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H O P O N A P L A N E, London (2026)

22/01/2023

Alright, maybe I was just out of the loop but I lived a whole life ignorant to how gorgeous of a city London is. And I don’t mean the bridges, the endless Gothic structures, or even the parks. I’m talking about the street art. It’s nearly endless and creates landmarks more worthy of a visit than the Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels (that’s £30 I can never get back). My first major encounter with the street art of London was a visit to the Leake Street Graffiti Tunnel. Under the Lambeth streets lies a passageway covered end to end in every flavour of street art from the impeccable to the incompetent (I couldn’t even figure out how to get my spray paint can to work). But it didn’t end there, there’s famously world class graffiti in Brick Lane, Shoreditch, Brixton, and so on. I’ve never been told London is for the art lovers but now that’s what I intend to profess to the world. That the canvas stretches far past the walls of the Tate and thrives in even the darkest of London corners.

16/01/2023

Rounding off the trifecta of the Pacific Northwest is what I like to refer to as Extremely Northern California. The state of California is not usually considered as part of the PNW but if you’ve ever been to the part that borders Oregon, then you know that the vibes of that region are very much similar to the two states above it. Pictured is me sitting on a massive fallen tree in Weott, California along the absolutely incomparable Avenue of the Giants. It’s a 50km stretch of roads that trails through one of the most beautiful parts of the world. Yet there is still that feeling of seclusion and an incredibly blurred line between nature and self—endemic to the PNW. Redwood trees tower over every inch of earth, creating a moody, shady world and a bed of grass, leaves, ferns, and pine needles below. Sometimes the world feels so small to me. I’ve seen so much of it and at my worst, it leaves me feeling jaded. Then I remember places like the one pictured. I remember that one could spend weeks exploring just this tiny stretch of road. Next time on that drive from Oregon to Northern California, I’m sure I will spend more time pulling over and immersing myself in these glorious trees in the only place in the world where they grow naturally.

14/01/2023

Maybe the van life isn’t for everyone but it certainly isn’t for every place, no matter how ideal it may be. Take Jamaica where I live, for example. While the island with its coastal main roads and endless beaches would be ideal for a van roadie, there’s unfortunately virtually nowhere to inconspicuously park for the night and I don’t think I’ve ever seen public restrooms on the island. Then on the flip side there’s Scotland with its countless RV parks, vast open roads with hilltop parking spots peppered everywhere, and open facilities in even its furthest corners. New Zealand is very similar in its strong van life culture and infrastructure made for tourists on the road. Oregon really takes the cake for van life in America. When it comes to culture, gas and food prices, facilities, sights, toilets, and shelter, Oregon takes the cake. This photo was taken alongside Crooked River in Prineville, Oregon. It was getting late so we parked our van right off the road on a gravel shoulder and fished for trout before having dinner and a rest before packing up the next morning and continuing on the road. It’s a seemingly simple, unexciting thing but there aren’t many places (at least that I’ve heard of or been) in America or beyond where you can enjoy such simplicities without getting harassed, pestered, arrested, being exposed, etc. Another reason a piece of my heart will always be in Oregon: it’s made for the traveling nature lover 🤎

11/01/2023

Everyone knows that the most beautiful places in America are Alaska and Hawaii—and that’s the point, EVERYONE knows, so where do you think EVERYONE goes? Alaska is packed in summer and Hawaii is packed, well, year-round. So, while there’s no denying they’re the top two, my heart will always be drawn towards number three: the Pacific Northwest. It’s hands-down the most beautiful region of the contiguous United States. Oregon has a coastline that rivals those of New Zealand and Thailand and Southern California (with equally as good surf, as well), not to mention its 230+ waterfalls (and Washington has over 3,000!). The Cascade Mountain Range has enough peaks and trails (over 400 miles in North Cascades National Park alone) to last a lifetime, with its highest reaching over 14k feet. But what makes the PNW the PNW are the “vibes” of the region. They are immaculate. Everyone is incredibly friendly and so laidback that you’d think you were on island time. Nowhere is too crowded or over-hyped—the hike is always worth it. There seems to always be the perfect amount of fellow travelers and nature lovers meaning you get your privacy but you also get the chance to organically connect with likeminded people. Food is pure Americana with lots of romantic diners and seemingly thousands of coffee stands. It always amazes me how many travelers I know that have never gone to this part of the States. America is so vast, there’s so much to see. My answer to the question “Where should I go if I’m in America for two weeks?” will now always include going to the PNW. There’s magic in its soil.

