"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." Helen Keller

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Learn to Cook Thai Cuisine in Chiang Mai

Love me some Phad Thai

From falafels in Cairo to meat pies in New Zealand to Phud Thai in Chiang Mai, every region of the world offers unique tastes for the intrepid traveler. Adventures in eating is one of the very best parts about traveling; why not take the table one step further and enroll in a cooking course? Continue reading

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Finding My Way Home: Burning Man

I have traveled around the world before, but last week I traveled to another world.

What I experienced out there in the desert of Black Rock City has transformed me as a person and changed the course of my life. How, I don’t know yet. But I do know that my heart was touched in so many different ways by so many people in so many situations, it became impossible for me to remain as I was. I am suffering an acute case of reverse culture shock, which is what happens when you have been traveling for a while and then return home to your life and realize that although nothing there has changed, you have, and now you must figure out how to proceed. One step at a time is always the answer.

Burning Man is not a party, and it certainly isn’t just another party in the desert. The time, effort, and energy that dozens of thousands of people devote to create an arts-based culture rooted in creative self-expression in an epically hostile environment is mind-blowing on a 24/7 basis. I simply could not believe what was unfolding in front of my very eyes, as it was unfolding in front of my very eyes. I am still not too sure that I didn’t dream the whole thing up.

Thanks to the concerns and care of many outstanding human beings, I arrived at the Playa decently prepared and outfitted for the journey. My friend Tricia had typed up a four-page “Shilo’s Virgin Burner Guide” with excellent tips like bringing extra garbage bags and duct tape to cover the net windows in my tent during sandstorms, and my friend Skandar had loaned me some wicked gear from goggles to gas masks. I had read all the information on the Burning Man website as well as multiple other guides for first-timer noobs like me. I had twenty gallons of water, a cooler full of Tecate, comfy walking shoes and two mullet wigs. I was set.

BURN FISHI was advised to bring multiple bandannas, and found the first use for mine when I arrived at the entrance of Burning Man eleven hours after leaving LA, for I burst into tears. I had the overwhelming feeling of returning to a place I had been before, made even more profound once I got out of my car and was greeted by naked men as well as a naked woman wearing a naked man suit who told me, “Welcome Home!” And within five minutes of arriving to the Playa, I was naked myself and rolling around in the Playa dust. It was nothing less than a baptism by dirt.

Driving onto the Playa I started to realize what an insanely huge and massive metropolis I was about to dive into. I could write a thousand pages describing the size of Burning Man, and when you go, you would still be absolutely blown away by its scale. I could post a million pictures and you would still not get an inkling of what goes down on the Playa. It is absolute nonstop madness, from the people roaming the desert dressed as polar bears to the bikes decked out with everything from LED flower strands to Mackie speakers strapped to the frame. Art cars lumber around, golf cart-size to double-decker busses blasting funky house from their second-story balcony bar. I doubt my own recollections even- did this really happen, or was it all one big hallucination? Did I really ride on a hot air balloon art car? Did I chase a Ferris wheel vehicle down in the dust past a paddleboat, aided by a silver and red fish-person and a girl dressed as a kazoo?

if you can't fuck it, burn itI was planning to pitch my tent with some friends from Seattle and was looking for their camp, which was to be anchored with a school bus. I parked my car on the edge of the Playa near their supposed address, was handed a Midori and Jack snow cone and began walking. I couldn’t find them (turns out the school bus had broken down and been left on the side of the road in Portland), and the computer system set up at Center Camp to locate lost parties was down. So I walked. And walked. After wondering around for hours and hours for miles and miles with mouth agape, looking for WA license plates and REI tents, I finally realized there was only one way I was ever going to find my friends: go where the good music is. Sooner or later, they will come. Of course!

