Tromping Around Tønsberg

One genie and three wishes? I’ve always chosen to travel south—Thailand…Greece…Italy…Morocco… (after ending world hunger and providing the world with peace, love, happiness, and kale, of course).  These were places that got to experience the joys of sunshine; countries whose citizens were well nourished with Vitamin D. Those who know me, and know me well, are very well aware of how much I dislike (and possibly even fear) the cold—so much so, in fact, that you would swear that I was allergic to it. My dad, having spent a solid few years in Norway, has always described his time there as dark and dank—literally. “We had little to no sunlight in the winters”, he’d whisper to us, grimly, as we were drifting off to sleep. The horror. He may as well have been holding a flashlight to his face to illuminate his little chinny-chin-chin.

So, what brings me to Norway?  Well, let’s just say the only ever real justifiable motivation behind succumbing to peer pressure—family and cheap plane tickets. At the, both consistent and also persistent, request of my dad, I booked a reasonable flight from LAX to Oslo to visit his side of the family, packing the puffiest jackets I owned (more realistically, purchased hours before my flight as per usual), and my sunniest outlook and attitude, because, let’s face it—I’d need it in the snow.

4 movies, a few uncomfortable snoozes, more than a few trickles of drool, and a quick layover in the land-of-Laduree, later, I’d made it.

Now, when I think Norway, Tønsberg isn’t exactly the city that comes to mind.  With that being said, however, I should also disclose that I rarely, if ever, “think Norway”. If it wasn’t for the lovely relatives I have that happen to reside in this winter wonderland, the country would definitely fly far below my radar of things to see and places to go. 

For everyone who is as silly as I was, but choose to no longer be, it’s time to wizen up. Luckily, I’m here to help.  Enter Tønsberg, Norway’s oldest town. If you’re major-city-focused, this could be one to skip as it isn’t exactly a tourist destination.  Oslo, Bergen, Trondheim—that’s all you.  If you, however, do find yourself swinging by, definitely give Tønsberg at least an hour of your precious time because it’s worth it, and baby, you’re worth it.

Here, you’ll find Verdens Ende-- translated quite literally to World's End, or The End of the Earth. This little scenic hot spot--or more accurately--cold spot, is composed of various islets and rocks, and provides absolutely breathtaking and panoramic views of nearby fishing facilities. 

Expect a good hour to two hours of walking in absolute silence as you struggle to take in the absolutely breathtaking scenery.  You're ruining it for all the other countries here, Norway.

And of course, there would be a charming little old school lighthouse (that was erected in 1932) sitting atop the hill... Absolutely picture perfect.

Still struggling to catch my breath, 

Kimmy

Not in Kansas Anymore

Every now and again I fall victim to routine.  I’m a full-on-full-fledged I-have-breakfast-at-6-and-again-at-10 kind of girl.  I have a favorite Pilates studio that I swear by—devout and devoted.  Lunch at 12 sounds just fine.  Barry’s at 12:30 on Fridays, and dinner at 6 is generally the case.  As much as I value spontaneity and the unknown, I often find myself unknowingly headed towards a comfortable state of predictability.  It’s my safe space.  It’s your safe space.  Stray too far from equilibrium, and it’s just a mere matter of time before you find yourself right back where you started.  But who can blame you?  Who can blame me?  Many times, comfort and stability is where it’s at—it’s what many people strive for.  Sunny skies and calm waters equate to smooth sailing.  But without a change of tide or a shift in current, days on the smooth seas could easily bleed into weeks, months—years even.  Glasses fog over, and experiences and memories blur.  Time flies, and it does so even when you’re not having the most absolute and overindulgent type of fun.

Some wise man said it best—in life, change is the only constant.  However, in order for that to be the case, you need to get out of your own way and stop being your biggest roadblock.  Defog those lenses, and in doing so, sharpen those lines between every memory and experience.  Let time fly, but only on your watch.  Be present for each and every second, minute, and hour of that journey.  Break the routine and bask in the light of that discomfort.  Exhale, and let go of all the things that fail to serve you.  In other crunchy-granola-words, drop the avocado toast, and ditch the green superfood smoothie.  Reach for the lox and the knekkebrod.  Nordic-game strong, because you’re in Norway, little lady.  

New Year, New You?