09/01/2023

have you eaten your greens today? 🥬 🍀🌱🍃🪲🐛🦚🦜🌲🌿☘️🌳🌴🎋🌾🥒🫑🥦brought to you by the Jamaican bush 🇯🇲
#876

06/01/2023

The Traveler’s Home: I have some really terrible news. After a lifetime of travel and nearly ten years of bouncing around the globe, I’ve found that having a permanent place to call home is actually really wonderful and internally transformative. I’m so sorry. Sadly, it’s true. :) Here’s why—a house is what? Just a structure, right? It’s the way we fill it that makes it a home. We fill it with treasures, laughter, pictures of incredible memories, things to keep clean, love, the smell of dinners wafting, the experience of grief, candlelight, curses, we grow medicine, we plant food. You won’t find too many souvenirs here but if you stay a while then you can hear all about the adventures we keep with us. And the traveler in me (the one that still takes up so much space in my head) knows that this is a base, a place to touch down and stay down as long as I need (forever, even). It’s a place to write, to heal, to refresh, to inspire. A place to repay others who have opened up their homes to me in so many countries around the world. A place to cook and bake (I know that seems trifle but if you know me then you know it’s not, I’ve been nourishing myself and others for decades, creating my own recipe for years, the memories of others enjoying my food is my legacy). It’s the traveler’s home, one designed with round edges so that the wind can blow through the rooms and back out, out to the sea, off to other shores. Come visit.
#876

04/01/2023

Delving Into Cold Waters: It’s silly, maybe the silliest thing about me, but I have never dived. Never, not once. I’ve had hundreds of chances too, but I never have. I’ve jumped from high heights, I’ve flopped flat on my belly, I have a decent breaststroke, and if I’m consistent then I can even hold my breath for a pretty long time. Yet I’ve never clapped my hands together in prayer and pierced the water with them like an arrow. Yes, it is embarrassing and yes, you are better than me if you have done so, for what it’s worth (nothing). It’s something I think about all the time: why haven’t I? Well, I am someone who takes very calculated risks but has a penchant for spontaneity at no measurable rate. It’s all about the moment (the…”vibes”), no matter how much planning can be done in the head. And for every one of my moments so far, I’ve chickened out. The same can be said about frigid waters even though I’m aware there is less of a stigma there. My body locks up and seizes at the first graze of any water cooler than a bath. It’s a purely primal and physical reaction, one that I’ve tried time and time again to overpower with the will of the mind to no avail. But here I am, just a few days after my birthday, at the start of a new year, one that holds so much promise and excitement and yet, here I sit. Having not done the thing that I’ve wanted to do for so many years, at the shores of so many seas, lakes, rivers, oceans, and so on. The time is now. My waters are so calm and so peaceful and I’m so grateful for that. But I can tell: the time is now to delve into cold waters.
There are treasures in the deep.
#876

03/01/2023

1/1/2023, one of the best days of my life 🫶🏽 found this secret spot full of thick tropical bush and cascades of roaring waterfalls. To see my husband holding my baby as we walk through thick curtains of tangled vines, to see her little hand reach out and grab them as we go, I wouldn’t want to start off another cool year in any other way. 🫶🏽 we are so grateful to call Jamaica home, I encourage everyone to visit this place whenever they are in need of a primal scream, a realllll adventure, a reset to the mind.
#876

