The Night Five Strangers Fell in Love

September 25, 2015September 25, 2015 / karaknick / 11 Comments

Picture this- It’s nearly midnight in Sevilla, Spain. I’m just getting to my hostel when I hear a Jack Johnson song being played in the distance. As exhausted from my travels and at the end of my rope as I am (getting lost, train delays, aching feet, empty stomach, etc.) the melody pulls at my heartstrings. Even though I am tired, I don’t want to wonder “What if?” Something tells me I need to find where it’s coming from…so, somewhat reluctantly, I follow the sound to discover Jukebox Munich (pictured below).

And damn it, they’re good, and funny, and play songs I still love. I’m hooked. I drop my heavy backpack, tell my sleepy conscience to hush, and decide to stay a while. While sitting there on the curb listening to them, I meet Andrea, from Italy. He had a camera and an infectious smile:

We make small talk until it dives deeper into the darker parts of ourselves, and we tune out the music. After playing hours on end, the band calls it a night. Just as I’m thinking this is where my late night ends, someone makes a suggestion. And just like that, with a crowd of about fifteen, we all decide to get beer and hang out before going our separate ways home. However, it’s too early in the morning, and everything is still closed. We walk to the other side of the river, where a place was closing, but one of the locals convinced the owner to sell us beer for a euro. He poured them out quickly- red solo cups halfway filled- as if he was going to get caught.

So we go and sit next to the river, our half beers in hand, and next thing I know, we were talking about what our dreams were and who our siblings were dating, how we felt about having kids and marriage, language barriers and what we studied in school, all while the band carried on in the background. Andrea seemed taken aback when I asked him what his dream was. Moments later he finally brought it back up and said, “I want to do something with politics. I see so much about how old European tradition is fading away, and how the States and Italy and others have these problems, and I want to help fix that. Although I know that’s impossible.” It was such an unexpected answer and I could tell he didn’t share it with a lot of people. He asked me about mine. Why I was traveling. How I’m very different than what he expected from an American, though he knows we’re not all the same.

When the band finally had enough, and the crowd disappeared, Andrea, three Spanish girls (Júlia, Melanie and Martina) and I stayed behind, still mid-conversation. I discovered the girls were from Costa Brava as well, not far from Blanes! Júlia studied in Rome so she could speak some Italian with Andrea, and and Martina had previously lived in Canada, and all three of them could speak English with me. We ended up sitting on a street corner while they rolled cigarettes and spoke about everything from this side of the sun. I completely bared my soul to them about the fear of losing my parents, about being terrified that I would not find whatever it was I came to Europe to discover, how I felt conflicted with my “almost” relationship, fights with my brother, my thoughts on gun control and gay marriage, etc. You name it, we covered it.

Martina Melanie and I

Júlia Andrea

It made me sad, even ashamed, to hear the stereotypes of Americans- just always thinking their way is right and that they are superior to other countries. I know this is a common stereotype, but I don’t want to be seen this way. While I love my country, I don’t think we are the best. I can’t disagree, however, that America has become wrapped up in fast food and television and so consumed by their own stress. The European lifestyle is about savoring– lunch and the company you are with is ENJOYED, not rushed. I wish we were that way. So many Americans want to go to Europe, but it is not necessarily the case with all Europeans. I find this interesting.

Martina was tall, with so much spunk in her personality that although it would be easy for people to perhaps not appreciate it or like it, it made me fall in love with her. She had no boundaries on her feelings, no apologies about her thoughts, or words. Her outstretched hands brushed yours when she laughed. I felt instantly comfortable around her, around all of them, actually. She just didn’t give a shit about being anything but herself and it caught me off guard how much I admire that in a person. I wished I could be so secure in my own skin, so unapologetically myself. She was so strong because maybe before she had been forced to be. Melanie was beautiful, with dark hair and light eyes, and quiet, not as fluent in English. She agreed to many things we were saying, and I could tell her spirit was young but on fire. The streetlights shone across Júlia’s tan skin and reflected off her nose ring. She had the warmest brown eyes. She could say anything, and you’d trust her. She confided to us about how her parents separated and she didn’t become close with them until after that. She said she realized as we are getting older that they are not the vision of what we thought they were, they make mistakes and have hard times and need us, too. We can’t force them to feel something or understand and change. But that when they finally realize it, we will be there with open arms.

