Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 477

Italy Re-Mastered

Italy Re-Mastered

I always forget my camera.  ‘How will you remember?’ My mother asks, brow furrowed.  My response: ‘If I forget something, then it wasn’t that important.’  A philosophy that has not always worked out.  So, on my trip to Italy, I was determined to record everything.  Not only to save my memory but my life –my mother might bite off my head if I came back from our ancestor’s birthplace with only a few souvenirs as evidence.  Italy, prepare to be digitally re-mastered.

Spiraling up the narrow streets of Old Amelia, my every idealistic dream of Italy is fulfilled; I would have been disappointed if I hadn’t seen homes with ivy crawling down their walls or a clotheslines waving in the sun.  I had only been in Amelia a week, and the town’s historical feel and flourishing countryside had siren called my friend Bailey and I.  As we photo raided the old town, our descriptions were all the same.  With the crumbling stone streets and flowers blooming from every crack and balcony, it was the perfect setting for Romeo and Juliet.  With the expanse of forest stretching to forever, I immediately blurt out Fangorn.  With side paths leading to hidden caves, we understood how Fairy Tales crept into the minds of men.

My mind felt muddled.  I was uncertain whether the magic quality I was so sure I sensed hanging in the air amidst the countryside was authentic, or merely stemming from my own expectations of Italy.  I expected charming villas and houses impossibly gripping hillsides.  But my mind only saw how the real Italy fit into my own created version.  I refused to compare Italy to anyplace I had seen in the United States –Italy was mythical.  Legendary.  Unattainable perfection.  Fairy tales and Lord of the Rings comparisons uplifted Italy onto a pedestal of fantastical proportions.  As soon as Italy resembled the United States, its magic would die.

I desired Italy’s old-school charm, but it isn’t a country of stone cottages with people baking their own bread.  My host family had a washing machine, internet, and televisions in just about every room.  Nevertheless, I took the majority of pictures in Old Amelia, the stereotyped ancient Italy.  Not only was I perpetuating the illusion of idyllic Italy for myself, but for everyone who would see my pictures.  I was trying to force Italy into my narrow vision instead of letting Italy show itself to me, resisting Italy’s introduction to a more modern age.  Americans want the tourist Italy displayed in movies, but Italy needs modernization to survive.  A difficult dichotomy for Italy to juggle.  How can it prosper if the marketplace is holding it back?  How can it satisfy the world if we are demanding it to maintain its traditions, but throw a fit if there is no Wi-Fi?

Yet it would be impossible for Italy to live up to my idyllic standard, since Americans cannot decide what we want.

On the golden bridge in Florence, in Titignano exploring vineyards, in Assisi experiencing the spirituality of the church, all the students, even I said –‘Just wait until Rome.’  We were in places full of history, culture, and beauty.  Yet it wasn’t enough.  Italy wasn’t Italian enough for us.  We were looking forward to the bigger, the better.  Even my host mother contributed to Italy’s inability to compete with itself as she said to me over a handmade pasta dinner, ‘Florence is beautiful, Assisi great, but Rome is best.’

Could even Rome fulfill the ideals I had built?  Or was it only where I would collect the best pictures, ones untouched by the modern age?  Temples, the pantheon, Colosseum.  Perfect for my photo presentation to my family to show the magnificence of Italy.  However, moments where pictures were impossible, or not impressive enough to earn a place in my slideshow, captured a spirit of Italy photos failed to illuminate.  When my host mother translated the News for me every night, laughing at the ridiculous politicians.  When I was waiting to see the David, but was more interested in watching the man who sold pictures on the streets, run from the cops.

Maybe it’s serendipitous I sometimes forget my camera.  Behind the camera I control what I see and show others.  Leaving the camera behind allows Italy to show itself to me without my own stereotypes staining my photos and memory.  Italy is a mix of history and art and myths, but we often forget the authentic Italy, the common people who actually live there.  Americans need to accept Italy as it is, or is trying to be, and not foolishly like me decide to try and preserve a culture we think we understand.  We cannot prevent Italy from progressing and flourishing in its own way –mastering its own life.

