The other day, in a moment of admiration of the piece on racism in soccer in Italy, I wrote a short quip on Facebook:

I cringe when an oblivious, obnoxious Italian enthusiastically walks up to me and shouts with crossed wrists, “Gangnam style?!”

Sorry, kid, that’s so last year.

Yes, it did happen. Yes, I was offended. But instead I gave him a look and then continued my way.

But then I wonder, what if I did stop him and said, “Hey, that’s not cool.” Would that have made a difference? Would have now known better? Would he ever know?

But in the end, in America, I indulge in being the model minority. And when I travel to other countries, I hesitate because suddenly I am not admired anymore…I am just another minority. It took me awhile to figure this out and the realization has made me hesitate.

But what riles me up isn’t racism. The fact that one may assume something about my race before getting to know me: most of the time, it’s that I don’t speak English.

But what really riles me up is sexism. I always tell the story of the cab ride where I slowly got into a cab while my friends had rushed in forcing the driver to wait for me as I slowly ambled across the street. Then how shortly in the cab, I spent more time on my phone rather than engaging in conversation. Just because of that, the cab driver made a comment about how slow and disconnected females were. I would have rather relished in him critiquing me individually for being out of touch, but to blame it on gender horrified me. And as the cab ride ended, I was stunned, shocked…and didn’t say a single thing.

There’s more of course. There’s the experience of observing burqas in Turkey. The observation that some women did not have a choice. That traveling as a single female in certain parts of the world is unsafe just for the fact of gender.

In college, fear of the unknown was all too natural.

Growing up with speech issues and high sensitivity to criticism led to my hyper-awareness of anything unusual and abnormal. Yet intellectually, I knew that taking risks were the only roads to success.

Yet as I entered my twenties, I felt better in my apartment with a predictive screen in front of me. My words were all uniform in volume with everyone else. My mispronunciation disappeared reflecting on my skill of spelling. I preferred the digital wall of communication. You could find me night after night sitting in front of my computer, typing words into chat windows and blog posts.

Yet I hated that I was missing out on something. Something.

Then one day, I decided that I didn’t like what I was doing. That was the beginning of not sitting still. I decided to stop saying “no” to social events that appeared daunting and threatening. I crossed over anxiety barriers of entering rooms of people I didn’t know. And so it began nearly a decade of saying “yes” to everything. Yes to travel. Yes to three new year’s parties. Yes to five christmas parties. Yes to dinners, lunches, brunches. Yes to late nights.

Which leads me to now. I have forced myself to believe that what everyone loves should be what I love. That, traveling for days on end, is an incredible experience. That the motto carpe diem should really be mine. Yet right now, it’s my 5th week of traveling. I want to sit in my bed at the rented apartment and not move. My feet hate walking. The idea of going to a restaurant and trying to navigate the menu gives me pause (and usually new food excites me).

I just want to sit still. Watch TV and movies. Wrap myself in blankets of burritos. And write. Let myself drift to sleep.

The good thing is that I am not tired of eating ice cream. Especially gelato.

It all started innocently just like all my travels. A confusing path via public transit and misdirection by locals to our hotel, the unrelenting exhaustion from travel, and disappointing tourist food with an incredible view. All part of the game in travel.

Yet in a few days, the city, as the media claims, was engulfed in chaos. Protests. Police brutality. Danger lurking in every corner.

This is not to say that the issues that the Turks are fighting in Istanbul are not substantial. In fact, they are. Growing up in the states, I take for granted the separation of church and state, the freedom of press, the lack of legacy, and a slow bureaucracy that aims to protect.

Yet, as I woke up every morning in Istanbul to the rising heat and calls to prayer from nearby mosques, I am struck by how idyllic Istanbul really is. Staying in Sultanahmet meant that we were surrounded by tourists and tourist services nearly 100% of the time. Mainland Chinese and Korean swarmed through the streets with a leader and a red flag swinging in the front. We were always mistaken for them with smiling “Ni haos” and “Sayorana”.

“So many things happened today that we wanted, and they didn’t quite turn out the way we expected,” Chris said.

1. Hiring another driver for the scooters
We were entranced by the idea of riding Vespas throughout Rome á la Roman Holiday. Unfortunately because his motorcycle was stolen more than 6 years ago (covered completely by insurance), he never bothered to get a replacement and thus didn’t really have continual experience. The guys highly recommended that we each get drivers. So we reluctantly did, hesitantly forking over another 100 euro.

2. Being stopped by the Roma Polizia for more than 90 minutes
In fervent Italian, the police told us that we could not continue the tour. They were confused and called a “specialized car”. So while Chris and I were standing around surrounded by a language that we did not understand, just outside the Roman ruins of a public bathhouse, near a major highway…we waited impatiently as our driver and guide were interrogated by the police. Three men pulled up in an unmarked fiat. The five officials argued over a book where they flipped over and over again. Chris was asked to give a police report in the officer’s halting English. “At least we got to be like Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck,” I observed. “They also got stopped by the Roma Polizia when she started driving the scooter.” After 90 minutes, the owners of the rental shop arrived…and then after conversations with the police, he said that our money would be returned in full along with a gift.

3. Hunt for cough drops in the wrong places
I was feeling a cold coming on. At least, I knew my throat did not feel well. So I wanted cough drops. In the pharmacy, I used my translator app…but could not communicate effectively about what I wanted. He handed me something that was nearly 10 euros and eventually I said, “Grazie” and waved my hand away. Later, in a grocery store, we went up and down the aisles lost. Finally located the cough drops nestled within the candies. Candies? I never thought so, but perhaps Italy thinks so.

