Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 311

My Heart Remains in Paris, France

After a tearful goodbye, I picked up my pillow and carry-on bags, handed my passport to the security agent, and trudged through tedious airport security. I turned back to wave to my mom one last before starting to my gate, but she was already gone. That’s when the realization set in- I was on my own for the next 18 hours. The airplane cabin was spacious; however, legs were crammed between itchy seats. The icy air circulating throughout the plane would be the air every passenger breathed for the next nine hours. Little screens glowed on the backs of every seat and children stretched their tiny arms out to touch them. Massive engines roared powerfully to project the Boeing 747 37,000 feet above the ground. Settling at the desired altitude, the engines became softer and all that was heard was a gentle hum throughout the cabin. Voices became whispers and the cabin was lit with an eerie glow from the few windows that remained uncovered. Dinner carts rumbled down the walkways and the smells of burnt plastic and processed food crept throughout the cabin. Those around me had slipped into restless sleep, as I remained wide-awake. My heart was racing just from the thought that in nine hours, I would be in my favorite city in the world: Paris, France.

A glimpse of Paris peaked out from the top of the dirty staircase. I felt myself ascending, and watched the City of Lights unfold right before my eyes. Ancient buildings loomed over noisy streets and crowded sidewalks. Street music could just be heard off in the distance. Thousands of Parisians and tourists circulated throughout the district. As I stepped onto solid ground, a blast of fresh air encompassed me, and the distinct smell of warm coffee and freshly baked bread greeted my sensory nerves. I slowly turned around and drew in my breath. Right before my eyes was the famous Palais Garnier (Academie Nationale de Musique). The glistening gold angels glimmered in the sunlight, watching down on the picturesque streets from many stories above. The ornate detail on the building draws tourists in with one quick glimpse. People of all ages gathered on the colossal stairs eating lunch in the presence of the most striking building in all of Paris. Time seemed to stand still and my surroundings began to blur- I could not tear my eyes away from the beauty of l’Opéra.

Darkness swelled around me as I descended back into the hectic tunnel. My train pierced through the blackness that had engulfed it. Brakes screeched to a halt, and a whirl of people rushed around me. I stepped off, and was welcomed by warm sunlight seeping down the never-ending staircase. Lush trees and opulent buildings lined the street. Middle-aged businessmen briskly walked past in a hurry to get to work. An elderly couple was at the next table having a conversation I couldn’t quite understand. Frustrated people were honking their horns in a traffic jam. And there I was, soaking it all in, planted at a table outside the renowned Café de Flore. A flaky croissant sat atop the dainty table along with a pot of their notorious coffee everyone made out to be the best in Paris. The scorching hot liquid did not taste as wonderful as I expected, but the essence of drinking pure, black coffee on one of the most prominent streets in Paris made me feel like a true Parisian. I tossed a few euros on the table for a tip, and began sauntering down the street.

I took the last train back home to my little suburb right outside of Paris called Antony. A crisp breeze swept through the quiet streets and tousled my freshly brushed hair. Cold air forced its way through the microscopic holes in my sweater causing my muscles to contract and release a shiver down my spine. A few days prior I had made an acquaintance with whom an instant connection was formed. Mon noveau ami1 was waiting at the metro station to accompany my walk back to the flat and bid me une bonne nuit2.

“Tu es froid mon coeur? 3” he whispered sweetly.

“Oui, un peu, mais ça va parce que tu es ici avec moi, 4” I replied.

My heart fluttered when I felt his arm gently pull me closer to him. The street lamps seemed to glow a little brighter and warmth rushed over me. The softly lit homes and his protective arm created a safe atmosphere around me. Trying not to think about the fact I would be leaving in just ten short days, we let silence encircle us as we enjoyed one another’s’ company. I had never experienced any place quite so comforting and blissful.