About the Author:  I’m Lindsey Fischer and I am going into my junior year at Allegheny College, as an English major, and History and Latin double minor.  Originally I am from Ohio, where all the members of the Italian side of my family live, and eat, and talk and talk…I love reading writing, swing dancing, and now, travelling!

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Australia: Fishing for Zen

Although we didn’t have much light left because of the late start, the views were incredible and the company was great. A 15 minute barefoot walk had taken us out to the other side of the bay and our agenda for the night was simple: sunset fishing and beers.

Clamouring over a series of large boulders, Ty and I found an isolated spot, baited our hooks, and settled in to do some fishing. I don’t do it nearly enough but fishing contains easy going multitudes, and easy going multitudes are something I always enjoy.

I was happy to be with Ty. He appreciates the little things in life, understands the true essence of rarity and wears his kind heart on his sleeve. I once joked with Ty that he’s a modern day version of Huckleberry Finn, and that I was going to make him a shirt that said simply, “WWHFD?”

He liked that idea a lot.

“More people should do this,” I told Ty, taking a sip from my beer and staring out into the ocean.

“Fishing?”

I shook my head.

”Life.”

He nodded in agreement. ”Yeah, man, but some people are just lost.”

I took a moment to respond, “We don’t want to admit it, but we’re all lost. We’re all lost and we’re all trying to figure out how not to be.”

And then, much to my pleasant surprise, Ty fired back.

“But who says we have to be found?”

He smiled and looked my way.

“Touché, my friend.”

We were out fishing but really, that wasn’t the point. Deep down, we both knew that we weren’t going to catch anything that night – there was simply no way. For one, we lacked preparation, foresight and skill. For two, we had no idea if there were any fish in this part of the bay as neither of us had ever been there. For three, we were drinking and forgetting that we were actually fishing at all – at least I was. Consequently, I’d catch myself staring at the stars rather than noticing that my hook no longer had any bait.

But I was alright with that.

There are worse things to be lost in than a bit of light amidst the darkness.

After a few moments of silence, Ty jumped in. ”My dad thinks I’m wasting my life living on this island.” He looked out across the bay as the light slowly died, the colours were in mourning.

“Yeah, mine doesn’t necessarily understand me either, man. He doesn’t get why I’m not killing myself to buy a house, to own a car, to climb the social ladder. Imagine inviting them tonight. ‘Hey Dad, do you want to go somewhere you’ve never been and go fishing and climb over big, slippery rocks in the dark?’ It’s doubtful, my friend…”

Everything was silent.

Ty was next to me, but he was far away as well, lost in conversations past and wrapped up inside the pain of days gone by. As if to answer the questions swirling around inside his own head, he whispered, “We’re different and we have to accept that. It’s okay. And we’re okay…”

About the Author: Jeremy Goldberg: I make big things small, small things visible, and visible things known. But mainly, I’m trying to make the world better than it was yesterday. Currently in Australia. Connect with me here:

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Iran: B.O and Bad Breath

As the fourteenth country of the forty three that we would visit on our drive from Australia to Scotland, Iran was exciting and new; experiencing so many different ways of life in such a short period of time though we were becoming very used to adapting to cultural habits that we would usually find uncomfortable and social norms that ordinarily we would consider wrong or rude. Having already been in Iran for a couple of weeks I was becoming somewhat used to the ordeal of covering myself from head to toe, despite the dry summer heat, but on arrival in Tehran I wasn’t quite prepared for a ride on the metro.

There were women’s only carriages and uni-sex carriages on every train, as would be expected. Most women travelled on the women’s carriage, but there were always a few travelling with the men for whatever reason. For ease of navigation, and of course just for the sake of company, I chose to board with my male companions and ride the uni-sex carriage on our first metro outing.

After we squeezed on to the already packed train, another hoard of travellers forced themselves on. The density of people traffic on the Tehran metro is certainly not something that can be compared to anywhere ever in Australia, but having previously caught public transport in Paris, Shanghai, Bangkok and plenty of other world renowned busy cities, I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like this. I was lifted from the ground by the force of the crowd and breathing through the stench of BO, breath and aftershave was certainly a feat.