My favorite DJ in the world!So I headed over to NeXus where the bass love was flowing freely, and within a few minutes of being at the stage I hear, “SHILO?!?!?” It was my good friend Dylan the Metaphysician! He led me to my camp (which we later christened Whomp Camp) and reunited me with my Seattle tribe. I was ecstatic! Our campsite was sweet and right on 930F: not only did we have booming sound, but my best friend and favorite DJ in the world, Pressha, was camping beside me and spinning the freshest tracks EVER the whole week. A large wooden deck abutted a rental truck with room for three couches as well as a crow’s nest, from which you could look out over the Playa and get a total, complete mindfuck. We had a few domes, a carport, a kitchen, an awesome hammock and many tents. In the dark I popped a tent next to my car, so happy to have found my campsite! After walking around for about seven hours and for many miles looking for my people, I had found them! We raged all night! I swear I must have walked thirty miles that day.

awesomeIt was on my camp’s crow’s nest where I sat two nights later watching the sun set into the mountains beyond, a rainbow dream of an ancient city from the future, a found planet within my very own culture. With every inch the sun sank in the sky, the Playa became a few degrees cooler, and the energy level lifted a notch. By the time the Playa fell into the deep purple of night, a wild circus was rolling all around me. I came down from that crow’s nest a different person.

What else can I tell you about? I feel like I could write forever. The elaborately carved wooden Temple where you say goodbye to friends who have passed to the other side? The insanely huge conflagration as the Man burned on Saturday night to fifty thousand raised voices and a million beats? The water-spraying trucks that troll by a few times a day to keep down the dust and provide Playa showers for naked asses? The giant plumes of pyrotechnics erupting all night long into the sky? The ethos of the gift culture, which permeates every encounter and experience? How people and camps outdo themselves to see what they can best give the world and add to the crazy, trippy, psychedelic experience? Of the days soaked in ritual, set in such stark contrast to mainstream society where prudish graduation ceremonies make do as our rites of passage?

Humans lived for most of our existence as they do on the Playa, and the switch to isolated, modern life has been very quick. Not that I don’t like hot showers, but we have lost a hell of a lot in the transition from a tribe-based culture to our modern world of Twitter and mass consumerism. Burning Man is an attempt to reclaim some of the lost meaning.

jumping circles of light!I feel as though I only experienced maybe 1% of what the Playa had to offer, very similar to the feeling I had when I first returned from Europe. I had dozens and dozens of friends on the Playa I never ran into. I have no pictures save those that my friends took, as my camera quit working the minute I arrived, leaving me only with words to give you. Some of these photos you see are from my Playa Mother Booyah, who had been harassing me for months and months to go to Burning Man, as had many others. Strangers were emailing me and telling me to get another job so I could go to Burning Man and have this experience. At the time it kind of annoyed me, but now all I can say is: thank you. From the bottom of my heart to the soles of my Playa-stained feet, thank you.

Even before I left, I was excited for next year. Like foreign travel, going to Burning Man is just something that you have to do for the first time to even get an idea of what it is or what you need or how it goes down. I was prepared for the party, but not for what I experienced, which was no less than a transformative.

BURNI finally get it. I understand why Burners spend all freaking year planning for and jabbering about and getting excited over Burning Man. I get the hostile environment and why it was chosen for the Burn. Growing up in Texas where the weather tops 100 degrees every day in the summer, I figured the heat and sun would not be a problem and indeed I probably fared better than those from a more pleasant climate, but truly the desert humbled me. It humbled me into taking care of myself. My usual MO is to go balls to the wall as much as possible, knowing I can recuperate the following few days. But on the Playa you cannot do this, or you will die. It would be impossible for any one person to survive out there for a week; we all need each other not just for hugs and companionship, but also to survive the brutal elements. Playa culture is distinct, with its own unique dress, hairstyles, food and behavior. So THAT’s why so many people wear hiking boots, bandannas and dreads to the city clubs- because their heads and hearts are on the Playa. An anthropologist would have a field day with this crazy culture, and this one is. I seriously can’t believe that this shit goes on in the desert every year. Mind = Blown.

Von Dewey- sunrise setThis complete dependency on other human beings stands in giant contrast to contemporary life today, where it would be possible to go through years and maybe even your whole life without ever talking to anyone. Some human beings no doubt go through life without any profound relationships with others, and this is NOT the way we have lived for the vast majority of their existence. For hundreds of thousands of years, we lived in tribes and communal groups where being an asshole meant being ostracized from your group, and most likely dying in the wilderness. Today humans are free to be assholes, and many of them are.