Andrea told me he lives more than an hour away from his parents and at 25, this is his first time really traveling alone. He said he initially was nervous but felt he needed to do it. And how without that freedom, we never would have met each other. I realized he was right- if we were with our families or friends, we probably would never have thought to approach or speak to one another. He argued how we should really pursue writing or singing or painting, or whatever the hell it is that we want. Martina said it best- maybe it’s not even fear of failure that we are so scared of…it’s what happens once we actually GET what we want or have been searching for- will we take it? And then what? That is the big question, because we are always looking for and wanting something better.

We talked about how it shouldn’t be so hard to love one another. I really just wanted to break down…I was falling in love with these strangers, these new friends, and we were feeling something so much bigger than ourselves, talking about the world and although we knew and had only seen so little, we realized so much. Some people, they said to me, would never do what you did, they’re too scared, and you’ve already made the most courageous step you could. I don’t think they could ever understand how much I needed to hear that.

We laughed, too- talking about the “cobra” move in a club when a guy approaches you and you duck away. I learned so many tongue twisters in Catalan and words for things that I didn’t know had their own definition (all of which I have now forgotten). Also, that all Catalans talk about is shit. “My face is shit.” “My life is shit.” I was dying of laughter.

Finally, Andrea looked at his watch and realized it was 7:30 a.m. He suggested breakfast. So we walked around to find a restaurant but none were really open at 7:30 am, and if they were, they didn’t look that appealing. Finally, we stopped at the square, where we joked Andrea was Lord of the Flies since they all kept landing on him. We saw an older man painting the most beautiful picture of the cathedral. Took snapshots of us laughing and looking dead in zoning out from zero sleep. We finally stopped to eat, getting pan con tomate and jamón, and café con leche. Everything was so good and perfect and cheap and we just laughed because Júlia said it was her favorite birthday she’s ever had and that she didn’t even feel tired even though she had been up for almost a full day, and everything was fate that brought us together. And that since I had to leave at 2 p.m., why not spend every second together and make the most of the last time we have together?

So I checked out of my hostel early and they bought me a Red Bull and we headed toward Júlia’s car, which was near the corner of O’Neill’s restaurant that we had been sitting at and talking all night. She went to park it somewhere else because they were giving out tickets, but we ended up listening to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore and “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke (which was so cool that, despite being from three different countries, we all knew) and driving the completely wrong direction to just make a circle and park the car again in the same spot, finally giving in to just paying the meter. It made me laugh because that’s precisely how I drive.

I convinced them to go to Plaza de España and I loved their reactions to its unspeakable beauty, because it was exactly how I felt when I saw it for the first time. We took pictures and sweated under the sun together, then got granizado to quench our thirst, and cool our throats. So refreshing and good! Headed back to the square by the cathedral and sat in the shade next to the building where a man played the guitar (probably annoyed by our incessant talking), and the horse drawn carriages were pulling in. They kept telling me I’d have to write the story of our night but I can’t think of one word to say about it. Even if I could think of a million, it wouldn’t do it justice.

I swear to you, we just couldn’t stop talking. Our conversation continued into handsome Spanish dads and why they don’t like bullfighting, and how Júlia’s mother makes her gazpacho for when she is hungover and gets home early in the morning and sleeps all day, how European lifestyle is just better and I just need to move here. Our feet were caked with dirt, Júlia’s nice once white shorts stained from sitting on city curbs and street corners and dirty pub chairs. Martina’s thick dark eyebrows danced when she talked, a wide mouth grin and deep voice, that went high when she sang or got excited, always joking. Melanie’s bright blue eyes reflecting with the sun, her dark curly hair bouncing as she laughed and shook her head at Martina. I cherished them…Júlia’s warm embrace and Andrea’s smile that lit up like a sunrise and their nose rings that I thought about getting sophomore year of college and the fact that they rolled their own cigarettes and could speak three languages and still be so incredibly beautiful after all the traveling and nights without sleep. I was soaking in every moment. I learned if you close your eyes and have a spoon in your hand, the moment the spoon drops you’re having the best moment of sleep. What about the best day of your life? I wanted to say.

And I started to cry right then and there, because I had never felt happier, or experienced a connection like this before, but also because I knew this was probably the last time I would ever see them again.