As we're rounding this sharp corner into the New Year, I can't help but to fall victim to that ever so infamous annual "New Year, New You" phenomenon.  Along with the Santa Suits and the naked-and-needle-less Christmas trees, people left and right are tossing out their old selves, post holiday blues and all, onto the curb to be picked up by the garbage truck on Wednesday morning at 8am.  I mean, you really can't blame them.

With post holiday glum polluting the air by the millions of tons, you can't help but to crave that freshness that comes with the spirit of rebirth and renewal.  Out with the old, and in with the new, they say.  It's January--the month of resolutions and optimism--the month of spiked sales and profits in athletic stores.  The month of high hopes and higher credit card bills.  It's the month of gym memberships and dedication to not only healthy, but also happy.  It's a month of looking forward, because only in doing so, can we shake the sadness that comes with the 26th of December. 

According to my dear friend Merriam, Merriam Webster, a resolution is, by definition, a decision to do something or behave in a certain manner.  In the spirit of the post holiday season, I've decided to follow the masses in committing to a few New Year's Resolutions.  Please do excuse the basic-ness and predictability of my decision--I'm simply following my cliff-jumping friends off the cliff; however, unlike the majority, I don't completely buy into the New Year, New You jargon, simply because the New Year has never revolved around change for me, and neither have my resolutions.  In fact and actuality, my New Year's resolutions have always served more as reminders--reminders to self-reflect and to look back on older decisions and commitments to do that simply got a little lost and smothered in the dust along the way.  Rather than aim for a complete, total, and unrecognizable transformation, my goals revolve around holding onto as much of my prior self as possible, and embellishing.  This is the year that I commit to embellishing the hell out of me, beginning with January.

January.. It's the month of resolutions and optimism--the month of accountability.  The month of wild hopes and dreams, and even wilder travel plans.  It's the month of dedication to good food and even greater people.  It's a month of experiential living and a devotion to green.  It's a month of looking forward, not to shake the sadness that comes with the 26th of December, but to embrace it and emerge from it more good and even more gold.  January--it's the month that will kick off a year of resilience and strength.

And so, New Year, New You?  Maybe not entirely.  New Year, but same and improved you?  I could probably roll with that.

Home Grown Honeys

Why would I ever leave

Cuz I know

I got some good friends

That live down the street

Got some good lookin’ women with their arms ‘round me

Here in a small town,

Where it feels like home

I got everythin’ I need, and nothin’ that I don’t

Today, it is officially the end of an era.  I know I’m being an absolutely unrealistic, dramatic little sap, but I can’t help myself.  I literally spent all morning packing my life as a Durhamite-Devil into an obscene number of large suitcases.  It was seven to be exact, and 4 smaller carry-ons.  You don’t have to say it because I know that we’re all thinking it—it was disgusting—I was disgusting.  By the time I was through, our apartment, the pig sty, was anything but.  It lost each and every characteristic that I’d come to associate with apartment 438, and with home.  It was spotless and clean, bare and boring.  It was no longer funky fresh, adorable, or oozing with wholesomeness.  There were no smells of gingersnaps wafting through the air, no casseroles, or blueberry pies baking in the oven, no bacon sizzling or eggs (or in Kate’s case, a singular egg) frying on the stove, and no caramelized onions sweating away in the slow cooker.  There were no sounds of the thermostat being adjusted, then readjusted; no “stupids”, “shut-ups”, or “ews”.  Emily wasn’t scampering about the kitchen, dedicated to devoting equal amounts of time to both her breakfast cereal and her makeup routine.  “Red rover, red rover, have Emily come over”, they both beckoned.  Luya wasn’t one with her bed, and Kate wasn’t sprawled spread eagle on her mattress.  No one was in the kitchen spewing nonsense, and no one was at the dining table in their proper seat to receive such nonsense.  The fridge was empty of hummus, beer, Greek yogurt, minestrone soup, month old rotisserie chicken, kale, baby carrots, and essentially any and all remnants of the domestic goddesses, homegrown honeys, trap queens, and the basic b*tches that once roamed and reigned the halls of 605.

I pulled up 1989 on Itunes and looked around waiting for someone to call me out for my senile ways—my old school habits—my refusal to cave and convert to Spotify.  I sang along to Taylor under my breath, expecting Kate to join in (high school musical style), and mumble and murmur her way through the song (un-high-school-musical style).  I looked up at Luya’s door half expecting the familiar tune to lure her out of her bed and make a beeline for the fridge only to find that her true desires and cravings lay elsewhere.  “I really want corn salsa”, she’d say.  “Anyone wanna go to Chipotle with me?”  she’d ask.  “Nope”, I’d reply, “but hurry up so we can watch Iron Chef over lunch when you’re back?”

