Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 319

To keep your balance you must keep moving…USA

To keep your balance you must keep moving…USA

We’d been riding for hours, and for the last few miles had been cycling into a brutal headwind. As I narrowed my eyes, dropped down yet another gear and tried to ignore the protests of my legs I saw the approach to the bridge loom into view. We were entering the final and most challenging stage of the ride, the Verrazano Bridge. For seasoned cyclists such as my husband Steve on his super light carbon frame road bike, this would present few problems. However, as we began the ascent I felt the will drain from my body, I grit my teeth and tried to grind it out as my legs turned first to lead and then to jelly. Inexplicably I began to cry.

We were on our way to completing the Five Boroughs Bike Tour, the world’s largest charitable bike ride. Every year thousands of riders take to the streets to ride forty miles through all five of the cities boroughs. Yet, six weeks prior to the event I didn’t even know how to ride a bike and the idea of learning scared me witless. What inspired me, age thirty two to confront my fears? I blame our move to New York City, a place that has always makes me feel that anything is possible. The opportunity to experience the city I love in this unique way was too appealing to let it pass me by.

Confronting my fears did not make me feel brave at first, quite the opposite.  Getting out of bed early one cold Saturday morning in March when there was still snow on the ground I took the subway to the northernmost reaches of Central Park. It was there that I was to face my demons. One hour into my first cycling lesson I was starting to suspect that my so called instructor was nothing but a charlatan. How else could you explain the fact that my cycling lesson was nearly complete and I was still sat on a bike with no pedals? Just ‘scooting’ along on the bike was enough to give me the shakes despite the ridiculous knee and elbow pads I was wearing. I was acutely aware that I looked ridiculous and somewhat unfairly cursing my father for not making me do this at a more appropriate age. The road to success was paved with unforgiving concrete and I sported the grazed knees of a child on more than one occasion over the coming weeks. There were falls, tears, and meltdowns as chains fell off, collisions occurred and I learned to ride the hard way.

Even the day before the tour I wasn’t sure I would make it to the start line, never mind complete the ride. We began our journey to the start just after dawn and as we rode along the Hudson through Riverside Park, passing the cities iconic landmarks, I reminded myself that this was why I had decided to take part. As we got closer to the start line, in the shadow of One World Trade we were swallowed up by the thousands of other cyclists who were all here for the same reason. The excitement was electric and the adrenaline started to flow.  Riding up 6th Avenue passing Radio City, Columbus Circle and into Central Park “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere” rang in my ears like a mantra.

Back on the Verrazano, Steve’s voice suddenly cut through the wind and the buzzing in my ears “Emma, are you OK, are you bonking? I think you’re bonking” I couldn’t make sense of the words so I just stared at him pitifully. “You need to pull over” he ordered and I wobbly complied. I felt oddly detached as I watched him battle the wind to get a sachet of electrolytes into a water bottle. “Drink this” he ordered.

 

As I did I instantly started to feel better, the blackness around my vision receded and I stopped crying and started laughing, perhaps a little hysterically. Steve beamed at me, hugged me and said “Wow, you just experienced your first bonk! Now you’re a real cyclist. How do you feel?” I briefly considered punching him in the face. Instead, we remounted our bikes and as we did I realized with delight that we were at the top of the ascent and it was downhill all the way to the finish line. 

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

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8th of June, 2012 in Spain

On the 8th of June back in 2012, I walked to The End of the Earth and found my bravery along the way. The end of the earth (also called Finnisterre) sits on the end of Cape Finnisterre, a rocky peninsula just beyond the town of Fisterra in the North West corner of Spain. In 2012, I had walked eight hundred kilometers across Spain to Santiago de Compostela on the Camino de Santiago. The day after I arrived in Santiago, I set out for Finnisterre, eighty-seven kilometers away.