Perhaps we were only meant to have that one night, Júlia said.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was so perfect, it could only last a day. But it was enough- in just those hours, they changed my life and healed my soul.

So this is for you, my dearest friends. Until we see each other again.

All my love,

The Mark I Left

September 23, 2015July 7, 2016 / karaknick / 1 Comment

*As promised in my Madwomen In the Attic post, here is my first draft for my creative nonfiction workshop.

***UPDATE: This piece was published in Longridge Review. Check it out here!***

The Mark I Left

I run my hands gingerly over the white and tan splotches of matted fur on my new Calico kitten. We got her a week or so ago, from a woman getting rid of a whole litter. She promised she had all her shots but she just couldn’t take care of all of them anymore. The kitten was thin, probably sick. But that would change now that she was mine.

She squirms in my arms, escaping. With hesitant steps, she explores her new jungle of four acres of wide open land. She darts around my bare feet, pawing at dandelions, and then lowers to the ground, ready to pounce. As I watch her hunt, I think back to last week when I held her alone in my bedroom. She would not stop crying. She meowed relentlessly, and when I tried to pick her up, claws extended and sharp teeth sunk fast and hard into my sensitive skin. Red lines rose, etching marks on my hands.

I did not think, She was just scared.

I did not think, It’s okay, it was just self-defense.

I did not consider the condition of the home the kitten knew before mine.

Furious, I opened one of my empty dresser drawers, plopped that stupid kitten inside, and slammed it shut it. That’ll show it. I pictured it in the dark, afraid and deeply regretting it had ever thought to leave marks on me. Well, good. The kitten had to learn that I was in charge. If she didn’t behave, I would punish her. That’s just how it works.

I left the kitten there for a few minutes until my rage abated, and remorse quickly washed over me. I didn’t want to hurt her, that was never my intention. But I couldn’t deny how powerful it felt to be in control for once. It was impossible for her to get out of the drawer without me. She needed me.

In a way, we were the same. She was small and helpless, and I was accustomed to that role. The baby of the family, I was always being told what to do, forever a puppet on a stage with an older brother or a parent pulling the strings. My parents had my brother, Ryan, and I to attend to, full-time jobs, and bills to pay. Ryan had dirt bikes to ride, a punching bag in the form of a little sister, and better things to do than be bothered with some “dumb cat.” But forget any of that. This living animal was mine. I alone held the power. I knew that I was the stronger, bigger one.

Her fate was in my hands. For the first time I was the one to restrain, not be restrained, and it felt good. I could see why my brother liked it. The thought sickened me as I stared down at my hands in disbelief. Even at eight years old, I knew that feeling was wrong. My mother would never do this kind of thing. Only bad caretakers would. Fear plummeted to the pit of my stomach. What does this make me?

“Come on, we are going to be late!” my mother calls from inside. I hurry to climb shotgun into our sky blue Plymouth Voyager, leaving the kitten down in the grass. We are already late for a meeting at church, and I can hear the stress in my mother’s voice rising as she rushes down the stairs, carrying so many bags over her shoulders and under her eyes. She held so much of my world together. If that’s what being a mom meant, I don’t believe I could ever do it.

The sound of the ignition interrupts my reverie as our old van springs to life, and my mom flings her purse in the space between our seats. She puts it in reverse, steps hard on the gas, and that’s when I feel it. So fast I don’t even have time to process what the bump meant, then so painfully slowly, leaving me breathless as if my own lungs are the ones being crushed. Tiny ribs collapsing, the weight of an eight passenger van and two human bodies, alive and breathing, as life is sucked from a kitten, not yet one month old.

My mom quickly jams it into park and falls silent with the realization. It’s almost as if the world stops and gasps, watching, waiting. I throw open the passenger door and scream, seeing the tread of the tires imprinted on the patched white fur. The mark I left. I know I am going to be sick. Bones and blood and whiskers and more blood. Blinded by hot tears, I go to hold the limp head in the palm of my hand but stop when I see its pink pearl nose. Just minutes ago it was wet and soft. Now, guts gush through nostrils. They push out, pouring red and already caking over in the hot July sun.

I realize I am still howling. Was this because of me? I know things about accidents, a little about death, some about pain. I know bodies have spines and heads and hearts and bones, and blood. There is so much blood. I wonder if this is God’s way of punishing me. I wonder if God will pluck me from this driveway and shove me in a box and slam it shut. That doesn’t happen, but I feel the guilt just the same. Death doesn’t care what mark it leaves.