            On the morning of my dreaded departure, the mood in the metro car was melancholy as it rushed under the streets of Paris. I was dazed, and everything inside the car seemed to melt together. The many unforgiving plastic seats became one red, hazy shape. The filthy silver poles disappeared before me, and all of a sudden, I was alone. Gazing out the window at the landscape of the city so dear to my heart, I couldn’t fathom leaving it all behind. Their laid-back culture, delectable food, high-end fashion, bustling streets, and gorgeous language was all already a distant memory. I could see Palais Garnier shining bright in the distance. I could hear low conversations in French all around me. I could feel the soft material of the beautifully made Parisian clothes in Galeries Lafayette. I could smell the distinct aroma of warm bread coming straight out of the oven and into waiting customers’ hands. And concentrating hard enough, I could briefly taste the sweet vanilla macaroon dissolving inside my mouth. Squeezing my eyes shut and tuning out the monotonous grinding of the train car against the track, I reminded myself, Paris isn’t going anywhere, and I’ll soon be back.

Title Translation: In Paris

Translation 1: My new friend

Translation 2: A good night

Translation 3: Are you cold, my love (or heart)?

 

Translation 4: Yes, a little, but it is okay because you are here with me.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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In the pursuit of fried snails’ eyes in Cameroon

My friend told me: “Douala is a very dangerous city. Even myself, I am African and when I need to go there I choose to do my chores during the day. A lot of dangerous people live there. Trust me, you don’t want to find yourself alone at night-time in Douala.”

I was already nervous about the trip. He just made my thoughts be more perplexed and tangled. Seeing it on my face, he offered to help me.

“I will call my friend to wait for you at the bus station if you want.”

Of course I said yes.

The next day he went with me to Dschang bus station and wished me good luck and bon voyage. Soon I was left alone in a small van full of Africans sitting five in a row of four. It was so crowded and chaotic, like every other transportation you take in Cameroon. I had luck to have had Anglophone neighbours who asked me thousands of questions during the trip. I told them that I was just going back to Europe for two weeks because my grandpa got sick. Our little bus got down the narrow, wet road slowly leaving behind the Menoua region, home of Bamileke, loud, warm-hearted people. As we advanced through landscapes of green vegetation often shod in low clouds and brick-red soil I found out more about Africans and their way. “We, Africans, are strong. That kind of food is for you, white people.” Stated my neighbour indicating that he eats only meat for what he needs strong jaws to chew. I perceived a note of bigotry towards my kind. I told him my parents taught me to love all in every shape and color so I couldn’t make a difference. During our conversation he started to change his opinion. Our second neighbour was very clamant and gabby. Thereupon, most of the times I had to ask my first neighbour to repeat himself. He told me he enjoys fried snail eyes. But the street vendors could only make one portion from two hundred fried snails.

“When you fry them, eyes fall off and they collect them after and sell them separately.” He was explaining.

Even though I was disgusted, I tried to help him find it. As I was sitting next to the window, every time we stopped I waved to the vendors with big, metal pots to approach and show us what they sell.

In Cameroon you have a lot of stops along the way. In every town or a bigger village you have a ramp where you pay a car fare or get stopped by the police for documentation check.  Every time we stopped, the van would be hastily encircled by a flock of by-the-road vendors offering fruits, roasted corn, meat on sticks or fried snails. Every time we asked for snail eyes, the answer was “C’est fini!” They’ve already sold everything. My first neighbour would gasp out with discontent.

Our garrulous neighbour was eating a pineapple which was dripping all over his lap.

We stopped again. This time for the police check. The policeman wanted all of us to show IDs or passports. I inaptly dug out my passport from my bag beneath the bench we were all sitting on. He looked at it and returned it. “Put it back right away.” My neighbour advised me. “People here steal passports.” I already knew that. After I finished my struggles to restore it, I realised that a fight was  taking place above my head. The policeman was shouting at the loud neighbour guy who didn’t want to show his documents. The policeman got furious in seconds and he was yelling  from the outside getting dangerously close to my ear. “Get out or I will come and draw you out!!” Is what I understood with my beginner’s French. His neck veins got tense and easily noticeable under his sweaty, dark skin.