On the morning of the 8th, I woke up on the top bunk of a rickety metal bunk bed in an alburgue in Olveiroa. A dozen pilgrims were still sleeping in the room. I had a bad uncomfortable sleep, so at first light, I climbed down from the bunk and got to a toilet before a line formed. After dressing and packing, I sat down and put on my shoes as everyone else started moving. Some pilgrims asked me questions, and I answered them politely even though I was not awake. My mood turned grumpy in the café as pilgrim friends chatted around me, so I left with my bag on my back.

Usually, I was fine once I started walking, but that morning, I was not fine. I was angry and annoyed on a dirt road filled with happy pilgrims. I walked past a smiling woman with her bare feet in a stream. She annoyed me with her contentment. My mind became a series of curse words.

When I was in first grade, I was told by my teacher that I had a bad temper. I soon learned not only how to behave correctly, but also how to suppress my anger internally. Besides, girls weren’t supposed to feel anger. We were the everything-nice gender. For decades, I criticized my anger instead of just letting myself feel it.

On the road out of Olveiroa, I had no reason to stop the stream of anger inside me. I seethed internally about rocks on the road or the color of someone’s backpack. And the rage gave me adrenaline. And I walked faster. And I kept raging. I didn’t want to walk thirty-one kilometers to Fisterra. I was done with this stupid walking. I was done with all of it. Curse word, cursing curse word.

Then I heard another voice in my head. It was not a voice saying I was a bad person. It was not a voice telling me to calm down. It was a voice that said, okay Jen, if today is your last day of walking, then you’re going all the way to the end of the earth. You’re gonna walk thirty-one kilometers.

Once I heard that voice, I calmed down. I was okay. Instead of pushing the rage away, I had let it flow, and it brought me back to myself and what I wanted to do. I had been scared of the distance and tired from the bad sleep, and all of that became the rage. Once the rage had burned off, I only had myself left, and I could deal with myself.

So I walked and walked. I was even nice to the happy pilgrims at rest stops. In the afternoon, I started feeling tired. I started making little goals—get to the tree, get to the sign. I sang songs to keep my body moving, but my energy was low.

“Helloooo Jennifer” A familiar voice said behind me. I turned around, and there was my Camino buddy Peter. We had last seen each other in Santiago before I left. I hadn’t expected to see him on the road. He had taken the bus from Santiago with the plan to walk the last few kilometers into Fisterra where he had booked a room at a pension.

“How are you?” Peter asked.

How often did I just say fine to answer that question? I don’t like being vulnerable. However, at that point, I was so tired that I had to be honest.

“I’m exhausted.” I said. Peter nodded. He understood. We started walking single file on the road. I focused on matching his pace and listening to his stories.

We walked into Fisterra where his pension had a room for me. Later that day, we walked to the end of the earth. I looked out at the Atlantic and realized it was okay to have internal rage and it was okay to allow myself to be vulnerable. I could do anything I set my mind to if I just stayed true to who I was. Then Peter and I walked back to town and had a great dinner. I slept well that night and woke up the next day feeling good.

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

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Defying the Demons of the Dome in the USA

 

I walk out of the shady, pine-scented woods, and stop, mid-stride, frozen in fear and wonder. I can feel the panic rising up my throat, threatening to choke me. Below me, in all its miniature widescreen glory stretches the Yosemite Valley. Less than twenty-four hours earlier I had stood in that valley, craning my neck to look up at this very spot.

To my right, I can see the sensuous granite mounds of the Yosemite Wilderness, and, far in the hazy distance the jagged snow-crested teeth of the High Sierra beyond. To my left, looming above the tree-line, is the bald, grey pate that is Half Dome. It is my wildest dream and my worst nightmare all rolled into one.

I have travelled thousands of miles to be in this place. I have researched, planned, and trained for months so that I am prepared for the challenge. And yet, now that I stand here, staring in horror at the part-peeled onion layers of sheer rock in front of me, it might all have been in vain.

