Singapore.

Dear Singapore,

I thought I knew what to expect. In some ways I did. You’re a big city. An unbelievably clean, big city. The world’s fourth biggest financial superpower. And the place to be in Southeast Asia if you’re into swanky shopping, fast cars, and luxury high-rise condos with spectacular rooftop bars. But it’s what’s in between that makes you so great. In between the pristine boulevards and glass towers, mosques and temples are tucked away. Bustling hawker markets serve local street foods. And pockets of Chinese, Malaysian, and Indian culture sprinkle the city with a colorful energy. Those are the parts I didn’t expect, but they’re just the kind of thing that makes me want to come back.

-Kristen

Cambodia.

Dear Cambodia, 

My life’s to-do list is at once shorter and longer. There are more ruins to explore, more customs to learn, more sunsets to photograph. And next time, because there will be a next time, I will be brave enough to eat some crickets. Promise. 

Until then,​

Kristen

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Siem Reap, Cambodia.

Dear Noodle Lady, 

It’s 96 degrees with humidity nearing 100 percent. The smell of fermented fish paste and raw meat wage a war against my gag reflexes. I’m worlds away from the nearest metropolitan farmer’s market — no mommies with strollers here. And then I see you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know about your clothes, your noodles, your family, your culture. I have so many questions, but I only ask one. I point to my camera, “May I take your picture?”  The rest of your story I’ll have to imagine on my own. 

-Kristen

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Hanoi, Vietnam.

Dear Hanoi,

So this is sensory overload. Everything around me competes for my attention, but it’s the honking that dominates. This city is infested with motorbikes. I want to cross the street — that’s what the guidebook says to do.  But every time I look up, my vision goes blurry. It sends a message to my brain, “Don’t go.” I shut my eyes, they’re not helping anyway. Deep breath. It tastes like exhaust. I step forward. A motorbike swerves around me. I’m still alive, so I keep walking. A woman is frying spring rolls up ahead. I can smell them now. That’s where I’m going. A few more steps and I’ll be ok, sitting in the shade, watching the motorbikes whiz by as I gorge myself on spring rolls worth every Hail Mary I had to say to get there.

-A brave, hungry tourist.

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Monterrosso al Mare, Italy.

Dear Italy, 

This isn’t pesto. Or maybe nothing I’ve ever had is pesto. My thoughts keep switching from the epicurean to the existential. I don’t know when I’ll ever have a meal this perfect again. Then I remember, I’m in Italy. In which case, the answer is probably dinner.

Grazie mille,

Kristen

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Paris, France.

Monsieur Gargouille,

What a marvelous city. With marvelous food. And marvelous people. I know what you’re thinking, how reductionist of me. What about the art! The fashion! The history!  I will never know this city like you do. C'est la vie, Monsieur Gargouille. While you sit and mope, I’ll be down below, sipping a glass of marvelous bordeaux. 

Farewell, friend.

Kristen

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Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Dear Amsterdam,

Gosh, you're pretty, with your rows of impossibly crooked canal houses, colorful tulip markets, and cozy cafes. I think I’m in love. In love with your cobblestone bridges and artisan boutiques, your delicious stroopwafels and oliebollen and other pastries with fun-to-say names. Red Light District, shmredlightdistrict. You’ve got class, Amsterdam. Don’t let any twenty-something-year-old tourist tell you otherwise. 

Always, 

Kristen