“What is going to happen now?” I asked the sane neighbour, the one that gave his ID.

“Oh, nothing.” He explained calmly. “They are just going to beat him up until he pays the bribe.”

I looked at him instantly shocked.

“Oh, but we don’t call it bribe anymore.” He said in an attempt to console me. “It’s a normal, everyday thing.”

I looked back through the rear window, trying to distinguish something in between mud stains and a crowd of people and policemen that was tightening around the chatty guy.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Australia: A Fifth Continent for American Airlines

Scott Kirby, President of American Airlines, announced yesterday, June 9 2015, at LAX that they will begin flying from Los Angeles to Sydney in December 2015. Vanessa Hudson, SVP of Qantas, shared the excitement about this partnership and new flights direct from San Francisco to Sydney. JC Liscano, Managing Director of American Airlines at LAX, invited all present to enjoy treats from Down Under like Lamington and Aussie pies and to remember that all 5000 employees are ready to assist customers to their dream destinations like Australia! This Direct Down Under service will start to “kick some United, Delta and Virgin butts” said Kirby. I interviewed him and discovered he has not yet been to Sydney so he may be exploring with you this holiday season. Please find three videos and photos below from the announcement yesterday:  ​News from American Airlines (the announcement and activities of the day), American Airlines Press Conference: Fifth Continent (full speech from Kirby, Hudson, Liscano) and a tour of the Admirals Club at LAX. American Airlines and Qantas are #GreatMates and invite you to join them to fly as they are #GoingForGreat

Video: News From American Airlines




Video: American Airlines 5th Continent



Video: Admirals Club LAX

Thanks @americanair loved seeing my #greatmates @johnnyjet @laneelee1 @flylaxairport #goingforgreat

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jun 9, 2015 at 9:04pm PDT

Five Star @Cadillac @americanair terminal transportation services #goingforgreat incredible views of planes! Cannot wait to share #video! Lisa A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jun 9, 2015 at 8:26pm PDT

Thanks @AmericanAir and the 5000 employees #greatmates working at LAX to make #travel dreams a reality. JC Liscano, the koala and I look forward to seeing you on a flight ✈ soon! #goingforgreat

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jun 9, 2015 at 7:59pm PDT

@Qantas Vanessa Hudson shares new route #SFO to #Sydney #greatmates with @AmericanAir I am ready to return to Oz! A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jun 9, 2015 at 7:22pm PDT

Scott Kirby of @Americanair announces @Qantas partnership. Get ready to #travel to Oz!

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jun 9, 2015 at 7:07pm PDT

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Thailand: Not what I expected

While in Laos I ate sticky rice with every meal, sometimes every day. It is incredibly good and I’m going to sorely miss it. The other thing incredibly good here are the street vendor pancakes with Nutella and banana! We’ve been eating a lot of those as well as stir fried chicken with cashew and vegetables a lot. My stomachs been okay until yesterday. Also the actual physical travelling ended up being very expensive and we had to buy 110+ dollar plane tickets to Phuket because it was just as much money to take two buses and a boat to get there, and took an hour instead of 2 days. Unfortunately at this point I need you guys to somehow figure out how to cash my cheque that dad hopefully picked up at the beginning of the month because I am not going to have enough money. Thailand has been much more expensive than Laos, especially for hotels, it’s difficult to even find 20 bed fan dorm rooms for less than 10 dollars a night. Thailand is also much more busy and overwhelming than Laos, no matter where you are, and the only laws that exist are drug laws and theft. Here you often see up to 4 people on a single motorbike, babies or adults or kids, no helmets and doing 110 km’s on the highway. The most surprising thing to me is that there are almost no accidents and I’ve only seen 4 ambulances in total since being here. I almost wish I lived here, it makes home seem like a pathetic joke with a bunch of stupid laws and everyone worrying too much about everything and spending ridiculous amounts of money on things that cost 10 cents to make in sweatshops.