I glanced around at the empty kitchen counters.  There were no jars of moldy strawberry jams, giant fish-bowl-mason-jars, or “ew” glass milk bottles—all projects intended to make the world a better place, gone astray.  There were no empty water glasses, nor were there full ones, partially empty, nor partially full ones.  The dining table was devoid of thought-provoking and intellectually stimulating discussions: talk of pants and more talk of proper pants, objective statements, personality analyses, future lover forecasts, and cold-war-part-2 predictions.  The dining table was the hub of activity in 438, and the kitchen, the hot spot.  It was a place where great things happened—nude photoshoots, Great-Gatsby-esque dinner parties—we did it all.  Here, drinks were poured, and feelings were spilled, messes were made, and domestic disputes were cleaned up.  I’d like to think that we came, we saw, and we conquered, but when it comes down to it, I know we did much more than that.  We came, we shared, we felt, we experienced, we lived, we laughed (Kate chuckled, Luya chorlted, Emily giggled), we loved, we wished we could cry, we wished we would cry, we did cry, we got deep, we stayed shallow, we befriended, we Tindered, we teased, we took it one too far, we ate, we ate too little, we ate one too many, we joked, we got pierced, we talked of getting tatted, we got tatted, we didn’t get tatted, we beached, we drawled, we drooled, we drove, we danced, we saw, we sang, we cooked, we tried to clean, and sometimes we actually did clean, we liked, we didn’t, and we didn’t not like, but we also didn’t like, we occasionally turned up, but more than occasionally, we turned up the thermostat.  We turned down the long list of suitors waiting at our door (har har), and occasionally crashed parties to turn down the noise.  We entertained, we hosted, we drink, drank, occasionally got a bit drunk, but rarely got too drunk.  We babysat, we humored, we cared, and I’d like to think that we loved.  We could, should, would, and therefore, we did, and we conquered—we really did.  We took advantage of our time, and we really made the most of it—Duke, Durham, and each other.  In reality, I wouldn’t have it any other way, nor do I think that I could have.

I’m tearing up as I’m writing this, which officially puts me up amongst the gross group of people you don’t want to be sitting next to on a plane, and the guy next to me, amongst the group of unfortunate people on this flight to Lalaland.  These are tears of sadnesss.  They’re tears of happiness and joy, but mostly, and most importantly, they’re tears of the most heartfelt of all heartfelt gratitudes.  You three made it about the journey rather than the destination.  You were all about the accent when it was actually about anything but.  You focused on stupid details, and narrowed in on stupider jokes.  You were nice, mean, and a good combination of the two.  You made me self-aware in the best sense of the word, and because of you, I became more conscious—more mindful—of the beauty of relationships, the ease of companionship, and the difficulties of friendship.  We struggled, we fought, we talked, we bonded, and we made up.  Then we baked cupcakes, painted each other’s nails, and had pillow fights naked. 

Thanks to you, I didn’t crack under pressure, but instead, managed to stay sane, and somewhat grounded, and thanks to you, I grew under that pressure, and matured into a beautiful butterfly—aka a Taylor-Swift-loving adult.  You made me bigger, watched me get better (may we forgive and forget the traveler’s diarrhea) (even Luya who retreated to her hotel), made me bolder, and kept me brighter, and I can only hope that I did the same for you.  You showed me whole new worlds filled with Brett Eldridge, Luke Bryan, and Pitbull.  We did it like brothers, we did it like dudes, we took it to the head, we packed bowls for two, we found wonderland, and now we’ve reached the fork in the road and we’re all taking it.  We’re taking it so hard and I couldn’t be sadder, but knowing that this sadness stems from four years of stories—four years of memories, mistakes, and lessons learned, I also couldn’t be any happier.  It’s bittersweet, really, but if it makes you feel any better, it’s more sweet than bitter.  It is the end of an era, but it’s also the start of another, and I just know that things will get better—they’ll also get bigger, and brighter.  The era ahead of us is one of puppies, soul mates, wanderlust, adventures in Dubai, babies, food tours around South East Asia, Wanderlist, wealth (or at least an improvement from college-era poverty levels), bachelorette parties, success, kittens, and happiness.  It’s an exciting time, and I’d like to think that our time together has prepared us all for the journey ahead—setbacks, successes, obstacles, and everything else in between.  So, here’s to the past, the present, and the future—here’s to a lifetime of coming, seeing, conquering, and much, much, more—here’s to Duke, Dur[home], and to you three—the biggest, the baddest, the most basic, and the best—the homegrown honeys of 438.