Although numb, I force myself into motion. I stand up with skinned knees, spinning around wildly to face my mother, and choke out the words,

“You.

Killed.

Her.”

I am hysterical, repeating it over and over again, wailing so loud I’m sure the Kilburn’s next door could hear, despite the overgrown fields between us. Everything inside me breaks. My mom is at my side instantly, smoothing my hair and whispering apologies. We don’t say it, but I think we both knew it was my fault. We lived in the middle of nowhere and left our pets outside all the time, but this was different and I knew it.

Why did I leave the kitten so close the driveway? I should have kept her inside. Why didn’t I check to see where she was before getting in the van? How could you be so stupid? Good job, moron, I could already hear my brother saying. I block out his voice in my head. I can’t think of that right now. Forget this church meeting, I don’t care. I insist we hold a funeral for her right then and there. We can at least give her that. My mom obliges, albeit reluctantly, and disappears into the basement, emerging with a cardboard box for a coffin.

“We have to put holes in the top,” I say. I had learned this is necessary for creatures to still breathe. She doesn’t remind me that the kitten is already dead and this is useless, but instead pokes holes through the top of the box. And then my mother, still in her black pumps, follows me to the woods. She carries the kitten’s lifeless body in the curved belly of one of my father’s shovels. I choose a spot next to one of my favorite trees, feeling the heavy box hit against the side of my leg as I walk up the hill. I tell her we should pray, or give a speech like I saw them do at my uncle’s funeral last year. She bows her head to pray, but I hear nothing.

My head is spinning. I am wondering if Jesus will forgive us. For how I kept that kitten trapped in my dresser drawer, for making my mother late for her meeting, for not paying attention to where the kitten was, for everything. I look down at the dandelions I’ve picked to cover the grave, and realize I never even named her. Perhaps I knew, even at that age, that she wouldn’t stay with me for long.

Seventeen years later, when my mind has a better understanding of motherhood, and my hands know how to hold something fragile, I still feel my lungs give out at the question, “When are you having kids?” Distant family members will ask me, trapping me at the dinner table during holidays. It is suffocating. I wonder sometimes if God forgot to poke holes in the top of my box.

When I try to explain to people that I just don’t want children, I give them reasons like finances and freedom. I don’t say how I am afraid of what my own two hands could do, or how you can love something so hard and still not keep anything safe in this world. I do not reveal my choking insecurities and how I feel unfit to care for another. Nobody asks. I know they label me heartless, but it seems easier to ignore that. Because it’s hard to explain how when love and death and fear gripped the axles of a four door van, and guilt flowed freely into the four chambers of my heart like blood out onto hot asphalt, this decision buried itself in my womb many summers ago.

Clarification on FROM THIS SIDE OF THE SUN

September 11, 2015September 23, 2015 / karaknick / 5 Comments

*Clarification on From This Side of the Sun:

I traveled to Europe alone over two years ago, in the summer of 2013, and was there for five months. I started this blog because I want to share my experiences, photographs, and travels with you, as I never wrote or spoke about it much. I want to give those stories and people and places a home in the form of this blog. That means these events happened in the past, not currently.

However, I also will be posting more recent and current writings: poetry, short creative nonfiction pieces, random thoughts, photography, etc.

For my journal entries, I will categorize them into the country they occur, and mark them at the top of the paragraph by a bold date. For example, Beaches, Bathroom Accidents, and Bread Making has the date of June 29, 2013.

This is how you can distinguish between the two. I understand it is tricky, and I apologize for any confusion- I am still getting acquainted with WordPress. I hope you enjoy, and would love to hear from you!

Madwomen in the Attic

September 10, 2015September 23, 2015 / karaknick / 14 Comments

I can’t lie to you- the thought of being a bit mad/mysterious/dangerously brilliant, etc. always appealed to me. Growing up, I wanted to become the furthest thing from a dainty woman. I wanted to get my hands dirty, to be wondered about, to be as tough as balls, to keep as crazy and fearless as I could be. I hungered for more than just what was in front of me.

That’s not to say I was a tomboy, or didn’t dress up, or anything of the sort. But I knew I felt an instant connection whenever I read Plath, and my friends can attest that I love being secretive and then living up the shock factor. So, it only feels fitting that I am now a Madwoman.

