The world is full of beautiful places, but Southeast Asia seems to have a monopoly on unspoiled landscapes. I’ve been awestruck by the jutting limestone cliffs of Railay, the sweeping white beaches and leaning palms of Phu Quoc, the stunning sunsets on Gili Trawangan. But the Central Highlands in Vietnam was overwhelming: from floating villages to impossibly green rice paddies to picture-perfect valleys surrounded by mountains, it seemed like there was a more striking view around every turn.

I was fairly miserable for most of my three-day motorcycle trip through the region, but it was impossible not to appreciate the beauty that was streaming past on my open-air tour. The Central Highlands quickly became one of my favorite regions in Southeast Asia–and after going through all my photos, it’s not hard to see why.

What’s your favorite photo of the Central Highlands? 

Despite growing up by a decidedly un-redneck family in the suburbs, I was raised on country music. Now my iTunes library is fairly eclectic with plenty of indie music, pop hits and underground hiphop, but it still has its share of classic and new country. I love the stories country music tells, and the focus on a simple life with friends, family and lifelong love–and no one does a break-up song like a county artist.

My best friends in college turned out to be country music fans as well: we line danced as we pre-partied, schmoozed our way into Luke Bryan’s trailer with our sorority composite and slipped on boots and sundresses for summer concerts.

In my 2012 resolutions, I committed to going to at least one music festival: I knew it would be out of my usual budget, but it was something I was willing to splurge on. So when I found out my best friend’s family was hosting a group at their place in the desert for Stagecoach Country Music Festival, I immediately bought a ticket and booked a flight.

It turned out to be three days of good-hearted American fun: USA flags flew from the tops of RVs, and were featured on many T-shirts and tattoos. Most of the crowd seemed to be twenty-somethings, but families and couples of all ages made an appearance. Plenty of country girls wore nothing but bikinis, boots and cowboy hats as they strolled around the grounds, while many cowboys rocked a cowboy hat, big ol’ belt buckle and six-pack abs.

We spent our mornings making new friends around the the campground and playing ladder toss, flip cup and cornhole. After setting up our blankets and chairs on the festival grounds, we whiled away the afternoon napping in the sunshine, playing liars dice and snacking on barbecue. Once the shows on the Mane Stage started around 4 p.m., we were singing along with our favorites and joining in the crowd line dancing.

As for the actual country music shows? Luke Bryan was my favorite performer by a long shot: not only did he rock all his party country hits, but he also killed Adele’s “Someone Like You” on the piano. (It doesn’t hurt that he is pretty much the sexiest man in country music.) Relative newcomer Justin Moore made every girl swoon when he sung his breakout hit “Small Town USA” with his adorable toddler daughter on his hip. I’m not a big fan of many Brad Paisley songs, but man, the guy can play guitar–and Blake Shelton put on a hell of a performance. Alt-rock fave Sheryl Crow threw on a country twang for her biggest 90s hits, while Martina McBride, Miranda Lambert and Sara Evans were all examples of beautiful country women who know how to belt out a country anthem. I’m a big fan of Jason Aldean, The Eli Young Band and The Band Perry, and their live performances were stellar.

Overall, it was an incredible weekend which was worth diving into my savings. Often, when I’m traveling, I miss the little things about home: apple pie, In & Out burger, girls nights out. But when I get home, I get distracted by all the little things I don’t love about the USA and immediately set my sights on my next adventure. Stagecoach was an awesome chance to reflect on all that I love about America: the sense of small-town community, the emphasis on good clean fun, the love of a cold beer. More than anything, I got to catch up with my best friend: there’s something about trading clothes, laying by the pool and sipping mimosas on a sunny morning that Skype dates can’t even come close to replicating.

And if you’re looking for an authentic American experience: Stagecoach is a pretty awesome place to find it.

Music festival 2012: check! Special thanks to the Camp Ogden crew for all the fun and hospitality.

In Southeast Asia, I accepted that any overland journey would take a full day. Two hours, four hours, six hours: no matter what the travel agent promised you as to the length of the bus ride, you can kiss your day goodbye. I never had a bus leave on time, yet travel agents never fail to remind you to get there a half an hour early.