 

However to end this email on a positive note, it is nothing like anyone made it out to be here. I have not once felt like I was in any kind of danger, (except for one cab driver who broke 200 km/hr on the highway and was swerving between cars). But other than that the only overwhelming thing is that EVERYONE and ANYONE wants to sell you something. Yesterday at a street vendor they were selling 6 inch knives, brass spiked knuckles, and legitimate ninja shurikens. It’s incredible to me how different the culture is, how they realize that violence isn’t necessary, respect exists here instead of just admiring all the rich old white guys at home living on the ridge in Edgemont. Even simple things like not breaking arcade machines, or trying to seem tough by wearing your hat sideways staring everyone down because you think you are a badass, and getting tribal tattoos.

 

I’ve been drinking a lot of cheap beer and am now lying in my dorm room after a fun night in a reggae bar full of Australians and cannot wait to see what tomorrow here will bring.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Cronicles of a courageous camper in South Africa

 

The chronicles of a courageous camper in South Africa.

Every true traveler must have a courageous camper somewhere hidden among the layers of their exploratory DNA. I am a passionate traveler, but my adventurous DNA has a missing link.

Camping is a totally selfless act of sacrifice for my tactile challenged body and sensitive soul. The constant sand in your sleeping bag, the shared ablution facilities, the trapped feeling when the elements are against you and the spiders… Let me stop here and tell you about our adventure before all ‘the missing link campers’ out there leave this page and abandon their chances to evolve.

Mabibi camp is situated at Hulley Point in the heart of the iSimangaliso Wetland Park in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. In the local Zulu language iSimangaliso means ‘miracle and wonder’ and it is no surprise that it is a Unesco World Heritage site.

Hulley Point is one of the last undeveloped beaches on the African coastline with the warm water of the Indian Ocean keeping guard over this well kept secret. Some call it a footprint free wonderland and others a sub tropical paradise that offers serene swimming, snorkeling and offshore scuba diving. Unfortunately the only way to get there is with a 4×4 vehicle because of the thick sand roads that lead you through the astounding eight interdependent eco systems (beach, coral reef, lakes, swamp, wetlands, woodlands, coastal forest and grassland).

Mabibi camp has nine private campsites hidden away amongst Milkwood trees. No drinking water or electricity is available and cell phone reception is limited to one specific hill outside the camp. A solar geyser and lights ensures that a warm shower is not a given, but an absolute luxury and that the ablution facilities are not always well lit. The nearest shop is one and half hours drive from there and you need to take everything you need with you. Very rustic indeed.

On arrival it looked like we entered paradise. Beauty, peace and quiet with the sound of the ocean to frame it. It was only after my first visit to the ablution facilities that I saw something that gave me an instant cardio workout. A spider as big as a dinner plate (or bit smaller I must confess, but let’s keep to the first one for dramatic effect!).

After a few hours I realized that there were hundreds of Golden Silk Orb Weaver Spiders all around us. I could hear them whisper “I know what you did last summer!” and I felt trapped in paradise. The manager ensured us that the spiders were peace loving and not dangerous to humans. I had to make a mind shift if I wanted to enjoy my holiday here…

Even though I forced myself to focus on the calming sound of the waves kissing the beach that night, the only thing on my mind was spiders. It was a fight, but the next day I woke up with new eyes. Ones that can see the beauty in the spider and look beyond my own fear to the people I love beside me and nature in all its glory around me.

The best part of this place was the unspoiled beach. At low tide a shallow reef was being exposed that held all our snorkeling dreams within. For me the bird watching from the beach was magnificent not to speak about the solitude that proved to be utterly refreshing.

We had an unforgettable time in this piece of Africa heaven and we gave it our TIAA (This is authentic Africa) stamp of approval. And for me, I had a personal victory and my monument is a heap of rocks under a Milkwood tree in Mabibi.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Walking the Streets of Utila

Walking the Streets of Utila,  Honduras

After breakfast we decide to see if we can catch a ferry to the Cays. The sun is sweltering.