Let me explain. Last night, I had my first class in the workshop Madwomen in the Attic at Carlow University. I am taking a Creative Nonfiction workshop, once a week, for 12 weeks. I’ve always written poetry, but want to delve further into this genre I find so captivating. I want to learn how to write such truly personal, real, and raw stories that allow for an intimacy between the writer and the reader.

When I left that room two hours later, I felt a mixture of two things- and neither were a surprise to me. First, I regretted not getting involved sooner. As many of you know, I have not written consistently for the past six years or so. Sitting there among a group of very diverse women (many who were much older than me) I suspect we all felt the same in that aspect. We introduced ourselves, talked about our experience with writing, our struggles with the process, etc. I felt so at home within these unfamiliar walls and with these strangers, because we shared the same passion and the same goal. No matter what paths we had traveled, or where we came from, we met at this intersection. To be united as women and have the support, the inspiration, the push to be better…The strength of that is unparalleled.

Second, I felt young, inexperienced, nervous, inadequate. I haven’t written in forever, and have next to no experience writing creative nonfiction. Furthermore, guess who was chosen to go first to be workshopped? This girl.

So, now I am off to create a story composed of 800 brilliant words, in which I do not even have the slightest clue where to start.

For all you creative writers, what are some prompts you’ve used before to help get the words flowing, especially with this genre? Any other suggestions or tips on writing creative nonfiction? Would love to hear from you!

P.S. A promise to you all: Whatever I write, I’ll reveal in a post two weeks from now!

P.S. As a follow-up, you can find my first rough draft here: The Mark I Left

Speaking in Catalan Tongue

September 2, 2015September 23, 2015 / karaknick / 12 Comments

JUNE 26, 2013

After almost missing my connecting flight, surviving over eleven hours of travel, and freaking out I would not be able to enter the country since I didn’t have my return flight purchased, I made it through the Barcelona airport. Because we had talked via Skype a couple times, I recognized the family as soon as I walked out from baggage claim. I met Jordi, Roser, and their daughter Mar (Adrià was sick with chicken pox and was with his grandparents, poor kid). They insisted that I grab a sandwich at the airport, so I sat there chewing slowly and feeling every bit as awkward and nervous as I thought I might. Again, it hit me in waves how real this was, and how almost completely alone I was. But a bigger part of me was nothing but excited. They were so nice, and I was here. I did it! Bring it on, Spain. We made the drive back- about an hour all on the coast, to what would be my new home.

Look at this incredible view! This is from their porch, looking out over La Palomera and the coast of Blanes:

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Once in Blanes, I met Roser’s parents and we picked up Adrià since he was there. I got a tour of the house, which is connected to another house where Jordi’s parents live. It sits on top of a hill, which makes for the most perfect views. It is beautiful and modern, but a modest size. The children share a room and have a bunk bed, and their play room was converted into a space for me, with a bed, a giant bean bag, a desk, and a small dresser. In the corner, a giant white board read “WELCOME KARA” and beside it, bright colored drawings and paintings from the children.

I took a short nap to recover from the jet lag, and then joined the family at the pool, which is on the deck above us- at the kids’ grandparents. It was so cold but I dived right in! Mar is such a good swimmer, it is incredible. She is the most beautiful little girl with perfect dark curls and crystal green eyes, very smart too. I was told she would be shy compared to Adrià, which is true. He came right up, yelled to me and kissed me and hugged me hard. Everyone kisses each other on the cheek, it’s great. Maybe because it makes me feel sophisticated, or just because I’m super affectionate.

With Mar, who is almost five, I think she knows that I don’t understand her language but Adrià (who is three) just repeats himself after he asks a question if I do not answer, or answer incorrectly. I had no idea how truly difficult the language barrier would be. I took three years of Spanish classes several years ago, and they don’t speak Spanish anyway, but Catalan. It is so different. I can recognize or guess some words and their meaning when reading Spanish but I am terrible speaking it.