Here’s just a taste of what to expect when traveling by bus in Vietnam when I was en route to a farmstay about four hours away. Granted, I usually paid peanuts for the fare, choosing to ride with locals instead of on fancy air-conditioned tour buses.

Afternoon previously: I call the farmstay where I’m heading and he instructs me to tell the girls at the front desk of my current hotel to get me a motorbike to the northern bus station. The bus leaves at 10:30, so get there at 10, he tells me. I’m a bit wary—I’ve never seen a bus in Vietnam actually leave early, but agree. The motorbike ride will take around 15 minutes, the front desk workers tell me. I plan to be out of my room by 9:30 a.m. just in case anything goes wrong on the ride–I’m always pitifully early.

The next morning: It’s inching closer to 9:30 a.m. so I finally shut down my computer, pack my stuff up and head downstairs. It’s lightly drizzling—just enough to be annoying but not enough to call a taxi. One of the hotel workers pops outside with my destination written on a piece of paper.

9:40 a.m.: Hop on the back of a random man’s motorbike (as I’m prone to do), balancing my laptop case and tote while also holding my flimsy helmet on my head. Did I mention it’s raining?

9:56 a.m.: Get to the bus station. Motorbike driver shows someone the number of my bus. “Not leave till 11. No bus till 11.” Of course. At least there’s a room with flimsy chairs and shelter from the rain. Go up to the bus ticket counter and inquire, just to be sure. “Bus leave at 11:30. No bus here yet. You wait.”

Decide to put the time to good use and edit a batch of photos I’d been putting off. Vietnamese drivers keep coming up and tapping my laptop screen, talking to me in Vietnamese and taking my earphones and sticking it into their ear. This potential exchange of earwax with strangers actually weirds me out, and I am quite possibly the least germ-phobic person on the planet.

Two French guys I’d met at Jungle Beach Resort walk in to the bus station and exclaim my name. After a brief moment of confusion–I’d never see French Guy #1 with a shirt on!–we exchange surprised greetings, realize that we’re heading to the same place and decide to act as a joint force in finding the bus, watching each other’s bags, etc.

11:23 a.m.: At the same moment I go to ask where the bus is, French Guy #1 (I only know the name of French Guy #2—Francois) comes up and says he’s found our bus while walking around smoking a cigarette. Perrrrfect. So nice to have a partner in crime.

Walk to the bus where the driver has the card of our farmstay in his wallet. Reassuring—he knows where it is. Throw our bags in the back, and pull out our wallets. He doesn’t seem to want to take our money. Whatevs.

Hop in the back of the bus, and I laugh with French Guy #1. “It’s always an adventure,” I say. “At home, I just expect the bus to show up and take me to the right place at the right time. Here, it’s almost surprising when I show up where I wanted to go.”

I spoke too soon. An hour passes as we sit in the back of the van—our driver made some eating motions and went to buy lunch, but now he’s wandering around the parking lot trying to hustle people coming off arriving vans. Three more girls climb into the van.

12:32 p.m.: Glance out the window to see our driver drinking a coffee. Well, shoot. We have a four-hour ride ahead of us, I might as well have lunch. Walk over to get a sandwich—I spot baguettes, so I’m hoping for banh mi. Negative. I get a Vietnamese hot dog squeezed out of a red plastic encasing in a chewy baguette with a generous dash of salt and some salad. As I pay, I notice our van pulling out. Yes! Isn’t it true that as soon as you give up and leave, things will finally happen the way you want them to? I motion for the driver to stop as he crosses the parking lot, and he briefly slows down that I can hop in the back.

12:44 p.m.: We drive. And then we park. On the other side of the parking lot. SERIOUSLY. This farmstay better be bloody worth it, because if not I could have just taken a night train to Hanoi last night and been sorted.