Burning Man made me realize how very dependent I am on other people, in particular stronger people who can build big shade structures that I could never accomplish on my own. I have realized how very weird it is, in terms of human existence, for a young single female to be living on her own. Not that it is bad, and in fact it represents a big step forward for women out of the property-status that they existed in for much of history, but it is no doubt different. Much of the pain suffered in our society today is due to this breakdown of the human community. I am not talking nuclear families here either but rather communities, a group of people that you care about and who care about you. Communities were once defined by family, tradition, religion, and geographical location; today they are more likely to be defined by common interests and sadly for many Americans those common interests are not art and music but Lindsay Lohan’s hairdo and Big Macs. For many people, the only culture and community they know is the one that has been fed to them by corporations, one of mass consumerism. Burning Man is the antithesis of this. It is an antidote.

And I finally understand down in my soul what ‘conscious living’ means- it means that every action you ever take affects other human beings as well as the environment, directly or indirectly. You can ignore the fact that eating at Jack in the Box hurts your environment and your fellow human beings, or you can be conscious of it and adapt your behavior accordingly. What do you want your effect on this world to be?

WTH?I know without doubt that I am descended from people of the desert. I know that Bedouin blood runs in my veins, from my gypsy ancestors from Bohemia to those much further beyond, whose names are lost in the dust of history. I have always been a wanderer whose only true home is in her heart; I am a restless soul whose idea of hell is a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. I have lived in 18 homes since I left my parents’ house at age 18, not counting time spent traveling abroad or couch surfing at uncles’ houses and the like. The only way I can keep myself from completely freaking out when I move into a new place is to sit down, shut my eyes, and visualize the day I will move out. I am a nomad.

I realize I sound like a complete fucking hippie here, but I have never been so overwhelmed by a sense of returning to a lost home before. Maybe it is in part due to growing up on Bible stories, spending hours and hours every week learning about the people of the Old and New Testaments- the desert people- who I was taught were my people too. Though I am an atheist now with no belief in a jealous Judeo-Christian god who tells women they should submit to their husbands, those stories contributed to my identity and are part of who I am. While you travel you sometimes get this feeling, a feeling of returning home to a place you have never been, and you should always take note. This feeling stands in direct contrast to a sensation I also frequently experience, when I am driving in CA or just chilling at home and all of a sudden, I have no idea where the hell I am. At all. I guess a more eloquent way of describing it would be as a geolocational brainfart. When this happens, I have to look at my environment and slowly start to deduce: No pine trees, so I am not up north. No snow. Yes palm trees. Am I in the tropics? No. There is asphalt. Cars. Warm, clear skies. Then after a minute or two I figure it out…okay….I am here, right now, in my home of LA. It always fucks with my head to completely not know where in the world I am, as you can imagine.

hoop!This post is less a review, and more of me sorting through my mind and trying to trap into words the sensations of the past week. I just realized I have barely mentioned the music at all! See how mindfucked I am? I swam in an ocean of music, with waves and waves of a billion varieties, from camps playing acoustic Britney Spears songs to an-ten-nae rocking the dome with perfection (my favorite performance of the week!) to the fat sounds booming from my own camp out of the skilled hands of Pressha and Mike Check. DAMN IT I love all you guys!

awesomeNow my gear is unpacked and laundered, the Playa dust is mostly gone although when I find it, it is with a warm spot in my heart. The Playa! I want to rub it on my face, and deeper into my soul!  My super white skin is a liability in the sun and demands constant reapplication of sunscreen, but on the flip side the white Playa dust blends in and I don’t look so dirty as my suntanned sisters. Since I have been home I have been spending time drawing, painting, sewing, hot gluing shells to mirrors and singing. I am inspired anew, and my faith in humanity has been restored. I am so stoked to return in 2010, excited about doing things a little better and be more prepared. I will be the one harassing my friends to go next year; I felt so lucky and grateful to have been part of this unique culture and event in the desert. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.


***All of these sweet photos ganked from my friends and fellow space travelers Dylan aka The Metaphysician and Booyah***

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An American Poet, Un Policier Parisien


Nothing. Not a peep. Out of 70,000 tombs, crypts, graves, and urns in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, not a single ghostly shadow crept across my path; no cold breezes inked their way down my spine. It was Halloween and the moon was bright. I grew bolder:


Only the blowing leaves answered me as I wandered around my favorite éspace verte (green space) in Paris. Père Lachaise is not a graveyard. It is a sculpture garden, a decaying, crumbling ode to the ephemerality of life, the setting for a Gothic tale of terror. It is romance, like Venice is romance, with its crumbling walls and sinking streets. I go there to remember that it is the fleeting nature of life that makes it so impossibly wonderful. Père Lachaise is one of the world’s most famous resting places and like Studio 54, has a waiting list to get in. Even with a map it is easy to get lost, and I often spent my afternoons wandering around the labyrinthine acreage, stumbling upon the graves of admired poets, artists, and authors: Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, Bauldelaire, Abélard and Heloise, Molière, and La Fontaine, plus hundreds of others. Père Lachaise is heaven for French art and literature nerds like me.

perelachaise2“I AM NOT AFRAID. I COME IN PEACE!”