Since yesterday, I’ve climbed an arduous seven miles, over rocks slick with rainbow-hued waterfall-mist, and through root-tangled woods, still cool with lingering snow-drifts. My aching legs have been forced up sheer slopes that from a distance seemed impossible. There have been minor demons to conquer in the shape of wild camping, composting toilets, and a hungry young bear trying to take the rucksack out of my tent. And now my courage has failed me. I am terrified.

The end of my journey is within sight. A mere mile. The trouble is, I know exactly what that last mile contains. Four hundred yards of vertical ascent and the Half Dome cables, nemesis of the vertigo-sufferer. I will myself to relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly. Stop the panic. Gradually, my pulse returns to something approaching normal, and I try to think rationally.

An iridescent flash of cobalt blue catches my attention as a Steller’s jay swoops from a nearby tree to land a few yards away on a low branch. It watches me for a while, head tilted to one side as if in question, before fluttering to a point a few yards ahead of me. Almost without conscious thought, I follow it. As I get near, he takes flight and, in a graceful arc, moves further along the trail. We continue our dance, moving closer together and further apart in an unconsciously beautiful meeting of species, before the jay, clearly bored by my pedestrian progress, glides effortlessly away from me and out of sight.

I look up, and realise that I am within a stone’s throw of the switchback – the first part of the final ascent. Nearly as steep as the cable ascent, though not as exposed. Suddenly, the decision is made for me, thanks to my feathered friend. I will go on, one step at a time, until I either reach the summit, or get so scared that I have to turn back, but there is no way I am backing out now.

The rest of the climb passes in a daze. The switchback is challenging but not too frightening. I struggle to walk over the narrow shoulder between it and the cable climb, but I surprise myself on the cables by climbing strongly and steadily for most of the way. I have to stop once to let someone pass me on their descent, and I foolishly look at the four thousand foot drop below me. Having briefly, but vividly, considered my mortality, I cling to the metal cables until my head stops swimming, and plod on upwards.

Suddenly, it is all over. I haul myself over the last step, and I am walking across a vast, flat plateau of smooth, sparkling granite. It feels as big, and as safe, as a football pitch. I still don’t care much for the drop below me, but as long as I don’t get too near the edge I can keep the fear at bay. I even manage to shoot a whole roll of film on the awe-inspiring views. I lie on a flat piece of rock and bask in the midday sunshine, along with some creature which I think, bizarrely, might be a marmot.

I let my mind wander back over the journey to here. The long trek up the Mist Trail, past, and through, the mystical beauty of the Vernal Falls, the hard slog up the side of Nevada Falls. The sleepless night, post-bear, in the Little Yosemite Valley. And now I have it all to do in reverse, including the cables.

I haul my weary limbs upright, and with a massive grin, start the descent. After all, I’ve done Half Dome – I can do anything!

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

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A Heartbreaking Story of Travels In China

It has been two weeks since I came back home.

I was nineteen when I decided to leave for Shanghai to pursue my undergraduate education. I was ecstatic of the idea of being alone in a foreign country, or rather, to be able to leave the grey monochrome metropolis I was supposed to regard as home.

Streets of Shanghai were ghostly during the frozen months and thick crowd filled them even till the late of summer nights; I was infatuated with this novelty. So hopelessly spellbound with the city’s dynamism that I approach every ways and means to avoid returning home before the allotted time of my graduation. Lost in the endless of schemes, I opted the one deemed most possible: travel. I packed not only the necessities into my brand-new backpack, but also the vain hopes and wild plans of a young soul, and flew off to my first destination – Cambodia.

The fervent desire for an adventure was burning. I put it out by climbing the historical ruins in Siem Reap, and had the fortune of catching a heart-stopping sunrise. The rest of my humanly adrenaline rush was mostly cured through a skydiving experience in Thailand. But nonetheless the need to take a breather arose. As soon as I can, I packed my belongings, ready for a flight to New Delhi.