12:58 p.m.: I get fed up. I’m not the world’s most patient person, and I do considerably worse when I’m waiting without an idea of when it’s going to end. Also, my hot dog was disgusting and I’m still hungry. The driver tells me 1:30 p.m. (or rather, shows me those numbers on his Nokia). I storm into the bus station, frustrated, and write the bus number and the time on a piece of paper, with the driver close behind. They cross out the original bus number and departure time. What? Does that mean it was cancelled? I’m on the wrong bus? They assure me this bus will leave at 1 p.m. (By assure, they write 1:30 on a piece of paper and I storm back to the bus on the verge of tears. I get really irrationally overwhelmed, and when that happens, I tend to cry.)

1:16 p.m.: The driver turns the bus on. COULD THIS BE IT? COULD WE ACTUALLY BE LEAVING? A whole 14 minutes before revised schedule? Technically only two hours and 16 minutes late?

1:20 p.m.: We’re driving down the street outside the station at about 5 mph. And the side door is wide open. Wait, does this van even HAVE a side door? Some man is hanging out the side of the van talking to people on the side of the road who are now jumping in the van with a lot of big boxes. On the plus side, he slid the side door about halfway shut. So there is a side door.

1:24 p.m.: Now we’ve stopped and they’re talking out the driver side window to two girls on a motorbike. One girl is now climbing into the van. Four rows are now stacked with at least four people in each row, in a van probably meant to have three rows of three. People are sitting on the ground in the “aisle” space.

1:40 p.m.: Van stops. Driver exits van with a pair of pliers. Not reassuring.

1:45 p.m. to 5:45 p.m.: A Vietnamese lady falls asleep on my shoulder. She starts to snore. Man enters the van with lengths of bamboo as long as the van. Another lady decides to have a very loud conversation on her cell phone in Vietnamese. Driver’s sidekick comes around asking for money, and I hand over the equivalent of $4. Lady asleep on my shoulder wakes up, promptly falls asleep again back on my shoulder.

6:13 p.m.: We arrive at our destination. THANK GOD. Some sort of miscommunication has ensued, and there is no room for the French guys. I thank my lucky stars that’s not me, and go in and order a mango smoothie. One more day of transportation, down. How many more can my blood pressure survive?

There’s weird architecture, and then there’s the Crazy House: a guesthouse that takes fantasy design to a whole new level, located in Dalat, Vietnam. One of the most bizarre buildings in the world, it rivals Gaudi’s modern masterpieces in Barcelona and Salvador Dali’s surrealist paintings in terms of outlandish imagination.

Designed by the daughter of the former president who studied in Moscow, the Hang Nga Guesthouse resembles a giant banyan tree with cave-like rooms, spiderweb windows and staircases extending up and over the roof. There are no rectangular or round windows or mattresses: it’s a mess of twists and turns and amorphous shapes.

Simply put: it’s weird. Construction continues–similar to Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia that won’t be finished for hundreds of years–but it doesn’t seem to be getting any prettier. Vietnamese architect Dang Viet Nga was inspired by Gaudi, apparently in construction planning as well as expressionist design.

The views over Dalat are incredible, although the walk up the stairs that twisted over the roof was a bit nerve-wracking. Easily my favorite part of the house (can you tell I wasn’t a huge fan?).

Since opening in 1990, it has functioned as a hotel as well as a museum, so yes: you can opt to spend the night in one of those crazy amorphous mattresses.

It’s definitely worth popping in while you’re in Dalat. Although if you’re planning a motorcycle trip through the Central Highlands, see if it includes a visit to the Crazy House: my first stop on the tour was here, and so the entry was included in my price.

What’s the craziest architecture you’ve seen on your travels? 

I’ve seen the San Francisco skyline come into view while crossing the Bay Bridge countless times: as a kid, I loved watching for the Alcatraz spotlight and trying to spot the office building where my grandfather worked. Now, I gaze at the city built on seven hills and wonder why I can’t be happy living in San Francisco: a city that captures the heart of visitors from every corner of the world, a city that many of my closest friends call home, a city that I fall in love with a little bit more each time I visit.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m searching for—or perhaps, what I’m running away from–as I insist on a semi-nomadic, minimalist life around the globe. I hate the idea of being ordinary, of being average–of being sucked into a life of forgettable weekdays, of living to drink to forget on the weekends. I want every day to be an adventure, every moment to be worth remembering–and for the past two years, it largely has been.

