I’m Sherry Dryja, a neurodiverse writer, creator, vegan baker, and theologian living in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood.
All in Humor in Travel
Our trip to Mexico City started with walking tours, tacos, and ambition. It ended with a cold, a curtain, and a surprising lesson in letting go.
Stranded on a dark San Francisco street, Mike slumped onto a stoop, looking less like a guy with motion sickness and more like someone who had lost a fight with a bottle of tequila. People crossed the street to avoid us. That’s when I realized: we weren’t just stuck—we were being judged.
Cartagena is hot. Not ‘Oh, let me grab my sunhat’ hot. More like ‘I am melting into the pavement and will soon become one with the earth’ hot. By midday, I had transformed from carefree traveler to overheated swamp creature. So, when we walked into a fancy restaurant without even changing clothes, I was already feeling like a sweaty disaster. But I was not prepared for what happened next: a full-body collision with Benjamin Bratt’s bare chest.
As we savored the unexpected treat, we couldn’t help but admire Ted’s audacity. Who would’ve guessed that a Kremówka truck could lead to such joy? In hindsight, we all wished we’d followed him instead of trudging through yet another church.