I paced myself to the flow of the placid waters of Ganges River and the still air around it. At that moment, I was more than just escaping; I was traveling. Older by a few weeks of contemplation, I then set foot on the Nepali land that homes Mount Everest. A lust for a new place was looming within, albeit the wonders of Nepal. Nearly two weeks of brisk weather incite the urge to swim in the sea under the sun. And soon enough, I picked up the frayed straps of the backpack, hauled it onto my back and hit the road to Taiwan.

What I received was warmer than the great golden orb hanging relentlessly above the skies of Taiwan; the people’s genuine hospitality. I was starting to truly enjoy traveling. But even so, it was but an evasion from settling. I bid my goodbyes in silence as I stood astounded before HongKong’s skyline. I told myself that it was my last stop before returning to Shanghai.

I sat looking out the window of the plane when bits and pieces of the trip were painted on the amorphous clouds. I bought a ticket to Shanghai and reckoned to stay put. Almost a month passed and something unexplained robbed me of my senses. I took the liberty in spite of myself and came back home. 

I have no regrets making this decision. Months of unplanned travels and it is home that bestowed me the courage to embark on every new journey; it is this home that would be waiting for me wherever I will be. As my mother said “Even the most adventurous person needs a place to call it their own.” However a platitude, it represents the truth. 

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

The post A Heartbreaking Story of Travels In China appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

A Heartbreaking Story of Travels In Singapore

It has been two weeks since I came back home.

I was nineteen when I decided to leave for Shanghai to pursue my undergraduate education. I was ecstatic of the idea of being alone in a foreign country, or rather, to be able to leave the grey monochrome metropolis I was supposed to regard as home.

Streets of Shanghai were ghostly during the frozen months and thick crowd filled them even till the late of summer nights; I was infatuated with this novelty. So hopelessly spellbound with the city’s dynamism that I approach every ways and means to avoid returning home before the allotted time of my graduation. Lost in the endless of schemes, I opted the one deemed most possible: travel. I packed not only the necessities into my brand-new backpack, but also the vain hopes and wild plans of a young soul, and flew off to my first destination – Cambodia.

The fervent desire for an adventure was burning. I put it out by climbing the historical ruins in Siem Reap, and had the fortune of catching a heart-stopping sunrise. The rest of my humanly adrenaline rush was mostly cured through a skydiving experience in Thailand. But nonetheless the need to take a breather arose. As soon as I can, I packed my belongings, ready for a flight to New Delhi.

I paced myself to the flow of the placid waters of Ganges River and the still air around it. At that moment, I was more than just escaping; I was traveling. Older by a few weeks of contemplation, I then set foot on the Nepali land that homes Mount Everest. A lust for a new place was looming within, albeit the wonders of Nepal. Nearly two weeks of brisk weather incite the urge to swim in the sea under the sun. And soon enough, I picked up the frayed straps of the backpack, hauled it onto my back and hit the road to Taiwan.

What I received was warmer than the great golden orb hanging relentlessly above the skies of Taiwan; the people’s genuine hospitality. I was starting to truly enjoy traveling. But even so, it was but an evasion from settling. I bid my goodbyes in silence as I stood astounded before HongKong’s skyline. I told myself that it was my last stop before returning to Shanghai.

I sat looking out the window of the plane when bits and pieces of the trip were painted on the amorphous clouds. I bought a ticket to Shanghai and reckoned to stay put. Almost a month passed and something unexplained robbed me of my senses. I took the liberty in spite of myself and came back home. 

I have no regrets making this decision. Months of unplanned travels and it is home that bestowed me the courage to embark on every new journey; it is this home that would be waiting for me wherever I will be. As my mother said “Even the most adventurous person needs a place to call it their own.” However a platitude, it represents the truth. 

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

The post A Heartbreaking Story of Travels In Singapore appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Inspiration in the D.C. Metro, USA

Usually the metro is far from an inspiring place. It’s to be passed through, as quickly as possible, on the way to somewhere else. It can often be hot, shaky, cramped, and/or uncomfortable.