But seeing the world is no small task. There’s always another country to visit, another city to explore. It’s an undertaking that will inherently lead to disappointment: I know that I won’t be able to lie out on every deserted beach or try every local specialty or take every recommendation. As I read through the suggestions for my next destination that you, my readers, so kindly put forward in my survey: I was overwhelmed. South Africa, Norway, Turkey, Morocco, Costa Rica: the world really is at my fingertips, and yet, I don’t know where I want to go, what I want to do next.

I worry I’ll never be satisfied, that I’ll search the world over for my happiest place all while quietly knowing it was within. I could be happy in San Francisco, I tell myself. Just like I could be happy in Sacramento, in Melbourne, in Paris: I know that my happiness depends less on my surroundings and more on me. I’m happy when I make time for a daily yoga class, when I spend an afternoon with a glossy magazine and a good coffee, when I curl up in sweatpants and a glass of white wine for a long chat with a girlfriend, whether that’s in person or via Skype.

I know that the world’s diversity really shines through in nature, in the rolling hills and salty seawater and dense forests that cover the globe. But I’m a city girl, and cities are essentially the same the world over: a canopy of skyscrapers, a collection of patios and parks and soy lattes. There are gorgeous apartments, incredible restaurants, good jobs and fun people in all of the world’s greatest cities.

The variables are important but the differences just add to the nuances of the culture: how many days of sunshine, the political climate, the language, the laws regarding alcohol consumption (seriously: can you drink in a park? How late do the bars stay open? How expensive is a beer?). World-class cities attract interesting people; there are festivals and concerts and fashion, a million reasons to pay an obscenely high rent in a ridiculously small space, a justification to be surrounded by that energy.

How long can I be a long-term traveler? It’s a lifestyle that is difficult to sustain: financially expensive, emotionally isolating. Even living as a constant expat has its challenges: constantly making and leaving friends, settling in and saying goodbye.

Is my heart in San Francisco? I’m not sure. It worries me that I’m not sure; it worries me more that I’ll never know unless I give it a chance. My real worry? That I’ll be sucked into a life there, a life filled with best friends and sunny afternoons and sourdough bread bowls, and those dreams of sampling the world’s greatest urban centers will slowly shift into a different dream: one that means being a full-time local and a part-time traveler.

Imagine a beach you only had to share with fellow backpackers: no screaming children or overzealous hawkers. I’ve been there, and let me tell you–it’s awesome.

At $25 a day, Jungle Beach Resort is the ultimate all-inclusive for the budget-conscious traveler: it includes a basic room with mosquito net, a locker with key lock, three square meals (with a lot of rice), free water or lemon water all day, an afternoon snack of fresh fruit brought to you anywhere on the property and access to a very secluded beach. You can buy alcohol, coffee and sugary snacks at super reasonable prices on the premises.

But the real gem here is being surrounded by like-minded travelers: the family-style dining set-up, evening bonfires and communal hang-out areas all promote quick friendships. There’s plenty of those “five question” conversations: where are you from, how long have you been traveling, where have you been and where are you going next. As a solo traveler, however, it was nice to be forced out of my Wifi-induced isolation (one girl said we’re all recognizable by something–for Christine, it’s her sexy laptop) and not have to eat alone.

Not surprisingly, the real draw for me was the beach. The promise of a three-kilometer stretch of sand all to myself (and perhaps a few other travelers) was too much for pass up, and I wasn’t disappointed. I spent sunny mornings reading under a bamboo lean-to shelter, splashing in the waves and walking the deserted stretch almost into the neighboring town’s port. For those who can’t sit still, there were boogie boards and soccer balls floating around, and usually at least one group a day went to hike up a nearby waterfall.