At one station the wave of bodies jostled and swayed and I realised that a man whose face I couldn’t see because of the other men standing between us and the fact that my head was awkwardly squashed to be facing the other way, had his arm which had been tangled up in the throng and wrapped around some other torsos, strategically resting on my body about 10cm below my chin. Unable to reposition myself in the slightest there wasn’t much I could do about it, so for the few minutes until the next station I stood there with this stranger’s hand conveniently cupping my body part until the train halted at the next stop. The crush of bodies violently surged as the carriage doors opened and the hand was washed away along with the bodies which had surrounded me, only to be replaced by a new rush of commuters. I decided to give the women’s carriage a go on our next trip.

The women weren’t quite as smelly or as pushy and there was marginally more space. Where the men’s carriage had felt cold and faceless, the women’s carriage had an air of frivolity and liberty about it. They were all very jovial with each other; it felt as if the whole carriage was occupied by one group that was travelling together. I was still stared at, but more out of interest than disdain – at least that’s what I’m happy to believe. I really enjoyed the sense of community and freedom that I saw in these women, the single sex train carriage being their sanctuary. I never travelled with the men on the train again.

About the Author: Eilidh Robertson: Originally from Scotland I now live in Australia, and amidst a variety of jobs my adult life thus far has revolved around travelling. I’m doing my best to experience the untouched corners of the world as much as possible and my most recent trip was an overland roadtrip by car from Australia to Scotland. Find me on Facebook or check out my blog.

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China: Lost in Lu Xun Park

China: Lost in Lu Xun Park

If I had been asked to paint Independence as a nineteen-year-old college sophomore, the resulting red-white-and-blue canvas would likely have featured George Washington riding a bald eagle with the US Constitution clutched in its talons. By that time, I naively fancied myself well-versed on the subject – I had been in college for two years, cooking my own meals, doing my own laundry, and in general being an Independent Woman. As a patriotic southern American, therefore, I was mildly surprised when I learned to redefine freedom on the other side of the globe, in the People’s Republic of China.

Let me back up. This isn’t a story about how I learned how to stand on my own two feet in a far-off land. This is a love story about running.

Though my school-sponsored study abroad trip to China did mark my first steps on international soil, the mere act of living abroad was not liberating in and of itself. The program, a study on globalization, was a strictly scheduled tour of China’s great monuments, interspersed with some economic and political coursework. For three weeks, I was shepherded through every Chinese landmark I’d ever heard of. I traipsed through the Forbidden City, climbed the Great Wall, and rose 1300 feet in the Jin Mao tower. These monuments, while grand and impressive in their spectacle, never took me out of my comfort zone. I trekked through each with my American university group, seeing only what I was instructed to see.

I have jetlag to blame or thank for my discovery of Lu Xun park, in the Hongkou district of Shanghai. I had no interest in exploring the area around our hotel, but 24 hours of travel had left me wired and restless at 6 AM on my first morning in China. I pulled on my tennis shoes, plugged in my headphones, and headed out. Three miles later, I first entertained the thought that I hadn’t been keeping track, couldn’t read the street signs, and had no clue where I was. What was worse, I didn’t quite mind.

I ran down side alleys and through crowded fish markets. I ran around Tai Chi classes in the park’s dewy lawn and past old men smoking under crooked trees. Somewhere in my morning lay a valuable lesson about the danger of a teenage girl getting lost alone in a city where she didn’t speak the language, but I must have missed it. When I finally made my way back to my hotel an hour later, I’d already planned to add solo morning jogs to my daily routine. My constant movement and the thickening crowds gave me anonymity and opportunity to just observe, without expectation or agenda. In a city where every site clamors for superlatives – biggest, tallest, densest, newest – Lu Xun park was beautifully ordinary. Even in the pale dawn, this perfectly average plot of urban greenery already brimmed with thousands of unique, emotional, intricate narratives.

It’s a false and tempting cliché to assume that my daily runs through Hongkou showed me the “real” China, but the tanned and thrifty salesmen selling tomatoes in Jiangwan Road weren’t any more authentic than the tourist merchants at the Great Wall. In contrast, these slow and solitary jogs taught me that vibrant reality bursts from every common corner of the world. Running showed me how to imagine individuals complexly, beyond the role they play in my own life.