“Its about 80 something degrees,” a girl says to her mother on the phone.

An older man who calls himself Papi tells me to stay away from barrio anglais.

“It’s dangerous there, lots of drugs.”

His skin is very dark. Four wheelers zoom by us. Palm trees with unripe coconuts surround us. One palm tree is very oddly shaped, it’s flat. A bag of onions sits on the sidewalk. We duck into a store, grab a bottle of water. Some tuktuks have very loud Reggaeton music blasting. Two old men ride by on motor bikes, discussing their plans to go to San Pedro Sula. That’s where my flight leaves out of in two weeks. A beautiful picture of Ganesha, one that i’ve not seen before, hangs on the wall behind the front desk of our hotel. I agonize out-loud whether to buy a milkshake or not. Alan is annoyed. His nose is sweating. Artisans litter the sides of the street. They host beautiful necklaces with stones and dream-catchers in the center. I take off my sunglasses, the world is suddenly brighter. The bar tender pours someone a glass of white wine. Shadows crawl along the sidewalk. The island is outlined by an artificial coral reef, according to Alan. A small crab crawls around his palm. He places it back in the water. There are no waves, except for those caused by the boats. The sea is calm, making a gentle swish sound when you near the coast. People are sitting on their porches, watching the street activity. An abandoned building watches us. A church stands with the windows open, featuring loud singing. Shirtless gringos playing pool to American dance music. A guy sits on a couch, tattoos all over his legs. We pass an abandoned lot that smells like death. Signs are everywhere. Hotels, hot water, TV, Wi-Fi, microwave, VACANCY, restaurants, chicken spinach, crème Brule, French toast, bacon corn hash, gazpacho and egg salad sandwich, street food, baleadas, licuados, milkshakes, fish burgers, shrimp, motor bikes, children playing with sticks, hitting one another, gardens with beautiful tropical flowers, plants, old tires, trash, a handsome man on a motorbike, no wait, two handsome men, I smile, sand, concrete, signs advertising the whale shark.

 

Two dark skin men tell us that you can charter a boat out to the Keys, 400 dollars for a two way cruise to Roatan, food and drink covered. One of them has an angel tattoo. There’s hair under the bottle cap of Alan’s water, he buys another. I purchase razor blades. Everyone’s wearing sunglasses – well not everyone, mostly just the gringos. I have on bright colors – red and white shorts and a tropical sleeveless shirt. I blend into the scenery. Little yellow flowers, people dressed for church, Alan scowls, chewing gum, a beautiful blonde walks by, head held high, a girl sits in a four wheeler waiting for her driver. She is dressed for church. She’s playing with her cell phone, gigantic green leaves, a big fat rottweiler lays down outside someone’s front porch, we throw him a bit of food, he follows us briefly, then stops and chills some more. A yellow lab mix chained to a porch sniffs me out of nowhere, I yelp, startled, “May I see some identification?” he asks. We sit and look at the water. I surrender to the scenery.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

 

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Doctors For You: NEPAL EARTHQUAKE RELIEF FUND

The earthquake that shocked Nepal last month left more than 8,000 dead as well as over 20,000 injured and countless more left homeless.  Recovery efforts have been slow as the country’s already crumbling infrastructure has deteriorated even more after the earthquake, essentially cutting off aide routes to remote villages spread out over the country.  In return, many people and communities that need supplies the most are not receiving them in a timely matter which has hindered the rebuilding process.

Even though the earthquake happened more than a month ago, continuing funds and donations are needed in order to help out the people.  Loss of loved ones can never be recovered or replaced but housing and health can be.  It will take years to rebuild what was destroyed and therefore, continuing funds are needed to aid and assist in their recovery.  There are many NGOs and volunteers that are in the country right now and are aiding in the rebuilding process.  A great group of people that is helping to lead the way in the rebuilding are Doctors for You.