I opted out of visiting Nha Trang–Lonely Planet calls it “a brash Western resort town”: I’ve learned that usually means it’s party central. Jungle Beach was a laid-back alternative: I opted out of drinking most days, but many of the boys cracked open a beer around noon and it was common to split a bottle of local rum and play a few drinking games after dinner. Once night fell, a bonfire was usually blazing with a guitar being passed around the circle.

The food is basic–I ran into one of the guys from Jungle Beach a bit farther up North, and we laughed about how much white rice we consumed in just a few days. You can order a fruit pancake or omelette whenever you wake up before 10 a.m., but lunch and dinner are served promptly at noon and 6 p.m. The family-style dishes included lots of veggie dishes, stir-fried meats, salads and French fries. It’s all a bit bland, so don’t be afraid to douse it with the chili-infused soy sauce.

After the frenzy of Saigon and suffering through three days of stomach flu on a motorcycle, Jungle Beach was exactly the dose of relaxation, silence and social space that I needed.

Note: Jungle Beach Resort graciously offered me discounted accommodation, but all opinions are my own.

I woke up before my alarm went off and rushed to the toilet. It was clear I’d been hit with my first bout of food poisoning/stomach flu/Bali belly–whatever you want to call it, it’s an awful mix of stomach cramps, diarrhea and nausea that makes you want to curl up on the couch with a mug of hot tea. 

Instead, I was about to embark on three days on the back of a motorcycle through the Central Highlands of Vietnam: I was due to be packed up and in the hotel lobby in 45 minutes. My guide had been organized and my deposit had been paid: there was no backing out now.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but let me just remind you that Vietnam is a country that believes in squat toilets and no toilet paper. Our accommodation the first night was in a “traditional ethnic minority village.” Sounds quaint, eh? It was an elevated room with a row of mattresses and mosquito nets, and a community squat toilet that was a five-minute walk in the pitch black night. Exactly what you’re looking for after a day on the back of a motorcycle, in which you spent an entire eight hours pondering whether you’d be able to tell your guide in time if you needed to vomit or if you’d be able to just throw up into the downwind.

It’s also a country that prides itself on its good food and hospitality: I refused anything but Coca-Cola, green tea and white rice the entire first day to the mortification of my guide. The second night, spurred by the comfort of a hot shower in my own hotel room, I agreed to eat dinner with the group: roll-your-own-spring-rolls in a storefront with too-bright florescent lights and shiny silver chairs. I spent the next morning in the toilet, and asked my guide to forego any unnecessary stops: he saw the green of my face and agreed to rush toward my final destination. In true Murphy’s Law style, our motorcycle broke down and we watched the members of our group who had stopped at a coffee plantation, a rubber tree forest, a cocoa tree orchard speed by. Finally, someone stopped, and I watched as my guide and a friend pushed the bike–with ALL of my worldly belongings packed onto it–over my hill and out of my sight (ostensibly for gas or a part, but my guide’s English didn’t extend to mechanical terms I could understand).

“The thing about Africa is that you cannot give up and take the easier way out because there is no easier way or other way,” said my ultimate travel writing inspiration Martha Gellhorn about traveling in Africa. I think the same thing goes from Southeast Asia. Once I got on the road, there was no turning back. Even when I was breaking out in a cold sweat, I was taken aback by the untainted beauty and simplicity of life that surrounded me. The stretch between Saigon and Hanoi can seem unbearably long, a “flyover” region to many pressed for time. But it’s where you can get witness Vietnamese life at the source: the farms where the coffee is grown, the entire villages that float, the simple fact that you can drive for three days and only encounter five stoplights.

Most of the time, however, I was a bit awful: longing for that cup of hot tea and an air-conditioned room to curl up in. That’s not to say there weren’t moments where I felt OK, or even better. I ate passionfruit after passionfruit straight off the tree, after my guide promised that it would help settle my stomach. I played with an adorable puppy. I went for a swim in a deserted spring after getting a “waterfall massage”, and then stretched out in the sunshine on the rocks.