Statues of angels stare back at me with blank eyes. I had come to Père Lachaise this All Hallow’s Eve for one reason, to share a bottle of red with my favorite denizen of the dark, Jim Morrison. After tempting and taunting the various spirits and ghosts of the area, I wander towards Jim’s small marker and find him there as usual, still waiting for the sun. The bust on the tomb was stolen years ago, and now it is just this small rectangular stone, always littered with an array of dying flowers, unsmoked cigarettes, empty wine bottles, and impassioned notes. It is inscribed with the Latin “KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY”- True to his own spirit. I talk to Jim, I ponder my existence. I’m a romantic like that, and my bravado increases with every sip of the blood-colored Côtés du Rhone.


Still with no takers from the underworld, I leave Jim’s side and wander back towards the iron gate along the very high, very thick cement wall that separates this City of the Dead from the City of Lights. Still slightly disappointed in my failed rendezvous with Jim’s spirit, I am ready to commune with some of my living companions at a warm café and knock off the chill that has slowly started creeping along my sides. I put my small white hand on the big metal door handle, and pull. Nothing. I push. I push harder. The giant gate does not budge. It is no use; it is locked. I now see the sign indicating the fermeture of the cemetery at 6 PM.

It is just after sunset on Halloween night, and I am locked inside the largest cemetery in the Paris, along with the spirits of 70,000 dead people I have been taunting and screaming at and commanding to show themselves for the last couple of hours.


I walk, sort of creep, along the path across to the second gate, surprisingly silent given my previous courageous outbursts. I can’t decide whether it is better to make a mad dash for it, or to slowly try to, what- outcreep the ghosts? It doesn’t matter; I arrive at the second gate and see that it is locked tight, and I know the others will be too. I consider finding a tomb and just hunkering down until daylight comes to save me. Should I try screaming through the gate? Climbing a tree and cheerleading it over the top of the wall? I fear that I may now have forever to ponder my situation, trapped with my ghoulish compatriots here in this land of death.

perelachaise6Merde, merde, merde.

Just then a bright light flashes to my left, outside the gate. A round light, a flashlight, and behind it a hat, a uniform, and to my delight: an armed police officer. I’m saved! I rush over to the gate, French words of praise stumbling over my tongue, the terror obvious in my pie eyes, my breath spilling out in punches. The policier is…whistling? And chuckling? Apparently this happens all the time, he tells me, and calms me down with an array of stories about people getting locked inside. Relieved to not be trapped in Père Lachaise for eternity, I exhale, and laugh. We chat while he calls up the security guard to let me out, and I tell him the (now hilarious) story of me screaming and taunting the ghosts and trying to manifest up dead poets. We laugh, I am released, and we wish each other well for the rest of the night.

“I’m Shilo, by the way, nice talking to you. What’s your name?” I ask.

“Jim,” he replies, and walks off into the night.stillwaitingforthesun

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More Fun With Airport Security

My shoes are off, belt tucked into a plastic tub, laptop out of its case, boarding pass in hand, liquids in 3oz-or-smaller containers packed into one plastic quart bag, pockets emptied.

The metal detector brings no beep as I pass through, and I wait on the ‘secure’ side of the airport for my carry-on bags to join me.

But there seems to be a slight problem. The x-ray machine’s conveyor belt has stopped with my backpack inside. Ms. TSA looks concerned, and she waves another security officer over for a second opinion. And then another. And another. Soon there are no less than seven uniformed officers standing around, whispering, and inspecting the glowing contents of my luggage on the monitor.

Oh, crap.

Fellow passengers start to notice the hold up and make nervous, shoeless jokes about my criminal nature, carefully avoiding the dreaded ‘b’ word as they quickly grab their cameras and cellphones and shuffle off.