Doctors for you is in the country doing everything they can to help victims out in every way possible.   They are a registered non profit organization that operates out of the USA.  They have many projects going on around the world but since the earthquake, they have devoted most of their time and efforts to the Nepalese people.  Currently, they are helping out the Nepalese community in three main ways:

1. Supporting Ministry of Health & Population in strenthening the tertiary care hospitals in Kathmandu and damaged hospitals in other districts functional by providing Medicine, Ortopedic Implants for surgeries , Ventilators for serious aptients and Xray machines for trauma patient care.  (We have supplies 5 Xrays, 5 Ventilators and 4 trucks of medicines and orthopedic implants so far)

2. Running health centres in remote places- we have started clinincs in Nuwakot district and soon going to start in Sindhupal & Lalitpur district also as many foreign teams will returns back soon in next 2-3weeks

3. Supporting Public health services especially related with Water-Sanitation, Services for pregnant women and adolescent girls.

These doctors are running low on both supplies and money to help out the community.  They have set up a fundraising site to raise funds for their cause.  Even though the earthquake happened awhile ago, they still need more funds to continue operating within the country.  The recovery is a slow, long process that will take many years to correct.  By donating to these doctors, you are helping to ensure that supplies get to the people that need them the most.  Please help out their cause by making a donation to them today.

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The Dawn of a New Life in Mumbai, India

As I stood in the Mumbai hospital halls surrounded with the three most important men in my life, tears seeped deep into my heart when we heard of my mother’s diagnosis soon after she was rushed from the hospital room to the ICU with chest congestion.

I was attempting to stay strong while my father, brother, husband and I all had our ears painfully wide open when a torrent of wordage such as “life-threatening”, “bad luck” and “grim situation” were pouring out of the doctor’s mouth.  My mother was diagnosed with a very rare autoimmune disorder after two months of having a Fever of Unknown Origin (FUO) and a plethora of tests to identify the cause.

Therein started the long days and nights in Mumbai for the next three months, most of which were spent within the confines of the hospital.  This wasn’t the exact plan I had in mind for that time.  Instead, what was in the books was to see the northern lights in Iceland, and to eat tapas and sip sangrias with my mother and father in Spain, after my mother would first cajole my father into meeting me there.  Circumstances changed.  I adapted.  Instead of the serene light show in Iceland, I witnessed the roaring lights and sounds of the exuberant Ganesh Chaturthi festival.  Instead of sipping sangrias, I was getting addicted to drinking sweet masala chai with my father in the hospital canteen.

Thankfully, my mother got a second chance to live.  Even though she had to be rushed to the hospital again a couple of months later, she fought through that too.  Each time she got out of the critical state, it was like the dawn of a new life when she could eat again through her mouth or take a step with her bare feet.  Her tenacity to live is why she is still here with us today fighting each day to get stronger.

In the nights, the four of us swapped between sleeping on recliners in the hospital and in a small no-frills apartment close by.  We rented the old apartment from an altruistic sister for a negligible price out of the kindness of her heart.  It had all the bare-essentials we needed – a mattress, fridge, filtered water and a working toilet with hot water.  I ran into the sister a couple of times when I went back to the apartment and one of those times really stuck with me.  “I was very touched when you said we have all the comforts here,” she said in the sincerest of tones.  I had forgotten that I had expressed that to her when we moved in: an intrinsic realization that I don’t need much to be happy.

It then occurred to me that there are certain moments in life that you value the most and it is such moments you live for.  I remember when my mother opened her eyes to look at me and when her whispers turned into more audible sentences.  I cherish the time my father and I sat on the park swings to pause our racing thoughts and remember what it was to feel naive again.  I appreciate not missing out on the time we took my mother out for drives through the Mumbai streets, thick with traffic.  I won’t forget her invigorated smile when she peered out the window at the bustling Bandstand promenade and the brimming food scene on Carter Road, visualizing soon being out there again.

My birthplace, a home that I have been far away from for years, taught me about what was truly important.  I used to be afraid of what the future holds and of whether it would clench me with shark teeth.  But I realized that I was already brave.  After all, I was brave through the three months in the most critical of times.  The part that was missing was in believing that what I want is within me and that all the rest is background noise.