Love you all to the stupid-ew-stupid moon and back,

Kimmy

Scare Me Stupid

So, I’m currently sitting in the lobby of an automotive repair shop waiting on an oil change.  I know, I know, I really do need to tone down the excitement in my life, but speaking of life—it’s getting pretty real.

Time is practically sprinting by as per usual, but you know what?  You really gotta give it to him—if there’s one thing you can learn from time, it’s that he’s a persistent and dedicated little bugger.  He’s got the endurance of a marathoner and the can’t-stop-won’t-stop attitude of a post-Liam-Miley.  It’s rather impressive, really, but I guess this is neither a new nor exciting revelation by any means.  In fact, it’s as old as they come—but it hits hard and mercilessly each and every time a goodbye is set to rear its fat, ugly head around the corner.

In complete and total honesty, I have absolutely no idea where this post is headed.  And you know what?  When I think about it, and even when I don’t, I could say the same about my life.  But, in a strange, sick, and stupid way, I’m not pulling my hair out with worry.  I probably should be—I’m a broke and unemployed soon-to-be graduate with unrealistic optimism about life outside these gothic walls.  I believe that things work out as they should.  I have faith in lady luck, knowing that she’ll be a lady tonight, tomorrow night, as well as the next.  I’m hopeful that chance is chipper, and that fate is fun.  What’s meant to be will happen, and what happens is usually nothing less than great, and if it’s not, then there’s quite a bit of happening yet to happen.  Love is good.  Life is great, and the combination of the two—loving life, well, that’s inevitable.  You could say that I have a very warped idea of the world and how it works, which is why you may be wondering how my whole head of hair is still intact.  Why, Kimberly, have you not already tugged your hair out, strand by strand?

Well, I’ve thought about it, but not for too long, partly because one, I actually like my hair, and I’m not too sure how I’d feel about bald spots, and two, because there isn’t the time.  There really isn’t.  As of today, I’m down to one week.  Did you get that?!  I would repeat it, but the thought is too heartbreaking to even be thunk-ed again.  One week—in other words, 7 days—in other words, 168 hours—in other words… there really isn’t the time to be bogged down by the fears and funnies of the future when my pea-sized mind is too preoccupied with the fun and feelings of the present.

It’s a funny thing really, change.  I mean I’d always known it to be constant, and in a strange way, I guess I’d always found that consistency somewhat comforting.  Change, like a deliciously spiced, patted, and rubbed pork butt thrown into a slow-cooker, has always been a gradual process, and the results a good amount of tick tocks later have always been better than you or I could have imagined or expected—tender, satisfying, sweet, and delicious.  Slow and gradual, change is a delicious thing.  Unexpected change, on the other hand, is anything but. 

As sudden as spilled milk and burnt toast, unexpected change may be up there on the list of horrible things, wedged nice and tight in between “postponed trips to Disneyland” and “hunger”.   And the worst part may be the knowing—the expecting.  In a sick way, it’s like one of those horrible mazes at Knott’s Scary Farm.  You know, the ones filled with all them twists and turns…the ones where you know a stupid monster-beast-ghoul-creature is lurking around each and every corner ready to scare you stupid, yet no matter how well you prepare yourself—no matter how much you puff your chest, narrow your eyes, and strut your shtuff, you just know that the stupid monster-beast-ghoul-creature is going to do it.  He’ll scare you straight stupid, and even more so than had you been caught off-guard.  It’s the knowing and the expecting that does it.  How twisted is that…in preparing yourself for the worst, the worst somehow manages to get even worse.

And so, to successfully prepare myself for the worse-than-worst, I simply won’t.  I’ll lock my pea-sized mind up in the present to properly remember and reminisce on the past.  I have 1 week—7 days—168 hours to live in denial.  With goodbye’s ugly head turning the corner any second now, I’ll simply refuse to look.  I’ll turn around and head the other way.  I’ll retrace my steps.  I’ll take a quick walk down 4 year’s worth of memory lane to remember the things I never want to forget, and then when the time comes, I’ll turn around.  I’ll let goodbye catch me off guard.  I’ll let him scare me, but scare me stupid?  He won’t.

