Brielle Skye's Blog

Athens, Greece. August 16, 2019.

August 1st, 2019. Featuring Reggie E.

Fin.

August 1st, 2019. Featuring Reggie E.

Fin.

Nah. For real. When people ask me what I do, I actually experience of few seconds of anxiety wading through all the things before plucking out the right one for the occasion.

I run a writing community.I run a nonprofit.I’m a writer.I’m an editor.I’m an author.I’m a producer.I’m a freelancer.I’m a mess.

The thing is, they (mostly) all compliment each other. I run a writing community while simultaneously doing charitable work for young writers and readers in underserved communities. Because I’m a writer and reader. See?

But I do all those things because I love them. Which is unfortunate because none of them pay my bills.

And that is where producing and freelancing comes in. Not only do I have to fund these other projects, but I also need to, you know, eat.

So what do I say when people ask me what I do? Do I rattle off my day jobs, the work that pays me? Or do I talk about what really matters? The things that make me happy, and feed my soul, and give me a sense of fulfillment. I dodo all of those things, more wholeheartedly than anything else, but why does it feel like I’m lying when I lead with them?

I find that balancing your “9-5” (or in my case, 12-12) with your labor of love is a common grievance amongst a lot of people my age, and that’s actually comforting. Not my misery loves company, but because I feel like it attests to the path I’m on, and the fact that this feeling is probably completely normal.

Whenever I feel too low, or discouraged, or like a dirty stinking failure—which, to be honest, is probably too often—I remind myself that every success story includes a struggle. They all have some failures. And this part of my life, including the negative feelings, is just that part of my success story.

Would love some advice on how other people keep themselves motivated, though. I think I feel most determined when I’m having bad days at said 12-12 (kidding, not kidding). But I also find myself hitting a lot of walls; I’ll look at my three page to-do list and suddenly feel the overwhelming need to lay down instead. Or a seemingly impossible-to-clear hurdle will present itself and suddenly I’m fighting the urge to do one of the double-arm table sweeps. Obviously these are the moments when I just have to keep pushing, and I guess I have, but I’m very interested in how other people keep pushing. What is it other people do to summon that internal fortitude and keep moving forward?

If you’re reading this, and you’re like “Whoa, yeah. Been there, done that,” (or something to that effect) tell me about it and let’s inspire each other.

Hamburg, Germany.

They were different in most ways two people can be. She was a dreamer. An idealist. An adventurer. She believed in God, in destiny, in karma.

He believed in facts. Cold, hard, and proven. Faith was a concept as foreign to him as she was. He was analytical and cynical, a planner with a plan, full of all the logic that was completely lost to her.

And yet. He was drawn to her.

Hamburg, Germany.

They were different in most ways two people can be. She was a dreamer. An idealist. An adventurer. She believed in God, in destiny, in karma.

He believed in facts. Cold, hard, and proven. Faith was a concept as foreign to him as she was. He was analytical and cynical, a planner with a plan, full of all the logic that was completely lost to her.

And yet. He was drawn to her.

I’ve been in Amsterdam for six months and it’s already time for me to say goodbye. Only temporarily! But still. I’ve absolutely fallen in love with this city, and even though I haven’t even left yet, I miss it already. I’m returning in March, and I’m sure this next few months in New York with family and friends will be awesome, but I can’t wait to come back and settle in again.

In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen a lot, done a lot, and learned a lot. Here are a few, mostly insignificant, thoughts and observations about my first 6 months in Amsterdam.