Optimistically, we can describe metro systems as useful; At worst, they are inefficient and perhaps even dangerous.

Despite these utilitarian-at-best connotations, the Washington, D.C. Metro is, strangely enough, somewhere I can go to find courage and inspiration.

This is a globetrotting story that winds through the USA, Central Africa, and finally Chile.

— — —

I met Nate during my sophomore year at the University of Delaware. Nate always made incredible first impressions. He was a bundle of energy, and a big bundle at that. Nate was imposing physically – a rugby player – but that just made him a better hugger. He was Ferdinand the Bull. He loved movies and Philadelphia sports teams.

It wasn’t always this way with Nate. Like any normal human being, Nate passed through a darker stage. Uncertain about his present and his future, he shut himself in his room and slept. He missed classes (In fact, he never officially finished college). He shied away from social gatherings. He knew heartbreak. He had an inexplicable self-conscious streak.

At some point between those gloomy days and his 25th and final year, Nate discovered his calling. He became involved with an organization called Invisible Children (IC), which since 2004 has strived to end conflict in Central Africa. One of their greatest goals has been to eliminate the use of child soldiers by Joseph Kony and the Lord’s Resistance Army.

After learning more about IC and what they were trying to do, Nate decided to dedicate his time to their cause. He used his charisma, sense of humor, and great networking ability to fundraise and raise awareness. Much of this money would go to educate former child soldiers in Uganda and Rwanda. He traveled all over the United States, living out of a cramped van with other non-paid IC volunteers, spreading knowledge as to what was happening in Central Africa.

The last time I saw Nate alive was at American University in Washington, D.C. I had gone to see him present the latest Invisible Children news. I heard the heartbreaking testimonies of former child soldiers, the latest casualties in a long and tragically recurrent African story. I was shocked and proud to see how much Nate had grown, how well he spoke in front of a crowd, and how passionate he was about what he was doing. After the talk and a powerful Q and A session, he told me that he could see his career developing before his eyes. He told me he’d never felt so sure of something.

A few months later, Nate finally got the opportunity to travel to Uganda to see what was happening there first hand. He had become close with many former child soldiers turned IC representatives. They re-named Nate ‘Oteka’, or the strong one.

I spoke with Oteka that day in July; it was just a quick exchange of messages. He told me how much fun he was having in Kampala. He was going to watch the World Cup Final with some friends. He was excited to head to Rwanda the next morning. He missed “ice, and American toilets”. He was learning to appreciate “funny things” – the little things.

I wish I could speak with Nate now. I wish he didn’t die in a bombing orchestrated by Somali militants that same evening, July 11th, 2010.

If I could talk to Nate, I would tell him that every time I look at that picture of him, pensive, on the D.C. Metro, I feel inspired. I see his humble bravery. I would tell him how much his actions changed my life. He guided me to take a leap of faith of my own and move to Chile, despite all the obstacles and naysayers. I’d tell him I’m doing well. I’d wait for him to tell a cheesy joke, and to hear his contagious laugh soon thereafter.

Nate decided to live with purpose and to do something that he loved, every day. And why not? Life is too tenuously beautiful to be scared to take seemingly ‘illogical’ chances.

Memories often become hazy and distorted with the passage of time. And in the age of photo saturation, the post-Facebook age, pictures have lost some of their former potency. But sometimes, pictures can be sacred. They can stir up forgotten emotions. In that picture, I can always meet Nate in the D.C. Metro.

Nate was no Batman or Superman; he was a great human being. He was, and continues to be, my hero.

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

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My City’s Muse in Nigeria

My City’s Muse in Nigeria

Every year I go for an annual pilgrimage in this lovely town. Lazily calm and quietly peaceful. But every year I learn something new. I take something or maybe more than one thing along with me on my sojourn on this earth. Although I may say the events that unfold are always the ones I need however, it may just be that my soul only percieves and accepts that which it needs the most.