To this day, whether I’m lost in a foreign continent among 23 million strangers or trotting around the neighborhood where I was born, I can always find solace in the steady bass line of my feet hitting the pavement. I am free to chart my own path, but the detours and quick decisions along the way usually provide the most memorable stories. I no longer need to travel long distances to find the extraordinary in the everyday, but I first discovered that skill on a soft May morning, lost in Lu Xun park.

About the Author: Brooke Watson is a 21-year-old former athlete, future doctor, and present gypsy. She’s been to China and Cape Town, and is currently planning a year-long Antipodean adventure in New Zealand and Australia. Sometimes she takes pictures .

 

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Myanmar: Day of Ceremonies and Thanaka, Bagan Day Five (video)

WATCH: 29 Day of Ceremonies and Thanaka, Bagan Day Five, Myanmar (Burma)

October 15, 2012 On this Sabbath day, we biked in the heat to Sulemani and there was a monk leading a service. Seeing the site being used for a ceremony was like having history come alive. At Maha Bodhi Pagoda, an Indian style temple, there are the seven weeks of Buddha’s enlightenment. Both George and I got styled up with Thanaka, “for beauty and protection.”

For lunch we ate at “Be Kind to Animals” We enjoyed the traditional Tea Leaf Salad, Pumpkin Curry, Myanmar Tomato Curry, with rice, water, peanuts to start and tamarind flake candy to finish it was less than 7000K. They also had many juices like tamarind and mint but it the high heat we needed water.

We went back to Shwe Gu Gyi: which is one of the temples you can climb up. Quite a few do not allow it anymore. We had a bit of rain, great views, and were ready to view more temples. At Upalithein: it was all locked up but had great paintings. On the way back to town, we saw Hilo Milo and stopped for another sunset visit to Shwe Zigon Zedi.

At Shwe Zigon Zedi, the golden temple, I rung the bells for my birthday, and George made the birds fly away. For 1000K we each added Gold Leaf to the Buddha. It was a full day from 9:30am to 5:30pm of biking in the heat, a long hot sweaty day of seeing great sites and ceremonies!

This movie is from our 28 days in Myanmar (Burma) from September 28, 2012 to October 26, 2012 and our year TRIP in South East Asia, see all the videos from our trip.

Buy our memoir, Traveling in Sin, at Amazon; it is a HOT NEW RELEASE!

Traveling in Sin is a TOP TEN Hot New Release! from Lisa Niver Rajna

 

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Brazil: I Heart Bahia

It was New Year’s Eve. The stems of wilted, white and golden roses washed up on the shore and tickled my feet, offerings for Yemaya (the Sea Goddess) from the people of Salvador, Bahia. Everyone was dressed in white. I watched as people threw themselves into the Ocean, some fully clothed. A pulsating Spirit permeated in the air…there was a sense of laughter and joy. I smiled, bemused that, in this moment, I was free. I was amongst these Children of the Sea.

I was standing at the shore holding hands with a Brazilian girl as she explained to me in careful Portuguese how to cleanse oneself of the past and “bring in the new.” She instructed me to jump over each wave seven times and afterwards, ask Yemaya for 3 wishes to be granted. After leaping together, I stood stark still whilst gazing out into the vast unknown that is the Atlantic Ocean. I inhaled deeply and took in my surroundings. Wow, I thought. I am in Brazil. It seems that Yemaya has already granted at least one of my wishes.

It all started three months earlier, after a particularly uneventful gig with my band, on a chilly New York autumn night. My mom and friends took me to dinner at a Brazilian restaurant named “Berimbau” and, upon entering, my entire body caught fire as I was instantaneously flushed and overwhelmed with nostalgia. I had visited Bahia, Brazil 4 years before that day to celebrate my 30th birthday, and I had loved it. But, I was startled by this visceral whole-body, whole-soul reaction.

Suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, I began a lively discussion at the dinner table. “Why am I always doing what’s expected of me?” I asked no one in particular. “Why can’t I be the one to go and trek through some foreign country? Why do I need a ‘reason’ to do it?”