This trip taught me the value of always traveling with a pocket pack of tissues (if not a whole roll of toilet paper), and of being willing to take a risk. Three days on the back of a motorcycle with a guy you just met, and watching him ride away with everything you own (passport, laptop, money–I mean everything) will teach you to trust in the good of people and hope for the best. And pray to never get food poisoning again.

Note: my guide was the nephew of the owner of the Viet Thanh Hotel and I was accosted pretty much as soon as I was shown my room. However, he had a logbook of glowing recommendations and a photo album, set a fair price and spoke good English. I was very happy with the quality of the tour, and would recommend anyone looking to get from Dalat to Nha Trang to stay at Viet Thanh (bonus: SUPER cheap for single rooms) and chat with the owner about what you’re looking for.

Here’s something I never expected to say: my absolute favorite beach in the world is in Vietnam.

I headed to Phu Quoc with a few guy friends from home on a whim: they were working in Taiwan, I was in Chiang Mai (with less than a week left on my visa), and we all wanted  a proper holiday, complete with sun, sand and umbrella drinks. Phu Quoc was our answer, and boy, it didn’t disappoint.

We walked about 200 feet from our bungalow to a restaurant ON the beach, where we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with our toes in the sand. We broke up huddling over our laptops (thank goodness for beachfront wifi) with swims in the sea: no waves made it perfect to float in. Once the afternoon rolled around, we ordered pina coladas and sipped while reading our books on our beach, or maybe paid a few dollars for a massage. Other than the one day we rented motorbikes and headed over to hammocks on the other side of the island, we had three days of beachside bliss.

We spent a day on motorbikes riding through Phu Quoc National Park on the other side of the island. Super glad I decided to hop on the back and let the boys drive: I would have been extra slow and cautious on the rocky roads and precarious bridges, but the boys (being boys) had a ball and I was more than happy to just let the wind whistle through my hair.

Phu Quoc definitely still retains that friendly island mentality: the locals were all super helpful and friendly, quick with a smile.

The two things I loved most about Saigon: crossing the street and eating. The traffic is just as full-on as the countless food opportunities: both are adventures that require a heady dose of bravery and a willingness to throw caution to the wind.

The Saigon After Dark tour with Vietnam Vespa Adventures was an incredible way to explore the city’s food-focused nightlife in a truly local way: on the back of a motorbike. As Steve, an American expat who has lived in Saigon for more than 10 years and who owns Vietnam Vespa Adventures, explained: Saigon nightlife involves a lot of “cruising” from spot to spot: it’s essentially a tapas culture where you have a drink and a bite at each stop along the way, visiting several bars or restaurants on each night out.

Saigon After Dark was easily my favorite experience in Ho Chi Minh City: not only did I eat incredibly well, sample a few local beers and meet some awesome people, I also saw more of the city than I ever would have seen on my own. Even if you are part of a tour, you’re still the only non-locals eating in these restaurants: I only wish I would have had more time in the city to go back on my own!

The tour takes you to three different restaurants, two bars and one cafe: I won’t divulge the locations, but I can promise that I would not have found ANY of them on my own and each stop seemed to be better than the last. My tour was led by Josh, an American expat who has learned how to navigate Saigon on his own motorbike, and Thuy, a beautiful Vietnamese woman who manages to get all of your food on the table and still chat effortlessly with you about life in Saigon. Both were brilliant: friendly, knowledgeable and efficient.

As we swerved through Saturday night crowds, I was glad to be on the back of a bike with a Vietnamese driver who was used to Saigon traffic.

On the side of the roads, vendors sell everything imaginable, from fresh coconuts to hundreds of varieties of rice.

In America, you pick your lobster out of the tank at a classy restaurant. In Vietnam, you pick your frog.

The “fresh beer” at the restaurant was a light, refreshing local brew: the perfect accompaniment for spicy, fried seafood.

The chili-rubbed crab was the perfect starter: it got our hands dirty and prepared us for a spicy, delicious meal.

The shellfish was incredible: barbecued mussels with peanuts and spring onion was possibly my favorite way I’ve ever eaten mussels, while I ate clams for the very first time–and loved them with ginger, lemongrass and chili.