Nobody can explain why the leaves may change color suddenly and know when they would turn again.  Life is a constant state of metamorphosis that is a lot of times well beyond our control.  But every day is a chance to grow and the dawn of a new life.  We don’t need a life-threatening situation to get a second chance to live the life we want to live now.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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(I’M) NOT CAVING IN THE USA

What was I doing, stuck in a cave, crawling on my hands and middle-aged knees, my face barely inches from some overweight man’s butt?

He was stuck and now, so was I.  Not just stuck because of his size—he was a big, burly, macho Italian guy, but more, because of his ego.

He wanted to show his kids he “could do it”.

Like me.

Like me, he crawled and crouched his way through this cave.  But I could hear, as we went deeper in, winding our way through the granite tunnel, on hands and knees, his breathing was getting heavier.  We were almost at the end, but he was starting to panic.

He couldn’t move.

His kids had exited, but were now shouting back in the cave’s darkness, “You can do it, Dad!”

Nervous laughter bubbled up inside me, then turned into hyperventilation.  Granite walls enveloped me like a closed casket.  Was someone behind me (no pun intended)?  I couldn’t turn my head.

If he couldn’t get through, then neither would I.  Who would come and save us?  This man and I were both overweight.  We shouldn’t have gone in the cave.

It’s why the cave company hung a sign outside the cave—one you couldn’t miss—with the cave’s name, “Lemon Squeeze”, an obvious warning to people of a certain size not to enter.

It also had a “try this first” sizing chart of sorts, two slats of wood slanted like a teepee opening, so people like me (and him) could see if we could fit.

Before I went in, I knew the answer.  I’m sure, he did, too.

Primal fears started taking over my rational mind.  I wondered why I was here.

The idea was to do a family-friendly trip that all four of us could enjoy.  My husband, Joe, a 4-season mountain man and veteran hiker came up with a new idea for us:  caving.

We could try some caves in New Hampshire, he said, about two hours from our home in the Boston area.

“Sometimes it’s called ‘spelunking’,” he added, as if a fancier, cuter name would entice me more.

Maybe, if chocolate was involved.

I had seen the cave’s advertisements, on route to trips to ski or hike in the White Mountains, but figured they were some synthetic, Disney-like reproduction.  A former co-worker, an avid caver, had told me stories about his caving adventures, one that required special equipment, like helmets, ropes, headlamps.

Oh yeah, and guts.

Joe convinced me that the cave he was considering was a “showcave”, not wild cave like my Dutch friend explored, but real all the same.

Lost River Gorge and Boulder Caverns, located in the White Mountains in New Hampshire, was a popular summertime destination for families like ours who enjoyed exploring outdoors.

Or, in this case, indoors.

Ok, I sighed.  Let’s try it.

Driving north on I-93 on an overcast summer day, my husband explained how the caves were formed: during the Ice Age, 300 millions years ago, when mile-thick glaciers covered the White Mountains we knew well.  When they melted, glacier-sized gushes tossed and tumbled boulder-sized granite rocks that came crashing down, finally lodging into place, forming the Kinsman Notch and the White Mountain range.  Lakes at the bottom of the mountains were the only visible reminder of the Ice Age.

Anyway, Joe reassured me, how hard could these caves be?  Two brothers, about 9 and 10 years old, discovered them in the mid-1850s while out fishing.

Now, I liked to think of myself as an adventurous kind of woman, but I liked being on top—of a mountain, a boat, a bike, a tree.  On my feet, or on a seat, not my belly.  Not underground, like someone buried alive.  My heart beat faster in my chest at the thought of being blanketed by pitch black in the cavernous space below the surface.

After having our two daughters, I have to admit, my sense of adventure diminished.

I started playing it safe.  I skied slower.  I pumped my bike brakes more.  I drove closer to the speed limit.

I wanted to be around for them.