As these questions pervaded my mind, I had a rare momentary lapse in which my defenses were disabled just long enough to download a single idea: return to Bahia. So, after consulting with friends, family, colleagues and loved ones, the decision was made. I would sell and give away half of my belongings, put the other half in storage and I would move to Brazil for 3 months.

I had no idea what was waiting for me in Brazil. I didn’t know why I was going. All I knew was that once the idea made its way into my head, there was no getting rid of it. So, I moved forward with the necessary preparations and began the process of taking this extraordinary step. I didn’t even know where to start. How do you even pack for three months? I had never traveled anywhere for more than two weeks!

I began with the basics: I called, e-mailed and Facebook-ed every soul I had ever heard even remotely mention Bahia. I began Skyping with a language teacher to get my Portuguese game up. I got the necessary vaccinations. I called up a highly intelligent, straight forward, highly pragmatic friend and commanded him to drill me with practical questions and astute observations, hoping he would convince me that my plan is insane so I could abandon this absurd mission.

Of course, my ego (who does its job of maintaining the status quo quite well) berated me and tried to trick me into coming up with a tight-knit schedule to create a sense of “structure,” thus insuring some semblance of safety. I resisted and remembered a quote I read once: “a bad day for the ego is a good day for the soul.”

As the day of my departure grew closer, I grew anxious. I vacillated wildly between uncertainty and absolute sureness. I felt like a crazed lunatic, my head spinning at break neck speed on a mental roller coaster of my own making.

It was time to choose between a predictable and sturdy existence or the world of uncertainty that would surely be the result of heeding my soul’s call for revolution. Evolution. So, I chose.

On a clear and cold December night, I flew into skies that didn’t feel too friendly at all. I gazed lovingly at the New York City skyline through the tiny window of the plane as a smiling crescent moon followed my ascent into the unknown, seemingly laughing at me. I silently wept, thinking, “What on Earth am I doing?”

About the Author:  Stacie Aamon Yeldell is a Board Certified Music Therapist and an International Recording Artist. She currently resides in Venice, CA and travels frequently to Brazil. Visit www.stacieaamon.com and www.facebook.com/stacieaamon for more information.

 

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France: A Princess for a Day

Once upon a time, Joan was a Princess for a day, in a country called France.

Standing by the window, inside her castle, Joan could see the roses,
nestled together in the garden below her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath;
it was the sweet scent of the roses.
Oh, it was a beautiful afternoon with nothing
to do but dream.
It was a freedom she seldom allowed herself.

She thought, out loud, what I would do in such a 
beautiful castle,in the Loire Valley of France ?

The castle was situated at
the end of a forest with the tallest and densest of trees.
As far as she could see, there were vineyards, all around.

She was alone.
Completely alone and it felt good.

No sounds of people’s voices
or music playing in the background.

Just silence.

She was free and that was an amazing feeling.

Joan had turned her iPhone to the off position.
Her office could not reach her now,
but she didn’t have a
care about the office.

They would do just fine without her for ten days.
This was her vacation
and she had planned for it,for over a year.

This is what freedom feels like.

I wish I could stay here forever and be the princess of this castle.

Looking out the window, again, Joan saw a horse
and a rider coming from the forest beyond.

“Who goes there?” Joan shouted.

“It is your Prince,” answered the handsome man.

“But, I don’t have a Prince, do I?”

“I heard your wish, so, I came at once, to grant you,
your wish.”

“Do you have a name, Mr. Prince?”

“Most of my subjects call me, Albert, Prince Albert .”

“Well, Prince Albert , it’s nice to meet you, but I must say,
you made me laugh out loud with your comment, “my subjects.”
Where do you reign with your subjects?”

“Oh, Princess, I come from this Valley in France .
Do you know about the folklore of the Loire Valley ?

“I am only visiting France for a few days, then I go on to visit
my cousin Victoria, who lives in Italy .”

“Then, I must educate you in our traditions and customs here in France .
Look around you, my Princess.
The Loire Valley is referred to as the Cradle of the French Language, and the Garden of France because of the many of vineyards, fruit orchards and artichoke and asparagus fields, which line the banks of the river.
There is so much for me to show you.
But, first I need to know your name.”