These Singapore noodles might look a little boring, but they were the perfect texture and a nice carb-heavy dish to complement the seafood and beer.

Fried frog legs: we decided they tasted like chicken with the texture of fish. Almost as good as the snails in tamarind sauce. I’ve eaten both frog legs and snails in France, but preferred the Vietnamese spice combinations.

This crispy pancake ruined me for all other crispy pancakes, and the fresh spring rolls were incredibly plump and flavorful.

It’s never too late to buy a new helmet.

After a stop at a romantic piano bar filled with teenage Vietnamese couples and silky iced coffee, we headed to an awesome bar with a live rock band to end out the night.

The tour started and ended at Cafe Zoom (also owned by Steve): located in the heart of Saigon’s touristy neighborhood, it’s on the corner of a busy intersection. Perfect for watching the traffic go by!

Note: Vietnam Vespa Adventures graciously offered me a free tour, but all opinions are my own. Super grateful to Edna Zhou for recommending this tour!

Versatility is a great keyword for this dual sign. Expressive and quick-witted, the Gemini presents two distinctive sides to her personality, and you can never be sure with which one you’re going to come face-to-face. On one hand, the Gemini can be outgoing, flirtatious, communicative, and ready for fun, fun, fun. Yet when the other twin is present, you can find this air sign contemplative, serious, restless, and even indecisive. Both twins are able to adapt to life’s circumstances well, making them wonderful people to know.

While I don’t read my horoscope every day or believe all the astrology hype (although I do admit to checking compatibility reports when dating someone new), I’ve always felt like a true Gemini.

Most of the time, I’m responsible Christine. I’m obsessively early—one of those people who believes that if you’re not at least five minutes early, you’re late. I don’t carry a credit card balance, I’ve never paid a bill late and my rent is always paid a day early. When I sold my car, the profit went straight into my 401K—as did my latest tax refund.

Every once in a while, though, fun Christine (who often goes hand-in-hand with drunk Christine, although not always) shines through. I went paragliding on a whim in Germany.  I’ll splurge on an all-day brewery tour even though rent has left my bank account seriously depleted. I’ll dance all night, shout rounds of drinks and stumble home when the sun comes out.

Every year I get older, the more I realize how important a balance is between responsibility and fun. Conversations inevitably drift to what I’m going to do when I “grow up”—their words, not mine—and there’s a palpable shift in tension as I waver. Well…I don’t know? Is it OK that I know what I definitely (well, probably) know what I’m doing tomorrow, have a rough idea of where I want the next few months to go, and am fairly clueless past that?

The more I travel, the more I embrace both sides of my personality. Some days, I need to be alone: I’m perfectly content reading a book, indulging in a latte, sitting on a bench and watching the world go by. I don’t want or need to speak to anyone, and I’ll stick my headphones in to avoid any chatty neighbors. Other days, I’m as bright and smiley as they come, striking up a conversation with anyone who crosses my path. I’m up for any sort of adventure, whether it’s skydiving or learning how to cook on a street cart. Traveling by myself allows me to wake up each day and decide whether to be an extrovert or an introvert, with no one else knowing how easily I can slip between the two.

My indecisiveness and restlessness are trademarks of my Gemini personality: can you tell that I can’t even decide whether to be an introvert or an extrovert? However much it annoys my friends–what should we do for dinner? what should we do for drinks? what should I do with my life?–it’s shaped the life that I have today. I can barely stay still long enough to decide where I’m going next–and even then, my plane tickets are usually booked on a whim, those rare bursts of resolve that I’ve learned to utilize.

It might also be why my Fixed Life Envy board on Pinterest has more pins than my Wanderlust one: as much as I love embracing the half of me that seeks out novelty and fun, another part of me is eager to settle down (although I know how fickle I am–I’ll probably get sick of being “settled down” pretty quickly). Either way, as long as I keep finding new adventures and meeting new people, my Gemini self will be content.

How does your astrological sign affect your travel style?