Mar knows how to count from one to ten in English now and is learning her colors. There are four fish (diving toys) that I will throw into the pool and she swims to the bottom to get them, so I taught her blue, yellow, pink, and green. Roser’s English has improved from when we first Skyped although it is still hard with Jordi not here to translate for us. We’ve used her phone or my iPad a couple times but it is not always the most effective tool. It usually ends up in laughter or frustrated apologies. Jordi is a chef and works six days a week, and incredibly long hours. They really do have the most beautiful family, and are so nice to me. I am grateful. However, I feel helpless and like I’m taking up space and am just another mouth to feed. I made a silent vow to start putting more effort into learning their language.

Adrià and I- he’s a firecracker! Mar and I after swimming.

After the nap (which was in a mixture of Spanish, Catalan, and English- what a headache!) Roser, the kids, and I went to the center of town. Lots of shops, older cafes, narrow streets in cobblestone- it reminded me of Italy. I met a couple friends of Roser’s- all mothers, whose kids were in school with Mar and Adrià. I don’t have kids to relate to them, nor could I even understand what was being said. So I just watched the kids play and tried to look useful, offering a smile every now and then.

Adrià and Mar rode their bikes around the playground -and they make me so nervous with some of the things they do. Since I can’t keep them in a bubble, or protect them from everything, my first instinct is to run after them and help them if they fall. But most times they surprise me. They just get back up and keep running in circles and screaming. Now may be a good time to admit that I don’t have any experience with kids, and don’t want my own. Probably something I should have strongly considered before I signed up to be an au pair, huh? We came back home and had dinner (hamburgers, pasta, yogurt for dessert), and played games. Mar draws me a lot of pictures. Everything we eat for dinner, she covers in olive oil. My type of girl right there.

I’m falling asleep as I wrote this but I finally thought I figured out how to work the adapter or connector thing and blew a fuse. No, honestly- the thing set off a vicious spark, had this horrible burning smell, and I freaked out. Then I noticed the wireless got disconnected. Roser didn’t say anything to me so I don’t know if she knew it was me but she fixed it sometime because when I woke up it was fine. But now I’m at 15% battery and terrified to charge it…I don’t wanna fry my iPad because it is literally the only thing I have to communicate with my family, friends, and my connection to the rest of the world on that side of the sun. Talk about first world problems. What part of me thought I could do this, again?!

The Day I Quit My Job

August 19, 2015October 1, 2015 / karaknick / 22 Comments

Tuesday, June 4, 2013.

I quit my job. Technically, it was more of a mutual separation. I had come to loathe putting any effort in once 9 a.m. rolled around, and it had grown tired of making my life miserable since it had been working at that for the past eleven months.
Still, it was like breaking up with a boyfriend. Even if you’re the one to cut ties, there is something so strange about the way it feels to pack up the memories in a box and just leave it on a doorstep. I had to walk away from what I knew I did not want anymore, but how would I know where to go next?

I had never quit any job before. I’d worked summers at home between my college years where it was understood that I’d be back at school when the leaves changed in the fall, but I never quit. Still, I always imagined all the ways I’d make my big exit. Maybe, in a red hot rage, I’d throw a dish against the wall at the family restaurant I worked at for three years. Or cuss out a customer. Or just say, “To hell with it!” and sneak out on lunch break and never come back. That didn’t really sound like me, though. How do people even quit jobs?

It turns out that (despite what my family thinks) I’m a little less dramatic than that.

That Tuesday afternoon, after giving prior notice to my supervisor, I just left. I walked quietly out of the double doors with a tiny voice in my head screaming, “OH MY GOD, YES!” all the while feeling a lot like shitting my pants and crawling back home into my mother’s arms, to when things were easier. I knew that I couldn’t possibly know what would come next. After all, the comfortable routine of 9-5 Monday through Friday was now gone. Did I just make a huge mistake?
Most of my friends, like any other college graduate, struggled to find a job after graduation that did not involve food service or retail, and here I was, nearly a year into my first actual “big girl” job, and I threw it away.
But, I did get something in return: a one way plane ticket.

Just shy of my 23^rd birthday, I bought my flight to Spain and fought to leave uncertainty on the doorstep of my first apartment. I had a goal in mind:

I convinced myself I was ready for this. Months of energy had been channeled into reading travel blogs, self-help books, and a desire to make my breaths known, and not just taking them to live. At 22, I had honestly felt life slowly draining from my fingertips with every number I dialed in the call center I worked at, every forever friend I lost, each meal I microwaved when I got home after working countless hours of overtime, and every bottle of wine I finished by myself.