“Oh, so sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m Joan from America ,” she said shaking the Princes’ hand and bowing at the same time.

“Nice to meet you, Princess Joan,” as the Prince kissed her hand.

“But, I’m not a Princess,” stated Joan.

“Oh, but you are a Princess for a day.

“We are going on an adventure to a small village,
not far from here, called Chinon.

You can ride with me, on my horse. Ready? Let’s go.”

Joan was not sure that this was a good idea,
but what else did she have
on her agenda today?

Nothing, nothing at all.

Besides she wanted to be a Princess.

A Princess for a day.
 
The women back at her office will not
believe her good fortune.
They told her to go to France and
experience the culture and the food.
Have fun, shop.
Be free.
They didn’t say anything about what
would happen to her,
if she met a Prince.

“I’m ready, my Prince,” announced Joan.

The Prince and the newly named Princess rode off together
for an adventure to find their own French Renaissance.
Joan was smiling, as her hair was flying in the wind and
the soft breezes touched her cheeks.

A true sense of Freedom.

Joan could only hear the buzzing of her alarm clock,
on the table, next to her big bed. Opening her eyes, slowly, she stared
at the clock, it’s only 7 a.m. It’s too early, she thought. I want to go
back to my dream of being a Princess for a day and riding with the Prince through the forest to Chinon.

“Well, it looks like I’m not Princess, after all,” Joan said out loud.

“I better get up and shower and get dressed. I can’t miss the train back to Paris . I promised my cousin, Victoria, I would be in Italy in three days.”

Joan climbed out of bed and shut off the alarm.
Looking around and stretching her arms
she saw a red rose on the bistro table by the window.
Joan walked over to the table and picked up
the red rose and saw there was a note.

A rose and a note.

Who left these?

Joan read the note:

My Dearest Princess Joan,

 I had a marvelous time showing
 my favorite French village, Chinon, yesterday.
Please feel free to visit me, again,
in my castle, after your trip
to Italy .

Your Royal Prince, Albert
 
The End

Author’s note: This story is based on my own trip to the Loire Valley in France, many years ago. I bicycled through Valley by myself and stay in a small inn in Chinon. As I cycled through the area,  I daydreamed about this fantasy that I wrote for my FREEDOM Story. I have a special place in my heart for France, it’s people, the food and my experiences while visiting.

About the Author: Barbara KisKis is an author and storyteller, who lives, by the beach, in San Diego. She loves to travel and tells her stories to “anyone who listens”. She writes children’s stories for her granddaughter, Sahara and Sahara’s cousins. Barbara is a proud owner of her rescue dog, Kobe, a Pomeranian.

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Running Away to Vienna

The week before I left the States for Vienna, I cried a lot.

It all started when a professor came into my spring term class at university and said the German summer study abroad program was short on students. And he was providing scholarships.

Next thing I knew I had dropped out of school for the semester. I got a job on the campus grounds crew and started attending a class to prepare for living abroad.

The thing was, I was less interested in going to Vienna and more interested in getting away from university, which was stressing me out.

Okay.

“Stressing me out” is too kind.

I was a vocal performance major and cruelly, I had developed debilitating stage fright. Having to perform weekly was agonizing. I felt trapped. I was there on a scholarship, and I had been singing all my life. But the high pressure of university was sucking all the joy I had out of performing. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be an opera singer. Yet I had no idea what else to study. I’d never thought to do anything but sing.

So, I was “running away” more than “going to”. Fair enough.

As the day approached to leave for Europe, I was scared and tearful. This time, of the unknown. At least the school program would be there to meet me at the airport.

Except they weren’t.

I couldn’t find them anywhere. I didn’t know the name of the hotel we were staying as a group that night. I could barely speak German. And I had two massive, 50-pound-each suitcases with me. What to do next?

It seemed to me the hotel might have had the name “Christina” in it. I got a hotel directory from the help desk. Well, there was a Pension Christina. I wrote down the address. Then, I got on the bus into downtown.