21/12/2022

📍Rome, Italy 🇮🇹 As it’s one of the most visited cities in the world, I actually had very low expectations for Rome. Sure, the Colosseum would probably be cool to see but besides that, at least I knew the food would be good. I expected everything to be a bit corny and inauthentic, something like the Times Square of Italy. What I was met with was quite the opposite. It was so magical to walk through the ruins of Rome; there was an entire campus of crumbling columns and ancient pathways. Carved marble statues stood on the corners of busy cobblestone streets and Roman-style pizza must have been invented solely to perfectly nourish those otherwise too distracted by the beauty of the city to be worried about hunger. I recently was having a conversation about the advantages and disadvantages of traveling to many places versus traveling to one place and getting to know it well. I hope to spend more time in Italy and get to know it more intimately. And with 2023 around the corner, it may be a resolution to make.

17/12/2022

In Italy I learned. I learned the olive oil-making process from fruit to harvest to press to consumption. It’s something the people of Calabria have been doing for hundreds of years and from the time they were children and the hard work pays off. After what I learned about the people and culture of Calabria—and Italy as a whole—, I know that olive oil is liquid gold, the elixir of life. It offsets all the wine-drinking, cheese-eating, meat-consuming, cannoli-indulging ways of the people. The process of making extra extra virgin olive oil is something that can seem simple yet only the masters know the complexities of the process. Firstly, olive trees have to be grown. And these are heirloom ones dating back decades. It’s best if they’re grown on a hillside (gravity is your friend here) but this means digging out terraces to walk along. Next, a system of fine nets is placed at the base of trees. It’s very important that the nets are practically sewn together (gaps are your enemy here-large holes must be sewn up too). Some time passes and the olives begin to fall from the trees. Shaking them helps! Soon there are thousands of olives raining and rolling down the hillside, collecting at the bottom. People then scoop them up and put them in crates where they are then sorted and sifted through. All leaves and twigs and impurities must go. Once you’re left with just those precious olives, the crates are carted off to the town olive oil mill. The mill is huge (takes up a warehouse space) and comically modern in such a nearly ancient village. And at the end of the mill is a single spout that pours out the most beautiful, golden serum. That is your extra extra extra virgin 0km olive oil. The nectar of the gods.

14/12/2022

In Italy I learned. “Scarpetta”. (Imagine along with me as I reminisce). You’ve just finished eating the meal you made, a meal consisting of fileja pasta covered in an nduja sauce with lots of local (zero kilometer) minced garlic and slices of “melanzane” (eggplant). You’re in Calabria, a southern region of Italy in the toe of the boot, a region known for its spicy chilies and “nduja”, a spicy and hot-red sausage spread. You chose a Calabrian pasta to prepare, “fileja”—a pasta shaped like the coil of heavy curly hair or an unraveled paper straw or a tight ribbon that’s been stretched. There are small dishes surrounding you, one with butter, one with parmigiana and a grater, one bowl with olive oil and a spoon, one with ricotta, one with bread, each messy and sparse after an excellent meal. You tear off a piece of the last slice of crusty bread and stab it with your fork. You twirl your fork along your plate and soak up and savor every last bit of the spicy pasta sauce. “Scarpetta”. Meaning “little shoes”. “Like a little man skating,” says your host, an older little Italian man with a thick white mustache and eyes that sparkle as he grins widely and watches his plate. The little silver fork man does flips as he skates around the ceramic plate, his little bread shoes for feet. “Scarpetta.”.

08/12/2022

A fairytale, a wonderland, a soft dream…Switzerland 🇨🇭🫶🏽 and that’s all I have to say about that today!
🇨🇭

H O P O N A P L A N E

22/01/2023

16/01/2023

14/01/2023

11/01/2023

09/01/2023

06/01/2023

04/01/2023

03/01/2023

21/12/2022

17/12/2022

14/12/2022

08/12/2022

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