With that being said, now having turned around, where should/would/could I even begin?  I honestly can’t even remember what happened a week ago from today, let alone even begin attempting to remember the past four years.  If you haven’t tried it, let me tell you, it’s incredibly daunting—how do I even begin to tackle four years’ worth of experiences?  Four years of stories?  Four years of shenanigans?  To keep the expectations low, I’ll just say it.  I can’t.  This isn’t and this won't live up to anything you’d expect, simply because it can’t.  These past four years have been an absolute dream—an epic adventure, and trying to explain it—trying to get it down on paper would be like trying to explain the color yellow to someone who hasn’t been blessed with sight.  No matter how hard you try, you’ll never do it justice, which absolutely sucks, because if anyone or anything deserves justice, you know it’s the color yellow.  Despite that fact, however, despite the fact that I won’t ever do yellow justice—despite the fact that I may not be able to accurately relay how much these past four years have shaped, changed, molded, and meant to me, doesn’t mean that I won’t.  I have 1 week—7 days—168 hours left to give it the good old college try, and you can bet that I will, starting with my time in Peru.  Here's to my attempt at yellow.

To keep it short.  To keep it sweet, and to keep it stupidly simple, I'll let the pictures do the talking.

It was a beautiful trip full of beautiful people and experiences!  

Just a fair warning, with the onset of graduation, come to expect a fair amount of emotional-feelsy posts to flood this blog.  Within a week, you'll be wishing that I kept it stupidly simple with pictures rather than thoughts and emotions....but until then...

Cheers,

Kimmy

Friends go to Charleston.

Let me tell you a little something about Friends—it was a nineties sitcom featuring a group of six besties living out their post-post college years in Manhattan.  Now, let me tell you a little something about my friends.

Sure, you probably won’t find them hopping in and out of Central Perk on a Friday night, because that’s honestly probably because more likely than not, they were too busy hopping on and off planes to get their nonexistent little Asian butts down to Durham.  Friends don’t got nothing on my friends.  Ok, I’ll stop pretending that I’m anything but Asian now—but in complete and total honesty my friends are great.  Actually, rephrase.  My friends are fire-trucking fantastic—haven’t you heard?  Modesty was so 2014.

When Forrest sat on that bench and told you that life was like a box of chocolates, I’m sure it was because he had Valentine’s Day on his mind.  Nothing can invoke images of sugar plum fairies like Christmas, and trust me, the same could be said about boxes of chocolates around Valentine’s.  It’s a true phenomenon, really.  Regardless, my point is, had you been sitting with Mr. Gump on that bench on the 15^th of February, he would have told you that life is, in actuality, like a loaf of bread, and true friends are like beautiful slabs of Bordier Butter, in a sense that without them, life is still great.  Life is bread, for goodness sake, but with them, life is an absolute experience.  It’s a sensual journey full of indulgence, gluttony, and pleasure.   It’s full of contrasting textures, ups and downs—it’s rough, rugged, silky, and smooth all in one bite.  It’s essentially the new black, and you know what they say about going back once you go black—let me clue you in, you don’t.  

Good friends leave sunny and 75 to join you in frigid and 40.  They see the comfort in silences that are more often than not, mistaken for awkwardness.  They encourage and embrace with wide arms and wider mouths, ice cream before dinner, and second entrées for dessert.  They tell you all the things you don’t want to hear, mixed in with all the things you do.  They laugh at you when you cry, and with you when you laugh.  They pound mussels like gluttons, but savor each and every bite like scrooges.  They humor you, following you on detours to abandoned shores and deserted beach towns. They like your flaws, and even when they don't, they tell you that they do, then admit that they were lying because they're fun, funny and fire-trucking fantastic--I already told you, modesty was so yesterday.

With that being said, good friends, like Bordier Butter in the states, are hard to come by.  So take my words of advice and stick them in your pocket beside the sunshine: when you do happen to find them, offer them cookies to spark their interest, love to gain their trust, and your hand to hold theirs, and once you’ve got a hold, never let go.  Stick your nails (that are in desperate need of a trimming) into them, make your mark, and brand them like steers so they’ll stay forever yours, because trust me, good friends will make you redefine friendship.  Like butter, good friends make you better, and ultimately make life a game worth playing, bread, a food worth eating, and Charleston, an adventure worth taking.  So, yeah.  Let me tell you a little something about Friends—let me tell you a little something about my friends.

P.S. Family?  Don’t think I forgot about you—you’re like friends on steroids.

Kimmy