I got off at the recommended station and then I started walking. I was dragging the two huge suitcases behind me. The streets were empty and everything was closed because it was the first of May, a holiday.

I was lost and wandering the streets of a foreign city alone without even knowing the hotel I was supposed to be at or the language to ask anyone for help.

And strangely…

I was loving it.

A little bubble of joy was filling my heart as I flipped through my German dictionary. Vienna was stunning. The beautiful old buildings. The gorgeous green expanses. I felt happier than I had in months (years?).

A man in his 50s stopped and asked if I needed help. In my broken German, I showed him the hotel address and the map I’d picked up from the airport. He and I started wandering the streets together looking for it. Eventually, he found it for me.

I’ll never forget his name. He wrote it on a card: Dieter Jakob. And his address. He told me to contact him if I ever needed help again. Although I never did, I have often reflected gratefully on his act of kindness.

When I asked, the hotel reception said that yes, this was the hotel where the study abroad group was staying. I promptly went into my room and fell asleep in direct disregard to the advice about staying awake to avoid jet lag.

It felt like the first day of the rest of my life.

Vienna breathed new hope into me. Every day was an adventure. My mind was being forced open as it grasped a whole world it didn’t even know existed. Austria is a land of elegance, refinement, and order. I woke up ready and happy for the day instead of having to drag myself out of bed. I was learning, changing, living the dream I didn’t even know I had.

I had broken out of the trap I had unwittingly fallen into at university, the trap that said there was only one way to live life even if that way made you unhappy, and I was free. When I returned to school in the fall, I had found new inner strength to face my fears and to finish my degree.

Though I had returned to the States, I was permanently hooked. I no longer was interested to stay in one place again, because that freedom—that ability to see the world in a new way —forever changed me. I now travel the world as a permanent nomad with my husband and son, and have many favorite places, but Austria will always be special.

About the Author: Kalli Hiller blogs about motherhood and earning money on the move at http://www.portableprofessionals.com.

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Freedom Trekking Aussie Style

I just bought the ticket. Australia had been a life long dream, peppered with tales of wonder from all the Aussies I knew. A ten-day excursion did not seem right. Traveling half way around the world, anyone in his or her right mind should stay for an extended length of time. Personally, I had all the time in the world. My nine to five job was gone. My best friend had passed away from liver cancer. My focus was gone and I was bored. Against advice from every soul around me, I cashed in my 401K and purchased the ticket. I was going to Australia.

I had no agenda. I didn’t want to burden myself with wish lists of touristy traps. My life had been on schedule for as long as I could remember. I made the commitment to step off the grid, carrying one bag, my fountain pen with refills, and a journal. I would greet each day, with a blank page, filling the sheet with experiences no matter how big or small.

Although I had travelled extensively in the States, showing horses from coast to coast, Australia tapped into my explorer spirit. The hospitality of Australians is unsurpassed. My first day in Sydney CBD, a very kind man, curious as to why I was eating hummus for breakfast, offered advice on historical buildings to photograph. He quizzed me as to where I was from, where I was going and how long I would be travelling. When he applauded me for travelling solo, I felt honored. A total stranger, an angel, gave me the best gift – a sense of pride for being strong enough to make this journey alone and step outside of my comfort zone.

As I wandered from Sydney to Uluru, aimlessly, absorbing the culture, the topography of the area struck me, not so much as odd, but empowering. Camping with a hodgepodge group from around the world, I would listen to their hopes and their fears, as we trekked through the Outback. At night, I gazed out into the universe from another hemisphere. I missed my Stargazer app, but felt humbled under the blanket of stars.

Uluru, a monadnock of strength, stands majestically for the world to see, not as a lump of sandstone jutting from the earth, but as sacred Aborigine ground. I opted not to climb. I was physically prepared to make the hike on this particular clear and windless day. However, I could not, having become so emotionally connected to the Aborigine culture. I would not violate their hallowed ground. Uluru is truly magical.