You grow up familiarizing yourself with the way the system works, and what role you play in it. You do what is expected of you: graduate high school, go to college, get a job, start a family, etc. But what if that’s not in the cards for everyone?

I made the decision to move to Spain when I realized that I had no passion for my life. Not a career I loved to throw myself into, a man I couldn’t imagine being without, a hobby to consume my days, a real hunger for my life anymore. I had done just what was intended of me, and what I thought I wanted. I graduated college and moved from my small town to the city of Pittsburgh, where I immediately started working. Yet, I was unhappy. I stopped reading and writing for pleasure. I quit trying to discover the world, let alone trying to change it. I’d live for the weekends, but those would leave me waking to a pounding headache, and blurred memories disguised as happiness. I thought, “Would my 16 year old self be proud of where I am?”

It was around this same time that my good friend Matt kept posting pictures about his travels from Cambodia, Vietnam, and Thailand. For a while, I watched from the other side of a computer screen with jealousy. Then, one day, I sent a message pleading with him to tell me anything and everything he could about how I could travel the world like he was, and the rest is history.

He introduced me to Workaway, a site that essentially allows individuals to connect with host families and exchange help (i.e. babysitting, teaching English, gardening, other housework, etc.) for a place to stay, allowing the traveler to fully immerse themselves in the culture of the country of their choice.

Now, don’t get me wrong. As perfect as that sounded, and as badly as I wanted to just ditch everything and escape my cubicle life, I still had fears. I had saved up some money, but what if I came back to the States unable to get a job? I knew how hard it was for me to find this one in the first place, and what my friends were still going through. What if I ran out of money, and had to come back? And then, had to move back in with my parents because I couldn’t afford my rent? How can a girl who just got used to taking a city bus ever survive alone navigating through foreign countries, by HERSELF?! What if I got robbed? What if I got shot by a gang or caught a serious illness? What if I got sexually assaulted in a hostel, or lost my passport, or missed my flight, or was denied by Customs? I confessed my less irrational fears to Matt.

Here was his reply:

Simply put, he was absolutely right- and I knew it. In that instant, my mind was made up.

With the help of Workaway, I connected with a family in Blanes, right outside of Barcelona, Spain: Jordi, his wife Roser, and their two children, Mar (5) and Adria (3). After several e-mails, Skype dates, and consideration, it was decided that I would stay with them for two to three months, lend Roser a hand with the children, and help teach them the English language. I would fly out of Pittsburgh International Airport on June 26th and meet them in Barcelona.

In preparing for my big day, Matt also was gracious enough to lend me his backpack that he used during his travels. My mom drove down to help me pack up for six months (that woman can fit the whole state of Texas neatly into a Ziploc bag) and restored order back to my wild, racing mind. I distinctly remember her joking, “You have two boobs and there are seven days in a week. WHY do you have so many bras?!”

So, finally there I was, packed and ready to go. I had found someone to sublet my apartment, bought an adapter, and left behind my cell phone, several people who didn’t support me or understand, and my fear of the unknown.

Stay tuned for me setting sail, first impressions, and what happens next when I touch down!

25 and Comin’ Alive

August 12, 2015September 4, 2015 / karaknick / 3 Comments

I’m always a day late and a dollar short.

Just two weeks after turning 25, I am finally forging a path back to my childhood dream. With this blog, I hope to not only retrace my footsteps over five months of traveling in Europe, but also rediscover my voice as a writer.

It’s funny how thirteen-year-old me knew best all along, huh?

Since then, I’ve transferred colleges, broken up with boyfriends, had surgeries, gained a sister and a niece, crashed my car, built friendships that failed, found a soulmate, ate the weirdest sea creatures imaginable, drank absinthe, swam topless in the Mediterranean, cried in castles, jumped from mountains, and the whole time I drifted in and out of my first love- writing.

I received my B.A. in English from Westminster College in 2012 and moved to Pittsburgh, PA. After working for a year in a job that I increasingly became more unhappy at, I had my quarter-life crisis early and quit my job to travel. Now, two years later, From This Side of the Sun is the compilation of months and months of poetry, journal entries, pictures, and word vomit that expels every emotion I’ve ever felt.

Head over to my about me page so I can introduce myself further, or (for those who know me) refresh your memory on where I’ve been.

Can’t wait to catch up with you all!