I’m on my third beer, this one is green.
It’s the local specialty; so local in fact that it’s named after the bar I’m sitting in. ‘Dublin,’ the label proudly reads. Made by Beagle, the brand I’ve been drinking since I’ve been here. Dublin is the only place in town where you can find other people this time of night, any day of the week.
As a minimalist, it’s important that my possessions do not own me and that what I do own serves multiple purposes, is high-quality and as sustainable as possible.
What’s the perfect length for a blog post?
This may come as a shock to some of you, but I have a history of stalking.
I was having a conversation over orange juice with one of the handful of English expats I’ve met since I moved to Buenos Aires, and the topic of sentimentality came up. It went something like this:
I arrived in Buenos Aires, Argentina 2 days ago and after a solid 18 hours on various flights between Miami, Mexico City and Santiago, I was ready to crash into anything soft and bed-like I could find. My wits were a bit scrambled, and though I was conscious enough to not get taken (too much) by the taxi driver who carted me from the airport to the downtown area, I still wasn’t ready for what I would see immediately upon exiting the vehicle.
As I write this I’m on a shuttle between Columbia, Missouri and St. Louis, looking out the window, listening to Yelle and typing away on my tiny little netbook.
Most parties are about getting together with friends, eating and drinking until you’re waddling around the room, and creating new memories. But what if you’re trying to bring about change? What if you want to move forward and let go of all the things that are anchoring you to the past?
When little kids are asked what they want to be when they grow up, they usually pick something that seems exciting or heroic. If they had their way, janitors, office clerks and yard care workers would be grossly under-represented (while we would have an abundance of astronauts, firefighters, fashion designers and Presidents of the United States).
As I write this I’m sitting along the periphery of the waiting area for Gate 35 at LAX airport, my worldly belongings nearly identifiable as they bulge and poke and scramble to find a way out of the carry-on bag they are piled into like refugees.