Just before you enter the town, you must face a heightened turbulence, like the storm that comes before the calm. It feels like everything is about to rip apart but then you hold it all together till you reach the end.
Then a profound calm pervades all and a smooth sailing heralds your entrance. With trees hovering above the road, a careful blend between bowing down to give a royal welcome and stretching out a helping hand to usher you in for an imperial tour.

As you emerge from the leafy tunnel and make way into the sunny burst, the cliché that at the end of the dark tunnel is a blinding light never seemed more apt. Maybe this light may not blind you but it will open your eyes to the beauties of the town. A beautiful town which will calm your working race into a walking pace
The black and bold women carrying bouncing fruits, bubbling children skipping luxuriously from one end of town to another. The men, well you wouldn’t see them yet except for the very few working around. They are too busy providing for their women or too lazy sleeping or drinkng away their daylight. But trust me at night you will see them all from one joint to another shouting and laughing or simply staring at the glories of God, moulded in the form of women; women who glitter the roads and spakle even in the darkest night. Women, these blessed breed one of who brought a glowing light into this town and after whom a major road was eponymously named. A woman whose skin colour cannot be depicted in the statue that stands like a colossus in a roundabout which was named after her. A woman who fought passionate battles in small villages, evil forests and in the minds of people with but the love in her heart and sincerity of her soul. Her war trophies were souls of children who found a home in this world and the lives of men and women extricated from the bonds on their hands and in their heads.
A woman who won the war for independence long before it was fought. She inspires me and she inspired so many. This woman is Mary Slessor. Till date she stands as a colossal inspiration to all who pass through the lovely town of Calabar. She reminds us that battles are not won on the battle field, they must first be fought and won in our minds. Chains are not broken by swords or saws, they are unchained by sincere thoughts and loving hearts and Mary Slessor broke the bonds in Calabar and indeed Nigeria with her heart of gold.

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

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The Bleached-Sea in Tanzania

The Bleached-Sea in Tanzania

They hadn’t told us much about the place, just that it was a safe haven. I suppose that made things worse, because it moved my expectations even further away from the truth.

I have always been a “rainer-complainer”. Grotty weather irritates me. Despite the lack of rain, I had already spent a lot of my time in Tanzania complaining about the weather; about the stifling heat from the relentless African sun, the thick, oppressive, muggy air of dry-season, and the oily film of sweat and sun-cream I was constantly coated in. Complaining about the freak, torrential showers under which we would suddenly become drenched, but somehow not refreshed. Just even more clammy and humid than before.

It was cold that day, and the sky scowled down at us as we stepped off the dala dala. Strange as it sounds, something did hang in the air. Something unpleasant.

I remember us actually chatting as we approached the gate, perhaps at that point unaware of the sky, or the air. As the gates opened for us, a bell rang, and it was then that the waves came.

From three separate entry points along the grubby, crumbling building, they spilled out and headed straight towards us. Every last one of them. We were pulling them, like the moon guides the tide. Time seemed to jar, or perhaps my mind had simply developed some momentary power to stall it, and the bleached-sea was gliding towards us, closing in.

As the waves crept closer, some transformative threshold must have been crossed, for in a moment the bleach-sea had begun to separate into individual droplets, and the droplets then transformed into people. Horrifyingly strange people. They all wore the most bizarre combinations of tatty, ill-fitting clothing, and the closer they came the more the details began to appear. Their faces were a sore combination of stark white and red-raw; sun-marked, drying and painfully scabbed over. They were partially concealed under the peaks of various large, grubby sunhats.

The orphans drifted towards us in ominous silence, but before I had acclimatised to the sight before me, they had reached us, and one of them rushed at me, his arms outstretched. The single strangest feeling I have ever had was that split-second of repulsion in which I recoiled, horrified, before looking into the little Tanzanian boy’s milky-blue eyes and realising that this was just a child. More than that. They were orphans.

