My first pricey lens was a 50mm purchased at a local camera shop down the street. The salesperson had the foresight to sell me a UV filter - it actually didn’t do much in terms of changing shadows and and highlights, but he said I should get it in case I scratch my lens. I figured he was probably getting paid on commission but having something to protect my lens didn’t sound like a bad idea.

8 years and 2 broken lens filters later, I have that salesperson at the camera store to thank for protecting my expensive lenses.

The first time I really put my lens filter to work was on the descend of a hike in northern Ontario. It had rained the day before and leaves had started to shed in preparation for winter. As I hiked down, with Alex a good 30 yards in front of me, I suddenly grew concerned of slipping and falling. I probably jinxed myself because in the next moment, I was sitting on the ground. My lens hit the forest floor, hard. When I picked it up, the lens filter had 2 large cracks through it. I took it off immediately, not even wanting to think about what would have happened if I didn’t have the filter on.

The second time was far worse. My 35mm was attached to my camera and placed safely - or so I thought - inside my camera bag. But as I maneuvered to pick up some extra luggage from the ground, the camera bag slipped off of my shoulder and landed on the ground. When I opened the bag, I could hear shards of glass shaking. My heart sank and I prepared to uncover a broken 35mm lens that had been purchased less than 1 year old - and mentally calculated the financial set back. My lens cap was so jammed in that I had to use plyers to just get the cap off. In the process of taking the completely shattered lens filter off of my 35mm lens, I ALSO accidentally cut myself on the broken glass. But underneath the completely destroyed filter sat the 35mm, without a single scratch. Phew!

Some folks on the Internet will tell you that a filter is a completely useless thing. They will say there is Photoshop and Lightroom and you can change colors, dim highlights, lighten shadows with any of the photo editing software out there. But to those people I ask, have you ever broken a lens?

My HouseTrip apartment was a tight squeeze up 5 flights of stairs. I huffed and puffed as I dragged my suitcase to the room, cursing my lack of upper-body strength. The floor was unevenly paved, and the kitchen was just big enough for the fridge door to open. Outside of the window, I could spot grey tiled rooftops through the gaps in the scaffolding outside the neighbor’s window. Down below, the art galleries and artists of the 6th arrondissements were starting to wake up. Tourists will soon pour in.

The June weather was a cool 15C and high of 20C. It was perfect for me - warm enough for this Canadian girl to absorb some vitamin D but breezy enough to still wear fashionable layers while marching down Champs Elysee.

Welcome to Paris France.
Long time readers of Just-In-Time know that I spent 3 months studying in Paris. During this time, I met great friends, ventured all throughout France and Europe, and consumed more bread than I had in my entire life until that point. It was also this time that I discovered THE secret to loving and staying sane in Paris.

Underneath the lust from the city of lights, Paris will exhaust you with museums, lines, stairs, dog poop on sidewalks, and sweaty metros. The secret to a great trip in Paris - the kind that you imagine your friends are having when they post pictures of the French capital on their Facebook - is to spend only 50% of your time being a tourist, and the other 50% of your time just being present.

To be precise, you should spend 30% of your time seeing the touristy places, 20% of your time on foot because you are in transit, and 50% of your time taking long meals, people watching on the Seine, or reading books at a hole in the wall coffee shop.

See only the few museums and cathedrals that your brain will accommodate. Stay in an art student’s Parisian apartment if you want to. Walk everywhere and waste time because that’s what locals do. Eat oysters 3 times a day, and spend the rest of the day finding the next best oyster restaurant. Sleep in, do nothing, and the next day, repeat but this time with 3 meals of crepes.

My rental apartment was within walking distance of prominent sights such as the Notre Dame, Louvre, and Musee D’Orsay. In the early mornings, aided by jetlag, I would avoid the tourists and wonder these historic gems alone. In the afternoons, I would escape to cafes and galleries famous only to the locals. My days were planned  around avoiding crowds - probably not dissimilar to the mentality of Parisians. In a city as large as this one, I loved going unspotted. I could visit whatever shop that I read about in some small time blog and waste time watching lovers at Pont Des Artes.

After a long day wasted sipping coffees, I decided to climb up the Notre Dame. I was at the top of the city, and Paris spread out at my feet.

Whilst at my favorite used bookstore in San Francisco, I happened across Sloane Crosley’s book of essays “How did you get this number”. Sloane’s first short story took me back to Porto, Portugal.  Like the author, I had set upon Porto on a solo trip not long ago...

