I’m a novelist, a low functioning short story teller, a traveller, a fickle little girl with light rope for curls who may or may not be a real live alien depending on who you ask.
Here you will find all sorts of trinkets and treasures, little pearls of wisdom nobody wants to hear, long, wobbly streams of my queer and quacky consciousness, a beehive named El Dorado, and roughly told tales of my wanderings and wonderings across the European continent. Oh yes, that’s right. This is a travel blog. Or rather the black sheep offspring of a travel blog who made love to a Lewis Carroll poem.
Caution: There may be odd references to assorted pie recipes, as well as the occasional dip into schizophrenic amalgams of linguistic delight. Please keep your hands and feet inside the railcar at all times, and please, for the love of God’s Pajamas, don’t ask any questions you aren’t ready to hear the answer to.
P.S. If the sheer motion of this blog does maim you in the process of reading, I am not liable, though I will send you a sweetly worded greeting card urging you to get well (or wrecked, depending on our shared karma.)
P.P.S. Don’t trust wood elves, especially ones bearing gilded boxes of tayberry pie.
Your Good Pal Zoey