I’m back. Expect more posts, more travel, and more of The Fly Away American in your life. But first, I feel like I owe you an explanation. Last year, I was feeling rundown. Low on energy. Every aspect of my life was beginning to feel like work – pulling in opposite directions so that I constantly felt… exhausted. After returning back to the UK in January from my trip home to America, I realized I needed a massive change. I was tired of feeling tired. I was over feeling hungover. My love of food and booze had become a burden to my health, and it wasn’t fun anymore. You know, I have always pushed myself. I’ve never set limitations on what I am capable of – physical or otherwise. I climbed Meesapulimala, a 9,000 ft. peak in India. I walked/cycled/kayaked the Scottish Highlands coast to coast. Never have I turned…Continue Reading
The last few days I have been so disheartened. Sad. Angry. I’m having trouble finding my usual positive thinking, happy-go-lucky self. This blog has always been a safe place for me. A place to share the good things in life. A place to show others that they too can grab hold of their dreams, and live that life they imagine. But this week, I don’t feel like that person. I walk down the street in a daze, reflecting on our world in deep, troubling sadness. Today I am not sharing my latest adventure or cultural mishap, because honestly I just don’t have that in me right now. Over the last year, the refugee crisis has grown to unforeseen levels. Living in Folkestone, only a 30 minute trip from Calais on the Eurotunnel, I saw first-hand the fear and uncertainty of those around me. Fear of these war-torn and desperate people…Continue Reading
Some rights reserved by contagiousmemes
{Cover Photo: Some rights reserved by contagiousmemes} In 1888, East London was not the kind of place where you’d want to be walking around dark alleys. More or less slums, the living conditions in the area were squalid. The area was predominately inhabited by London’s working classes, a hodgepodge of immigrants mostly from Poland, Russia, and Germany. Whitechapel was in the center of all this. If you took a time machine back to 1888, Whitechapel would have been buzzing day and night. Ladies working hard for their rent on the street corner, barefoot children running along the cobblestones, men gathering at the pub for a pint or two (or ten) after their shifts at the docks. But there would have been something else in the air in 1888 – fear. Ladies of the night were being killed left and right. Not just killed, brutally murdered. Nobody knew who was responsible, and…Continue Reading