There is something for everyone is this city. It seems like no matter where you come from, what you’re into, or what you want to be, you can find a community here. I absolutely love that.
Amsterdam is the perfect balance of big city and small town—and I say this coming from NYC, so I consider most places “small town”. There’s a lot happening here, a lot of different cultures, so many things to do. Even on lonely days, just chilling out or wandering around, I’m constantly stimulated by the city itself. And still, it manages to stay cozy and close-knit.
Jaywalking is not only acceptable here, but it’s normal! Alone. With locals. In front of police. No more dirty looks when I cross on green! The world is normal again.
Happiness and quality of life are valued way higher here than back home, though this doesn’t seem unique to Amsterdam. I got the same impression living in Hamburg, and even just visiting other European cities. People are encouraged to travel, rest, and afforded the means to care for themselves so much better here.
Canals are as wondrous as they seem. Houseboats are fucking amazing. There are VERY few things in life that top a boat ride when it’s warm out. And Amsterdam Pride and water parades are my new favorite thing.
There is a TON of untapped potential in Amsterdam. And I can only speak in a creative sense, but there are so many artistic offerings and ideas that I love in the States—especially in NYC, where no artistic venture has gone unexplored—that just don’t exist here. Especially for English speakers. Granted, this is a non-English speaking country, but it’s also packed with expats and tourists. It seems like Amsterdam would be a creative entrepreneur’s dream.
In a full year in Hamburg, I couldn’t PAY anyone to come see me. My sister came for a weekend, my mom for a day. In six months in Amsterdam, I’ve had NINE visitors.
Dutch is super similar to German, despite what both the Dutch and the Germans claim. Once I actually start trying, I thinking I’ll pick it up pretty fast.
Though not as hard as it was in Hamburg, it’s also really difficult to connect with people here. I get it—when you’ve lived in a place your whole life, you don’t really need to make new friends and may not be as open to getting to know new people you stumble upon in cafes. However, as someone who came to this city— where I didn’t know a single person—alone, the people I stumble upon in cafés and the like are my only shot at making friends. In general, I’m always keen to compliment strangers, hang out with randoms, befriend bartenders and baristas and the guy bagging my groceries. I’ll follow just about anyone I meet on Instagram, love a good Facebook friend, and will almost always say yes to a coffee date. So living alone in a culture where people are less willing to connect, even on something as superficial as social media, is something I’m still struggling with.
Advice to women (& maybe men, but I can’t vouch for that): NEVER assume that because a guy expresses interest, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. This may be universal advice, but in my experience, it’s especially relevant here.
My two most valuable Amsterdam acquisitions: My museum card and my Pathé Unlimitied subscription. I can think of few things I’ve enjoyed more in the past few months than movies and museums.
Close second to movies and museums: Bar Bukowski, IJscuypje, Sweet Cup and Piccolo, Pancakes Amsterdam, and Waterstones.
Only tourists hang out in coffee shops. I actually rarely meet people who smoke in general. The first thing people ask about when I tell them I live in Amsterdam is weed and the Red Light District. They assume everyone I know here is sex-crazed pothead, but in reality, it’s the complete opposite. There is SO much more to this city than sex and weed, though I’m not gonna lie—sometimes it’s really great to be able to openly get high in the park on a sunny day.
People in Amsterdam are stylish as fuck. This is the best dressed city I’ve ever been to, in my own humble opinion.
Zwarte Piet. WHAT THE FUCK. How did I not know this existed before I got here?! If you’re black/a POC/not an asshole, and you plan on coming to Amsterdam for the holidays, check this out before you get here. It’s NOT something you want to be blindsided by.
I still miss food from home. And 24-hour trains. And my mom. I miss my mom most of all.

 

I’m in Berlin and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s from a small town in Germany, and he actually hates big cities. But he’s here for work, in a field I find boring—finance or something else uptight. He’s a workaholic and, at first, I think he may be boring, too.

Except he also finds his job pretty boring, and like me, has dreams of opening a café. We spend hours having passionate conversations about our plans and aspirations. His ambition is what gets me in the end.

His ambition, and his beard. Yeah, he definitely has a beard. And he doesn’t roll his eyes when I tell him to burn blue candles to relax. And he wears the pyrite stone I wrapped for him, always careful not to let people touch it. And every so often, he lets me burn sage in his room and even grows to like the smell.