Albinism is far more widespread in Africa than anywhere else in the world, one study putting the Tanzanian ratio at one in 4,000 people – a reality to which I had been completely ignorant. Believed by many tribes to bring luck and prosperity, albinos are hunted and murdered across the country. Their legs, genitals, eyes, hair, and even skin, are highly coveted. This orphanage, we believed, would be a relative safe haven for these young, parentless children to live out their inevitably short lives. Albinos, we were told, rarely live past the age of 30. Cancer is their greatest killer.

After being found or finding themselves this protective sanctuary, the albinos stay here for the remainder of their days, removed from the dangerous threats of the outside world but also, sadly, from life itself. And though a safe haven, perhaps, this place was the furthest thing from a haven imaginable. The orphans sleep three to a single bunk, the mattresses are a thin, rotting sponge and there is no bedding to speak of. The floors of the buildings are cold, wet and grimy and the food looked revolting. The entire place is infected with a sweet, putrid smell which hangs in the air and catches at the back of the throat.

From that day on, far from being the “rainer-complainer”, every time it rained in Shinyanga all I could think of was what the orphans would be doing at that moment in time; their feet wet and blue with cold, their tiny, shivering bodies underdressed and crammed onto a bare single mattress.

As we passed back out of the same gates through which we had entered, the insane juxtaposition of the life awaiting me, and the one they had to live out, confined to this side of the gate, was almost impossible to comprehend. I did go back and visit again, but I didn’t stay. I have been moving about the world, meeting people, interacting, experiencing life ever since. The orphans I met will all still be there now, in that miniscule “safe haven” of living hell. That is, those that are still living.

Nothing could push someone more towards seizing, exploring, and confronting things head-on, because they can’t, and they won’t. But I can, so I will.

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

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Two Rivers through the USA

Two Rivers through the USA

I was in a bad place recently, a bad place of the kind you can’t get to by plane or leave a bad Yelp review for. There was a Sylvia Plath quote I kept repeating to myself (can you ever be in a good place if you’re quoting Plath?): “Is there no way out of the mind?” No, ma’am, there are no flights in or out. There’s no chance of chartering a bus or hailing a cab. You’re stranded at the airport and you’re alone in there, with not even an overpriced soda for comfort. I had nothing to do but ask myself, “Is there no way out? Is there no way out?” and I’ll tell you now that though there’s no way out there’s definitely a way of altering the view.

I figured this out after boarding an actual factual airplane and landing in New Orleans. I was there for a long weekend to attend a friend’s wedding and I had spent the weeks before the trip agonizing over these three days, roiling in anxiety, purely because leaving – even for this short amount of time – meant change. In the bad place I was in one of my few comforts was routine and this interrupted that. I stepped off the airplane resigned to counting down the hours before my return flight, but it would be days before I even thought of home.

There was something in the air, I think, something very like luck – or love. I was with friends I hadn’t seen in a while and our reconnection was as effortless and unintentional as the way we were always indoors when the downpours began. We watched the deluge from the bars and fried chicken restaurants on Bourbon Street, our neon colored drinks beading with sweat, the chicken devoured before it could cool from hot to warm, the sound of our own laughter distracting us from the wall of humidity pressing in from outside. It felt, to me, that we laughed that entire trip, from the first midnight when we went down to the Mississippi to see its dark waters up close, to our last night in town when we went on a ghost tour, the sky going black as we entered the French Quarter, the gas lamps flickering in perfect countermelody to all the ghost stories we heard. Some moments in life become significant even as they’re still occurring, and as I wandered from haunt to haunt that night, in the final hours of this trip, I knew that this was one of those moments. Because it was then that I realized that it was possible for me to get out of my bad place. All I had to do, I saw now, was invite change rather than refuse it.

For over a year I had had an idea of the kind that resembles a diet: an idea that would be good for me, but that would be difficult to see through. My idea was to abandon my beloved – but undoubtedly entrapping – routine and move overseas. It was something I had wanted to do for years, but the emotional effort involved seemed too much to handle. So I kept putting it off and putting it off – until New Orleans, when I laughed and laughed and knew that this was something I needed to do.