June was blazing hot in the Douro region and I was being baked in the oven created by the tented restaurant rooftop. I had forgotten to bring sunscreen, in fact I couldn’t even recall if I owned any having just emerged from the Canadian winter. My shoulders were already burnt from the previous week spent in Cannes Frances.

At the lookout over Douro Valley, I had a private view of the layered vineyards. Wine was not exactly in my field of expertise but I was in the Douro Valley, home of the port wine. So when in Rome, you piece together tidbits of memory recollected from the wine tour you went on in Napa California, that time when you and your college friend rode the bus for 45 mins to see a family winery in the middle of nowhere in Bordeaux France, and you embark on the wine region of northern Portugal.

All is quiet in the Douro after lunch. It must be time for an afternoon siesta. The Douro River sits undisturbed and I’m thankful for a moment of peace. The lush greens of the Douro vineyards  in front of me reminded me of the rice fields so popular throughout Asia.

This was my Portuguese dragon’s scale.

Most travel bloggers I meet have a hard time believing that, despite being to 35 countries, I’d never set foot in South America. I explain it as I’d much rather explore the nooks and crannies of one region very well before moving on to the next. But it’s not because I hadn’t wanted to visit South America.

When I came across food and lifestyle photographer Jennifer Chong’s images of Buenos Aires, Argentina my South America travel urges  tickled. Jennifer’s images painted the Argentinian capital as a warm and welcoming metropolis with colorful culture and modern design. As she described it, the food in Argentina was simple but tasty, and always served with a basket of delicious bread.

Here’s colorful Buenos Aires, as captured by photographer Jennifer Chong.

I first came across Charley’s work after being repeatedly mistaken for her at an event I had attended in San Francisco. We exchanged emails and bonded over Vietnam - her recent return from the country and my imminent trip to. Through her descriptions of Vietnam, I fell in love with the place. With each exchange, I grew my excited about my travel plans until I finally took up the opportunity to ask Charley to share her images from Vietnam  on here.

I hope you find these as dreamy and cinematic as I did. Vietnam, as photographed by Portland-based photographer Charley Zheng. In her own words:

This is Vietnam in 10 days: 8 flights, 6 bus rides, 3 boat rides, 2 overnight trains, 1 motorbike tour, and 1 aerial tram. At the beginning of January, I took a journey halfway across the world with 12 other travelers, exploring nearly the entire length of the country from the south to the north.

I constantly felt like I was living scenes out of a movie. It was such an extraordinary and cinematic experience. Life spun out like a Haruki Murakami-esque tale, a little bit surreal, a little bit dreamlike. Yet it was also so acutely animated, lively, and colorful that it made coming back to Portland feel like a strnge reverie. I miss the sights, the streets, the food, and the people already. They lent so much to this pretend movie that I was making in my head.








Charley Zheng is a photographer currently based in Portland. For more of Charley's work, visit her website or her Exposure.

Standing in the LAX airport, I was surprised to see that things in LA seemed bigger - the street signs, the food, the drama. With nothing in mind except a plan to get away from the Canadian winter, my mother and I stepped off the plane and kicked off our  weekend getaway to sunny Los Angeles. Our last minute Los Angeles vacation was packed with beach hopping, a Hollywood tour, and roadtripping along the Southern California coast.

Pulling away from LAX airport in our rental car, I thought, Hollywood, I’ve arrived.

At the top of the Griffith Park Observatory, Los Angeles spreads out beneath me. I watch as an endless line of cars pull into the parking lot, carrying hikers ready to embark on Mount Hollywood. It’s quiet on the south slopes of the mountain, I take it in before the drive downtown.

Down below, downtown Los Angeles is full of the hustle and bustle that only the mecca of fame could bring. On Hollywood Boulevard, tourists rush towards me on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I bump into street performers, monks, and a Captain Jack Sparrow lookalike. 2,400 personalities are honored in the pavements, which stretches 15 blocks along Hollywood Boulevard.

A short drive away is Venice Beach, which has a vibe entirely of its own. It’s 9am yet but the time I pull into the beach parking lot, the early morning surfers are already on their way own. The weather warms up quickly with the sun over the yellow sand. Muscle shirts and short shorts on skateboard whiz by me on the boardwalk. I feel like I’m living an episode of Jersey Shore, it’s no wonder they call it Muscle Beach.

In search of different vibes, we drive along the California coast out to Malibu, but not before passing the Santa Monica Pier, where we stop for a bite on the boardwalk. Along the way to Malibu, I spot more surfers are out catching waves and beach babes working on their tan.

Oh SoCal.