Mom likes him because he has a retirement plan. Dad likes him because he holds the pigeons. Paris likes him because Mia does. His own family is small and quiet, so mine overwhelms him. But he tolerates his own discomfort on account of me, and I appreciate that about him more than anything else.

We argue because I’m never on time. His lack of spontaneity annoys me. He wants to settle down in a small town, and I can’t see myself anywhere but a major city. I think he takes his corporate job too seriously. He thinks my career goals are a bit idealistic. But at the end of the day, our support knows no conditions and our love has no bounds.

What do you think, y’all? Can I find him? Or should I keep searching for one of my other loves? By now, my options are aplenty—Paris, Hamburg, Stockholm, Tétouan, Copenhagen. Who’s your favorite?

I’m in Copenhagen, and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s tall and tattooed. Not very attractive, and yet I’m very attracted to him. It’s something about the effortlessness in which he carries himself. He stands out without meaning to, but fits perfectly next to me.

We meet at a café where he’s drinking black tea and reading my favorite novel. We spend the next forty-five minutes talking about literature and life. He reads even more than me, and aspires to be a translator. He doesn’t ask me for my phone number when we part ways, but finds me online a few weeks later after he purchases and reads my books.

I fall in love with his substantial personal library and his abnormally long fingers and the small details of his face. We never run out of things to talk about, even when we aren’t talking about anything at all. He speaks slowly but he’s quick, and his wit often catches me off guard.

When I move to Copenhagen to be closer to him, no one is surprised. Mom likes how intelligent he is. Dad likes that he’s not easily intimidated. Paris likes that he’s goofy and they have too many inside jokes. Lauren likes how he dresses and that she always has a place to stay when she visit Copenhagen. He has a big, loud family so he isn’t thrown by mine. We want to get married just for a reason to get them all together in one place.

We never agree on what movies to see or what series to watch. My eating habits and general indecisiveness infuriate him. Sometimes I won’t kiss him because he tastes like cigarettes, and he’s a bit of an asshole when he’s drunk. But once in a while, we smoke weed and take walks through the rain while we’re a little high, and it’s in those moments, especially, I know that I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

Is this the one, or am I destined for one of my other—French, German, Swedish, Moroccan—loves? I’ll tell you if I find him, y’all. In the meantime, which one are you rooting for?

I’m in Tétouan, Morocco, and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s a writer, maybe. Maybe a painter. Maybe both. Some creative, reclusive type. He works hard at a button-up job that’s fulfilling enough nine months a year so that he can spend long summers doing what he really loves. He rents lonely cottages in foreign villages and empty hillsides and out-of-the-way small towns where he writes things most people won’t ever read or paints things most people won’t ever see.

We meet at a roadside café and have tea when he helps me order in Arabic. After we part ways for the first time, I’m sure I won’t see him again, but I do, of course. Somewhere random and unexpected; haggling at a souk, turning a corner in a blue city, buying fresh msemen from a street cart. Like me, he thinks it’s a sign. I like that he believes that universe herself introduced us. It isn’t until the first time he cooks me a traditional Moroccan dinner, though, that I know it’s meant to be; I eat everything he serves, and even have seconds.

He’s calmer than me, more confident—or less concerned. He’s more down to earth—or just less materialistic. He’s faithful to his religion yet doesn’t force it on me. He stays at a level four when I’m at a consistent six. Rarely does he find a need to raise his voice. Sometimes his patience irks me, but mostly it just reminds me to work on mine.

He’s older than me, smarter in a lot of ways, certainly more worldly. Lauren likes him because his free spirit matches mine. Maria likes him because he doesn’t think my superstitions are silly. Paris likes him because they never run out of things to talk about. At first, the years between us took Mom and Dad some getting used to, but once you get to know him, get to know us together, it’s easy to forget about any reasons we wouldn’t be right for each other.

I have about a week left to find him, y’all. Keep your fingers crossed! In the meantime, tell me which of my true loves is your favorite: Moroccan, French, German, or Swedish?