Charleston: the southern city of hazy dreams.

the birds in the south have a sweet lyric. in the morning, the tune shifts between notes, rapidly calling from higher octaves to lower accentuations. coupled with the sound of cicadas, the emerging heat, and rising fog from the damp ground, and you may have found yourself immersed in southern living history.

we started our journey by carriage, viewing old historic Charleston accompanied by the clicking of hooves.

breezy barbadian-style porches lined the cobblestone streets, providing sanctuary for those fleeing the heavy air and the thick memories of the storied past.

spirits flew all around us. and sometimes within us. we sliced our way through the greasy air, fat layers sliding down our backs and into the streams of the streets.

we were living in a different world. one where history is sometimes altered or ignored, and we were the debutantes of the ball.

but all the sazeracs and milk punch and vieux carres couldn’t stop the lure of Harvey. still loitering in the background, even the smallest threat of rain sabotaged our southern daydreams… often keeping us drenched in emotional turmoil, yet completely dry.

the first time we had been together since christmas, the four sisters interlaced thoughts and dreams, reminiscing in the childhood memories of a forgotten past. was there a time when none of us knew the gravity of this world?

my youngest sister Emily, farthest from the rain that drenched our soggy Houston households, felt helpless and anxious as she watched the waters rise on my parents home this late August.  she and her best friend, Rosie, devised a plan to raise funds for my parents immediate needs, and because of her will power and generous heart, mom and dad were able to begin repairs immediately.  a brave girl, she walks most days alone, without the solace of our family.  one does not argue with a DJ about the music she provides; you can read her blog on our trip south here.

back in Charleston, lounging in the shade of the southern live oak trees, ghosts graced the trails of plantations and movie sets and books within our dreams, and we imagined wearing hoop skirts and lace and dancing with swayze and gable.

sweat poured down our chests as we prayed for a breeze.

life was heavy, laden with the humidity of the every day.

but we were still there.

we leaned towards each other for hearty laughs in the southern sunsets.

and yet we are still here.

and Harvey remains.

that time #twistedsistergoestoIreland happened.

It’s become quite apparent to me that I crave the adventure of traveling abroad. Maybe it was the few years we spent in West Germany in my youth; or the countless visits to foreign boyfriends with British accents; or most recently, last years’s romantic whirlwind of the French countryside with the sommelier. Whatever the virus, I’ve definitely caught it.


A few weeks ago, my youngest sister, DJ Emils, and I congregated in a frozen NYC to lift off to the greener pastures of Ireland. We had been planning for months, scouring Internet deals, researching trip advisor hotel reviews, and shaping our itinerary around the most beloved, off-beaten scenery. After countless discussions, we settled on a six night self-drive tour along the southern coast, from County Clare to Dublin, through EuropeanDestinations (at an amazing deal, I might add!).


We arrived at Shannon Airport before dawn, extremely excited, yet underwhelmed in the emptiness and utter shabbiness of the actual facility. It somewhat reminded me of a lonely uncle, shut-in from the world, with graying hairs teased out from behind the ears, uncontrollable and indistinguishable cursing, and the tendency to drink heavily. Plus, scary puppets.


After dealing with a very hardened, unhappy, tired Avis representative, we set off in pitch blackness towards the Cliffs of Moher. Luckily, the Irish learned long ago that most visitors need constant reminders to drive on the left, often placing road signs displaying the obvious, with gigantic white arrows depicting lanes, and reflective text on the asphalt.


Despite my inexperience with the imperalistic standard of driving backwards, we navigated our way out of the busy suburbs of Limerick and into the countryside. As the sun gained altitude in the East, green pastures emerged before our hungry eyes.


Tight twists and turns on country roads led us to the Cliffs of Moher, a painstakingly tranquil, magnificent wonder which took our breath away, and left us in complete awe. We were officially in Eire.


We marinated in the Irish sun, and lagging from only a few hours sleep, navigated our way back to Ennis, where an early check in prompted a deep afternoon nap. After all, pubs, fish and chips, and Guinness awaited. We had so many #twistedsistergoestoIreland adventures to come. With men playing flutes. And sheep. And old castle stairwells. Stay tuned, y’all.