pinpoint the small actions I could take and leave everything else to play out without me. I started on a long, circuitous route to Mexico the next day and pushed my Falklands trip to later in the month. The ferry did arrive — and 24 hours later, my brother and I were on a boat floating feet away from wild chimpanzees. I found another Airbnb at the last minute, and so what if it was a little farther out of the city? I kept in touch with my new online Iranian friends, promising that one day I would make it there — and I will.

Traveling is an incredible privilege and it’s mind-boggling how easy it is these days to cross the planet. Reminding myself of that got me through many a moment this year that previously would have left me a weepy mess on an airport floor.

under the sea

11 total hours underwater

6. When “no one goes there now” became my time to go

Travel itself, regardless of destination, is taking its toll on the environment: The most frequent, and valid, criticism I’ve received this year is for my Sasquatch-size carbon footprint. While no one at the Times is encouraging everyone to go to 52 places in a year — I’d think again if you are planning on trying this yourself — I also don’t believe the answer is not to travel. To see the natural wonder that still abounds; to encounter the places that are on the verge of catastrophic change because of a warming planet; to meet the people who deal with its effects every day and forge real, profound, cross-cultural connections makes for a more informed, empathetic world. That doesn’t mean there aren’t steps we can take to be more responsible travelers. And part of that is realizing that sustainability goes beyond carbon emissions.

The Falklands in the dead of winter, when I had a colony of King penguins to myself; Mexico in the crushing heat of summer, when the beaches were empty; Senegal and Gambia during the most humid month of the year, when locals were actually excited to see visitors who had braved it; Siberia’s Lake Baikal, in neither the glorious summer nor the spectacularly frozen winter, but instead in autumn, when the trees burn bright yellow.

In planning my trip and limiting cross-continental treks as much as possible, it proved difficult to be everywhere at the “right” time to visit. But again and again, I found myself falling for low season, when it was far easier to blend into the fabric of daily life because I wasn’t just part of a horde of tourists changing the face of entire cities for months at a time.

Cities like Venice — or even Zadar, in Croatia, as I saw when I arrived in the summer — are buckling under the weight of overtourism. As travelers, we could make a difference by spreading the wealth, so to speak. That means, for the most adventurous, going to places that are still hard to get to; it took me two tries to get to the Falklands and three to get out, but that made it special. But it also means thinking outside the “Europe in summer” paradigm.

taking to the skies

40 airlines, 88 flights (only 1 missed flight)

7. When I really learned what a “place to go” is

There’s beauty, surprise and genuine wonder to be found everywhere — and I mean everywhere. A Vegas naysayer can have his mind changed through a chance encounter with a crew of rockabilly musicians. A half-Indian student of history can learn about a mighty Indian empire, of which he knew nothing, by coming face-to-face with its ruins. A traveler can come home after 11 grueling months of continuous travel and start dreaming of where he’s going next.

But first, some sleep.

Sahred From Source link Travel

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