Zigzagging back to the coast, Brisbane gives surfers a paradise. What Brisbane gave to me was more. I had only one goal. I wanted to see the zoo Steve Irwin built. The Australian Zoo, his legacy to his passion of all creatures, maybe just another tourist stop. I understand that passion. I had that passion, with my horses many years ago and wanted to rekindle it. How many zoo animals exude love and affection? I truly believe each one of those animals was smiling, happy to be ambassadors to the world. Even the crocs seemed content. You could feel Steve’s energy everywhere.

I found Melbourne charming. My last stop before heading back to the states, the city has a thriving art and theatre community. My creative juices stirred. Able to spend hour on end, in the mist of the café culture, I wrote until my heart was content. The architecture was eclectic; old school energy holding on in the urban hipness. I had no agenda – just giving into the whim of what food I wanted to explore on that day. How could I leave? Better yet, how could I bring this attitude back with me to the States?

Upon my return, I deleted unread email acquired while I was away. I didn’t answer my voicemail messages. I didn’t re-connect with colleagues that did not understand why I needed to take this journey. Trekking through Australia changed my life. I fell in love with the woman that emerged while on that journey. Everyday I focus on keeping that love in my heart alive.

About the Author: Sabrina Zackery is an award winning author, director and photographer based in Reno, Nevada. Ms. Zackery left the corporate world over five years ago and made the commitment, to pursue a life long dream of writing. Five awards and two books later, her production company, Mz3, focuses on family and moral based projects. Recently returned from an extended stay in Australia, Ms. Zackery is working on her first fiction trilogy novel.

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Bermuda: Same Ocean, Different Shore

Bermuda: Same Ocean, Different Shore

            Cruising down the wrong side of a foreign road, I searched for any indication of an approaching shoreline. Having spent the last three days peering over the top deck of a cruise ship, watching the massive boat slice through the Atlantic Ocean, I was eager to finally plunge into that welcoming water myself. With the thick tropical heat filtering into our oversized taxi, my family members aimed their cameras to the open windows, all hoping to capture the perfect image of the Bermuda scenery.

Palm trees, cloudless skies, and florescent houses provided an ideal backdrop for our journey down the narrow roads, as speeding cars barely scraped by us on the opposite side. As a native to the island, our taxi driver also acted as a tour guide along the way. From the most elite mansions to each quaint little cottage, he supplied information on nearly every type of building lining our path. Eventually, to my excitement, the surrounding houses grew sparser and the sandy coast came into view.

Having spent that same morning exploring Hamilton, Bermuda’s capital, with my family, I had already seen Horseshoe Bay, our destination, on nearly every postcard in every shop. I had marveled at the scenic photos, but when we finally arrived at our greatly anticipated retreat, I realized that a postcard was no competition for the real thing. No printed picture of the rose-colored sand could capture its cool satin texture like the touch of bare feet. With each sinking step, the salty ocean breeze nudged me toward the horizon, where the already crowded waters begged for more company.

Being accustomed to the frigid New England water back home, I braced myself for the chilling tide to wash over my ankles, only to be met with the same warmth as the summer air. Now I understood why so many people were able to just dive in with such ease—it was like entering a Jacuzzi with an unlimited capacity. I waded in to join everyone else, taking my place amongst the hundreds of beach-goers enjoying their day under the blazing August sun.

Floating in the clear turquoise water, the ocean and I became one body. The waves surged with a rhythmic pulse, matching my sighs of peaceful satisfaction. Cradling my body, the sea made me feel safe even in my most vulnerable state. The licks of water washed away the sand’s remnants, and the calming motion cleansed my mind of all thought. As the surf caressed the blushing shore, I drifted along with a quiet indulgence.

I had no concept of time, and it didn’t matter. Using only the changing shadows to keep track of time, I soon realized that the passing minutes had turned to hours. I never wanted to leave, and I noticed no one else did either. For as long as I stayed, the crowd never wavered. Kids were laughing, friends were throwing Frisbees, and families were having picnics under their giant umbrellas. They were free from worry, free from care, free from life’s stresses, and I had officially joined them.

About the Author: Nicole Gariepy: I am a student at Salem State University, currently pursuing a degree in English with a minor in dance. In addition to writing, I enjoy doing ballet, playing music, and spending time with family and friends. Find me on Facebook.

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