I’m Sherry Dryja, a neurodiverse writer, creator, vegan baker, and theologian living in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood.
All tagged Travel Memories
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.
When I showed up for a flamenco dinner in Seville, I wasn’t expecting a life-altering moment. I was just trying not to cry into my tapas. But then she appeared—in the corner of a tiny bar, under twinkle lights and a “no moving during the show” rule—and reminded me, with every stomp and sweep of her arm, that I still had a body. And a choice.
A solo trip to Spain wasn’t the plan. But when my travel partner disappeared into work and I found myself wandering the Alhambra with only sun, stone, and disinterested cats for company, I learned something surprising about presence, perspective—and how a well-timed feline blink can feel like emotional support.
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.
From the moment you leave the shore, you’re unmoored—literally and otherwise. Stress dissolves into the sea spray, and the tidy tyranny of daily life gives way to the untamed rhythm of tide and wind.
I always imagined dining at a Michelin-star restaurant would be a sophisticated, unforgettable experience. At Jungsik in Seoul, it was unforgettable—just not in the way I planned.
Here’s the short version:
✨ The restaurant: stunningly elegant.
✨ Me: accidentally eating a moist hand towel because I thought it was a fancy marshmallow.
Oh, and let’s not forget the side quest to find the restroom, which led me through a dimly lit lounge that looked like a Bond villain’s hideout. Add in a few mysterious doors, a lot of confused glances, and you’ve got my dinner adventure.