It’s a hard thing to fight against one of the most fundamental aspects of your nature, harder still when you’ve let it hold you down for so long. It would’ve been so much easier to sink back into complacency, to let what I’d realized in New Orleans fade into just another fond memory from the trip. All I had to do was forget how much my friends and I had laughed together. All I had to do was forget how happy I’d felt.

I chose, instead, to remember.

Maybe booking a one way flight to a beautiful, cobblestone-laden city doesn’t seem like bravery, but it sure as hell felt like it. I fought myself at every turn. I was depressed at the prospect of leaving for months. But now, I’m writing this from Prague, from an apartment – nay, a flat! – two minutes from the Vltava and when I look back what I think of isn’t the burden of the depression or the anxiety that was the prelude to my arrival here. Instead, what I remember is another city with a river winding near it. I remember a day when the air held its own weight, when I could scarcely breathe for all the rain. I remember that I said, “I’m thinking of moving to Prague.”

And I remember my friends, each of them on either side of me, saying at almost the exact same moment, “Do it.”

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Inspired to Shop Italy? Know The Inside Tricks

Shopping in Rome, (well in most of Europe) there are different social norms and customs that patrons are expected to know.  In the United States, people paw the merchandise, carry it around and then usually leave it somewhere it doesn’t belong.

This. Does Not. Happen. In. Italy.

Entering into a shop is like entering into someone’s home.  (While the larger mall like stores are more lax in this custom, for this article, I am addressing the small shops.)  When you enter into someone’s home, you immediately greet them.  This is expected in an Italian shop as well.

Vendors are ready to wait on you.  They want to serve and they are attentive.  When you walk in, say, “buon giorno” and smile.  They will greet you as well and may ask something along the lines of “Che cose’?”  This means loosely, “what would you like?”   It is expected that you do not touch the wares. Italians are very meticulous in their belongings and they frown upon the idea of someone else trying it on and touching it. In fact, if you are choosing to try it on, it is almost an unspoken expectation that you plan to purchase said garment.

Wha?????  How do I know I like it?  How do I know it will fit?  Trust me.  The salesperson will have sized you up correctly the moment you darkened their doorstep.  They will know precisely what size you need.  (An aside here is it may not be the size you want.  Sorry.  Their sizes are different anyway, so it doesn’t matter.)

If you are looking for a particular color, they will be happy to help.  When you walk into a shop, the first thing you may notice is that it is very sparse.  There may be one or two mannequins dressed in an ensemble, but that will be it.  The wall are usually lined with drawers or doors that host the goods.  Italians do not like to be overwhelmed with too much at once.  Much in the way they prefer their meals to be presented in unadorned sequence, they use the same principles for clothing stores.

You may like the scarf or the skirt on the mannequins so you can point to it and say, “Lo mi piace.”  This means “I like it.”  Suddenly, before  your very eyes, there will appear a bevy of this particular skirt or scarf or shirt in an array of colors and patterns and sizes.

If there is a certain color you are looking for, it would be a good idea to learn how to say it in Italian. (Most of the shops are housed with salespeople who can in fact, speak English, but they are so happy and proud of you when you attempt the native language, it’s adorable.)

Once you have decided what you will purchase, you can say something like, “Lo prendo.”  This means, “I’ll take it.”  This is the best part.  The salesperson will whirl you up to the cash register and prepare your new belongings for their journey home.  They use tissue wraps and ribbons and beautiful reusable bags with zippers.  It is a treat in itself to watch them.  The excitement overtakes you as you make your lovely purchase.

Try and maintain your dignity when you leave.  At least go around the corner before you begin squealing in delight.  Once, I purchased a scarf (well I made my husband purchase a scarf for me) on the via Condotti and I was so proud of myself for not tearing the package open and rolling around the streets on my new treasure.  That kind of behavior is an entirely different article.

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

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