What contraband have I absentmindedly left in the pockets of my pack? Did I bring nail clippers with the tiny file? Tweezers? Four-inch scissors? Knitting needles?

“No,” says the female security agent blocking my escape route, “We actually allow all of those things on board now.”

What can it be?

Have they noticed the extra ounce in the four-ounce travel size container of contact lens solution in my Ziploc bag? It isn’t my fault that the miniature toiletry industry hasn’t caught up with flight security regulations.

Nope, the quart bag has gone through unscathed.

What heinous item is in my backpack? What banned object of mine could possibly be attracting the attention of the entire security force of Gate A18?

And then it dawned on me. The source of the brou-ha-ha.

“Oh, I know what you are looking at, just take it, I’m sorry!” I announce trying to look as innocent as possible. “I didn’t think about it…I just threw it in my bag this morning.”

Stern looks from seven TSA agents fall in my direction.

“We should be notifying the Port Authority and having you arrested. What you tried to bring on through security is highly illegal. You are lucky we are not calling the police department.”

So what was the offending object in my pack?

An inch-long silver charm on a necklace, a shiny metal revolver.

“Replicas of weapons are not allowed on aircrafts.”

My necklace goes in the trash.

I do not argue. I do not point out that the book I brought to read during my flight has not one but two samurai swords on the cover or that my black raspberry earrings definitely resemble grenades. I do not share my observation that my pen or mascara wand for that matter could do more damage as a weapon than a one-inch charm. I do not ask to see the applicable law regarding acceptable jewelry design on domestic flights. I just want to get on my plane, so I nod in agreement, say ‘thank you, ma’am’, put on my belt and shoes, and walk away.

I’m one necklace poorer, but perhaps it’s a small price to pay to keep the skies safe from the dangers of dangling things, the menace of metal charms, the threat of trinket terrorism. With the confiscation of a tiny sterling silver revolver, the world has become just a little bit more secure. One inch more secure.

Now don’t you feel safe?

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New Zealand Black Water Rafting

The brochure did not mention the eels.

2007-waitomo-cave-rangirua-020I signed up for underground rivers, rappelling down a deep, dark, hourglass-shaped hole in the earth, green constellations of glowworms, squeezing under waterfalls along the cave wall, ziplining to rock ledges, the lingering spirits of Ruakiri and the ancient Maori chiefs, water up to my neck and the cave roof mere inches over my head, inching my way through holes with names like “Birth”, and climbing up waterfalls to find a way out- but eels? Eels? There are two things in the world I fear: the dentist, and eels. I had even avoided the proudly advertised “tame eels” in random restaurant/eel petting zoos around the country. Welcome to New Zealand.

2007-waitomo-cave-rangirua-023But as I wade chest-deep through the flowing river two hundred feet below the surface at the Waitomo Glow Worm Caves on the north island, I begin to doubt my decision to sign up for the most extreme Black Abyss Adventure with the Legendary Black Water Rafting Company. Why couldn’t I have gone skydiving in Taupo, jet boating in Queenstown, or hang gliding in Christchurch? New Zealand is so full of adventure sports options, you must prioritize your adrenaline rushes and pick and choose how you will experience the Land of the Long White Cloud. Though I had selected black water rafting because it was an experience unique to New Zealand, I had also literally submerged myself in the only option that would truly make my heart squirm with fear.

2007-waitomo-cave-rangirua-026I try to brush away the hideous thought of the cave eels (much as they were brushing along my thighs) and concentrated on my ‘cave snack’ of chocolate and steaming hot orange juice, which is surprisingly comforting when surrounded by the apple green glow worms- though cave insiders know what they are really admiring on the cavern’s ceiling is actually phosphorescent maggot feces. The term “glow worm” is just so much more romantic. The three hours spent underground in Ruakiri Cave are unlike any others in my life. This is no walk-through, look-at-the-stalactites caving experience. This is raw, cold, exhausting, and you might just look up that waterfall to the cave exit and doubt you can climb up through it. But you will, and you will emerge back out of the earth changed forever. Beware though: the brochure does not mention the eels. 

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Hokitika Wild Foods Festival: Worm Sushi and Seaweed Smoothies

Have you ever wondered what wildflower fudge might taste like? How about a bunny burger? Venison tongue? Larvae ice cream? If you like to taste your adventures, you live to eat, and you have an iron-clad stomach, then get thee to Hokitika, New Zealand for the annual Wildfoods Festival.