But we wanted to grow our daughters, Bridget and Katie, to be adventurous, outdoors-y people like us.  And attract people who did likewise.

Hyperventilating on my hands and knees, I wasn’t that person.

“Get a grip, Kathy!” I told myself.  I remembered my deep breathing from yoga.

It restored me.

Now it was time to help this man calm down.

“You can do it!” I shouted to him.

His panic subsided and he pushed through, crawling forward a bit more, then out to the open.

With a heave of relief, I followed.

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Japan: The Land of the Rising Sun

Since a young age, I have had an odd relationship with fear. During the day, I would revel in light and ward off my irrational fears with rays of lazy sunshine. However, the night would bring with it the worries I had shoved away into the shadows. Due to my experiences with the deaths of loved ones, I would dwell on endless scenarios and possibilities of losing the small amount of people I had left. I would console myself desperately by telling myself that death would never befall my remaining family- though I knew just as well as anyone else that it was an inevitable transition, always lurking in the shadows. I still managed to convince myself of this for years- until the day of March 11th, 2011, when the largest earthquake to hit Japan in years shattered my sheltered complacency forever.

I had always loved visits to the ocean. The cerulean waters were always so sparkling, so calm and innocuous. Although I am an incompetent swimmer, I felt I could surrender myself to the tender arms of the waves and relax with the assurance that I would always be delivered safely to shore. As I watched the news, a sweeping feeling of despondence passed over me as I realised that the ocean I had once trusted was no longer recognisable. The once kind waters were now ceaseless walls of waves- black with debris and bodies- lapping without clemency at buildings and their inhabitants. My head snapped as I heard the name of a familiar town and I realised it was the place I had once visited- where I played with the local kids in summer afternoons. I stared at the unrecognizable carnage on the screen and wondered where they were. The reporters announced the rapidly growing death toll as images of destruction appeared. They weren’t statistics; they were real people- people who had families, identities, and lives. People just like me- yet they had lost everything. How long would it take to rebuild? Years? Decades? I found out only a few months later just how wrong I was.

I was given the opportunity to travel with a small team of my schoolmates to one of the most heavily affected areas to serve. As we drove into our destination town on that frigid December morning, I was perplexed. Yes, there were signs of the terrible catastrophe that had occurred months ago- yet the town bore no resemblance to the pictures of the utterly defeated places in the news.

“Amazing,” a teacher remarked. “They’ve cleaned everything up.” We all murmured in agreement, gazing out the windows with wide eyes as we drove on.

We passed through a different part of town and finally witnessed the full extent of the damage that had been done. On either side of us were massive lots the size of three football fields, piled with rusted, broken cars- each stacked on top of one another. Every single one of those cars had once belonged to someone- be it an individual or a happy family of four. For the first time that day, a somber mood slipped over us and we were completely silent. We drove on past the grave of cars and into a residential area.

Then, I saw it: a newly built shop, standing proudly in the midst of the empty, destroyed shells of houses. It was a nondescript building that I normally would not think to look twice at. Yet, in that very moment, it sparkled under the golden rays of morning sunlight and I remember feeling the oddest sensation of pride and hope in my heart. This one little building that would be otherwise insignificant in a world of normality embodied the very spirit of the Japanese. I began to see similar buildings popping up like survivors amongst the skeletons of deceased houses, all bathed in the crimson glow of the rising sun.

When I feel consumed by fears of the inexorable, I remember how these people had witnessed the betrayal of the ocean on their towns and continued to exist, even while surrounded by reminders of their tragedy. They know that the darkness could return at anytime but still rebuild and live their lives without succumbing to the fear of being destroyed again.

On that day, I learned the true meaning of the rising sun. There are heartbreaks and misfortunes, just as with the tragedy that had befallen these brave people. There will always be times of darkness, but the light will return and wipe your fears away in the blink of an eye. The sun surrenders itself to the lonely night everyday- yet, it pulls itself up from the depths of darkness to ascend proudly to the sky and cast its rays of light over the world once more.

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