4. Savory gelato
I considered this a great experience, but the strange pairing of pepperoni, mushroom, habereño pepper, gorgonzola with proscruitto, cheese, breadsticks was too much for Chris. When all he wanted was a smattering of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, peach, etc.

5. Plaster in our dinner
Just before we got very far in our main courses, suddenly plaster from the ceiling fell right next to our table, dusting our table…thus our entrees and water. Confused, we looked up. Then before we looked down, the server whisked our entrees away, apologizing. Next, we looked at our water, glancing up trying to find out where the plaster fell from. In moments, the server also took that from our hands saying, “This will not do.” In moments, he gave us another bottle. This time, sadly, still water. And when our entrees came again later, there was less meat, less shrimp. We ordered a dessert, where I thought it was the beautiful glass of white something decorated with berries and it turns out to be two crispy layers of cream dotted with raspberries.

I admit it. I am a control freak. Well at the very least, I would like to know that most things in my life are…within my control.

And when it’s not, when it’s spinning and spinning out of my control…

More than a year ago, I visited New York City with the intention of deciding whether I would move here That visit was full of events with friends, job interviews, examining the neighborhoods. Needless to say, it was stressful and anxiety-inducing. I was disappointed with the people, the attitude, the anonymity of the large buildings, and the cramped spaces.

Coming from San Francisco, I wanted a similar lifestyle. After all, so many New York City transplants were in San Francisco—quite often, seeking a relaxed lifestyle.

On this return, after more than 7 days in the city. Coupled with my ice cream interviewing and slow walks through neighborhoods, I loved it. And for some reason, the East Coast edge that was grating me last year was almost nearly absent. (Although as I walked down the street once, I got punched in the arm…)

Or is it because ice cream makes everyone happy? I would like to think so.

The idea of living in New York once appealed to me. But then faced with the tall concrete buildings in Manhattan, the souless apartments…I desired nothing else but to have my apartment in San Francisco. And most of all, a doorman.

Some state that doorman increases the building’s security. That I have always found false. I have walked into my sister’s Manhattan building at three different locations throughout the island undetected, smiling only innocently. What if I was an angry ex-girlfriend that wanted revenge? Nothing can stop me there. Social engineering is easier than expected. Most of all, there are areas in San Francisco including in front of my apartment where crime has been committed. I am not afraid. It’s a choice that I made.

Packages? Sure, that’s the most annoying thing about my duplex. I come back and the sticker is on my gate. Whoops, missed the package…again!

At one point, I thought…Green Point or Williamsburg. maybe.

In her 3 and a half year old voice, she told her mother, “I want the round and round!”

Her mother said in a friendly stern voice, “Louise, you must be polite, because Jenn hasn’t finished eating. We can go find it after we are done.”

I laughed as Louise smiled broadly and continued to fidget in her chair.

Then her mother said to me directly, “I think that she means boba.”

In ten minutes, we strolled down the street as Louise ran ahead, jumping over manholes and related covers. Every few steps, her mother would say loudly, “Louise! Please wait!” Then she would add as we approach an intersection, “Car! Please come and hold my hand.”

When we go to Tapioca Express, Louise peered inside and instantly threw a tantrum. As her mother pulled her to the door, Louise dropped to the ground screaming. “I want round and round!!!”

Pointing a techy startup guy coming out with a large milk tea, her mother said, “Look! It’s bubble milk tea!”

“No!” Louise screamed.

I chuckled wondering what round and round meant. Eventually, we went back toward her mother’s car where halfway through the journey, Louise declared that she wanted round and round initially. Spotting a blue awning of a Mexican restaurant, Louise ran ahead and peered into the restaurant. Inside, a bubble gum machine stood where with a coin, a gumball would spin round and round sliding down a circling slide. Her mother gestured toward the bubble gum machine to the cashier almost apologetically, “We are here for this.”

Her mother opened her fashionable wallet and Louise jumped up to pull it down, sticking her hands in. I reached into my bag to find my wallet, but her mother found one first. Quietly, Louise took one quarter and put it into the machine. With both hands, she twisted the knob. A blue gumball dropped into the slide and it went round and round. Louise put her hand in the small metal door at the bottom waiting for the gumball. She grinned happily, holding the gumball in her hand.

I don’t know if she ever tried to eat it.

I read about this test in Outliers about testing for creativity and non-rigidness. When I was young, my parents were worried that I wasn’t developing fast enough. My social skills were lacking. My speech development skills proceeded at a snail pace. Catching a ball? Impossible. But when tested for my IQ, I was tested for someone a few years older than me.

To this day, I wonder how my IQ was tested if I could barely communicate. And whether my parents believed that I would be the person I am today when they brought their oldest daughter to a series of tests (including a MRI scan). If it wasn’t for my social anxiety, what could I have become? Did my circumstances inhibit me? And why did suddenly my ambition finally broke free when I edged into third decade?

A dear friend once said to me in college, “If you really applied yourself, you can do great things.”

But couldn’t anyone?

Brick: building structure, oven warmer, steps, weapon, a door opener, a car opener, mini table, when decorated a piece of artwork, doorstop

Blanket: clothing, towel, fire smother, comforter, poor man’s parachute, blindfold, rope, chair, rug, table, pillow, stuffed animal