Hokitika is a tiny, beautiful town in the middle of the wild, cold, wet, and did I say wild? West Coast of the southern island of New Zealand. Billed as the “Greenstone (New Zealand Jade) Capital of the World,” the oceanside town is not much more than a few cute espresso shops and a beach reputed to wash up jade along the shore. But every spring over 15,000 travelers, tourists, locals, and freaks descend upon the village to put their mouth where their money is and eat all manner of cuisine from the forests, farmland, and ocean waters of New Zealand.



The crazy festival (any festival in on the South Island is going to be straight crazy) is not only a celebration of the bounty of the land, but also a festival of libation and a shout-out to the pioneering spirit of the land. Had the early gold-rushers and Maori before them not eaten huhu grubs and paua (abalone) fritters, the West Coast may not ever have been settled and Hokitika might not exist.

The Wildfoods Festival takes place this year on Saturday March 8; besides all manner of food flora and fauna there will also be plenty of music, activities for children, cooking demonstrations and live performances. The real attraction, though, is the menu. How many would YOU try?

                lamb’s tails

                whitebait fritters (whitebait are very small fish, sold in pint jars) 

                horse, bunny, and dolphin burgers

                elderflower champagne

                grilled mutton bird (a New Zealand sea bird)

                worm truffles

                deep fried crickets, wasps, beetles, and grasshoppers

                eels on lettuce with cream cheese

                mussel kebabs

                fish eyes

                Viagra slushy (a wild food? perhaps)

                duck giblets

                crocodile and kangaroo

                huhu grubs (New Zealand grubworms)

                deep fried shark

                rose petal wine

                mountain oysters (sheep’s testicles)

How many would you try? Here from behind my lovely laptop screen I say I will try them all- but find me in Hokitika and see how gustatorially brave I am then!

Hokitika Beach

Hokitika Beach


Hokitika is a great stop along the west coast any time of the year- in fact, I would definitely recommend staying in Hokitika over Greymouth, Westport, or at Punakaiki (the Pancake Rocks). It is a much more interesting town with better restaurants and the best shopping for Greenstone along the west coast. Enjoy the beach and keep an eye out for New Zealand jade!

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What Is Adventure?

Punakaiki, New Zealand

Punakaiki, New Zealand

What is adventure?

~ This is where most writers quote Webster’s idea, and then go off on their particular version of the word. Verb. Noun. Adjective.

I don’t care what Webster says, because I know what adventure is to me. Adventure is the desire to live as many new experiences as possible all over the world in this wonderful blink of a gift we call life.

Adventure is running through a grassy field with a dog. Adventure is a bean sandwich for breakfast. Adventure is climbing first up an underground waterfall. Adventure is selling everything you own and moving into a 129 square foot apartment in Paris. Adventure is doing what really scares you, whether that is bungee jumping or wearing pink go-go boots or telling the truth. Adventure is finding out what lies inside of you. Adventure is going to the beach by yourself. Adventure is eating something that you have absolutely no idea what it is, and liking it. Adventure is walking around the streets of a big city in the middle of the night. Adventure is taking the subway with a group of kindergartners. Adventure is fumbling over your words in a new language. Adventure is kayaking in Abel Tasman National Park on the South Island of New Zealand. Adventure is China. Adventure is love. Adventure is death. Adventure is saying ‘screw it’ and putting that ticket on a credit card. Adventure is found in the Himalayas. Adventure is painting. Adventure is putting on a harness and jumping. Adventure is saying hello. Adventure is risky. Adventure is dangerous. Adventure is a walk. Adventure is doing something you have never done and no one you know has ever done. Adventure is imminent. Adventure is a game. Adventure is laughing when you are scared sh*tless. Adventure is a meeting of the eyes. Adventure is the wrong boy. Adventure is exhausting. Adventure is dancing like a fool. Adventure is making up your mind between Bali, Thailand, or India. Adventure is taking all your clothes off and jumping in. Adventure is the middle of nowhere. Adventure is right around the corner. Adventure is tonight! Adventure is a search that never ever ends. Adventure is getting lost and not caring. Adventure is airline food. Adventure is a new friend.

See you in the great swirling circle!


AKA Shilo Urban