Burnt

Date: 11/10/2025

Location: Cancún, Mexico

‘‘One of my all-time culinary heroes and inspirations is Francis Mallmann. When I watched him cook and heard him speak about food, it awakened something in me, a curiosity unlike anything I had felt before, to learn how to cook on an open fire. I resonated with his romantic view of the world and food, the freedom he lives by, and his methods in the kitchen.”

I’ve never been good at making plans. Let me rephrase: I’ve never been good at sticking to plans. I love the idea of anticipating what’s ahead, sketching it all out. But right before it’s time to set the plan in motion, I throw it straight out the window.

What did Leonard Snart say in The Flash? “Make the plan, execute the plan, expect the plan to go off the rails, throw out the plan.” That’s the kind of planning I’m good at. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a flex. I’m sleeping in the bed I made by following that exact method.

So, here’s the breakdown.

I’ve been a nomad for almost five years now, bartending my way through cities to make ends meet and keep the journey alive. I rarely stay anywhere longer than six months. I act on impulse, regardless of the chaos waiting behind it. It’s funny, really. I’m an overthinker; my brain can spiral over what to eat for dinner, but when it comes to life-altering decisions? I don’t blink. Get a massive back tattoo? Done. Move to a new city? Easy. Fly to Mexico to volunteer? Obviously.

You see the dynamic here, right? Anyway…

Let’s talk about the situation at hand. The metaphorical bed I made, and the sheets I’m now lying in.

About two months ago, after nearly a year in Amsterdam (a personal record, honestly), the universe threw me a curveball. I took a risk, accepted a better job right as I lost my sublet, only to not pass the trial period. My plans crumbled overnight. What was supposed to be a long stay until spring turned into an abrupt exit.

So, I did what I do best: I wandered. Paris. Amsterdam. Albania. I drifted, trying to piece together my next move.

Money ran low. Job applications piled up. And then, finally, a single confirmation: volunteering at a hostel in Cancún. I said yes immediately (impulse, remember?). I booked a flight with money I didn’t have, borrowed more to survive, and jumped into it headfirst.

To say the last few weeks have been a shitshow is an understatement. Applying for an American passport, searching for seasonal work, leaning on friends, and refreshing job boards until my eyes hurt, that’s been my daily routine.

But if there’s one thing the past five years have taught me, it’s that I’m resilient. Cockroach-in-Chernobyl resilient. Burnt, maybe, but still here.

I don’t know what happens next. I just know I’m not done yet.