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Abandon ship.

Click up there, friends and followers!

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Flying away!
I am migrating. No, not that kind of migrating.
I’ve just spent the last few hours rebuilding this blog as a primary Tumblr instead of secondary. I’ll be posting there from now on and will be abandoning this one. While all my past posts successfully transferred, my followers did not. That means, I’ll need all four million of you to click up there and hit ‘Follow’ once again.
Cool? Thanks!

Flying away!

I am migrating. No, not that kind of migrating.

I’ve just spent the last few hours rebuilding this blog as a primary Tumblr instead of secondary. I’ll be posting there from now on and will be abandoning this one. While all my past posts successfully transferred, my followers did not. That means, I’ll need all four million of you to click up there and hit ‘Follow’ once again.

Cool? Thanks!

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Flea Market Faces

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The day I got inked at AKA Berlin.

Right after arriving in the city, I biked straight to the parlor where I’d set an appointment with amazing tattooer Super Timor of Belgrade.

It was a four-hour ideal with one five-minute break in the middle. Even as my arm throbbed like a second degree sunburn, we conversed the whole time. We talked about our homes and histories, and our art and aspirations.

I’m pleased with the result and am glad to be a walking, talking canvas for one talented individual’s work. I think that’s what’s amazing about tattoo art – it lives on in the recipient, in his friends, family, and future family. If the tattoo bearer is a traveler, then it reaches whatever city the ticket takes him.

Lastly, having tattoo means a more frequent asking of the question, “well, what does it mean?” Witnesses are almost always curious of purpose and intention. And if we, as humans, were also designed on this giant skin patch called the earth, what do we say when we’re asked for our meaning? When I’ve gone, I leave some sort of mark, small or vast depending on what I do, I wonder then… What would all that mean?

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Park life.

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Danes on wheels.
On my first day of roaming around Paris, I heard the familiar pop and scrape of a skateboard. I couldn’t understand most of what these guys were saying but I could pick out words like “kickflip,” “ollie,” and “boneless.” Whether in Europe, Asia, or America, skate jargon is the same in every language. I asked them if they spoke English. They said yes, but it didn’t really matter. For about half an hour, we took turns on the one board, sharing tricks and talking about spots in our hometowns. Later on, a Parisian skater joined in as well.
Before I left, we took this picture. They told me to add them on Facebook, and if I was ever in Copenhagen, I should cruise with them. More than landing a few tricks, I’ve landed new friends.
A simple ollie doesn’t just go over curbs or ledges, it clears oceans and barriers.

Danes on wheels.

On my first day of roaming around Paris, I heard the familiar pop and scrape of a skateboard. I couldn’t understand most of what these guys were saying but I could pick out words like “kickflip,” “ollie,” and “boneless.” Whether in Europe, Asia, or America, skate jargon is the same in every language. I asked them if they spoke English. They said yes, but it didn’t really matter. For about half an hour, we took turns on the one board, sharing tricks and talking about spots in our hometowns. Later on, a Parisian skater joined in as well.

Before I left, we took this picture. They told me to add them on Facebook, and if I was ever in Copenhagen, I should cruise with them. More than landing a few tricks, I’ve landed new friends.

A simple ollie doesn’t just go over curbs or ledges, it clears oceans and barriers.

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On the first day of my Europe tour, I had the honor of strolling through the house where Rembrandt once lived. It is a gorgeous space and it gives a glimpse of how the artist was able to observe light. With sun diffused through cloud and through his frosted windows, the visitors’ faces were illuminated in a way not too dissimilar from the subjects in Rembrandt’s work.

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Amsterdam is all about their bicycles.

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This is Flore of Avignon.

A woman of jazz.

A lovely friend with a lovely voice.

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Meow.