Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 321

We Conquered the Ocean in Thailand

Imposing cliffs stand like faithful sentinels all around us, their far-reaching shadows a testament to the many lifetimes they have watched these waters before our arrival today. Turquoise water spreads around our boat, waves stretching for kilometres before ever meeting shore. The sun hangs high above us, its rays drying the sea water on our captain’s browned shoulders, leaving faint traces of salt in its stead. Dressed in nothing but a faded singlet and well-worn denim shorts, I watch as he moves sure-footedly around the boat, anchoring us to the sea floor before announcing that this is where we’ll first disembark.

I peer over the edge of the boat. Only a foot of air separates me from the waves, and whatever lies below. Fear and paranoia quietly occupy my mind. The hair on my arms stand on end, imagining what the many moving shapes under the surface may be; my heart beat quickens in the knowledge that were I to sink, there would be kilometres of ocean between me and life-sustaining oxygen. Still, I am not so distracted by my fear that I can’t appreciate the way the water glitters in the light. 

I turn to face the boat’s occupants, and already our American counterparts have pulled on their wetsuits. Toned and tanned from many adventures into the blue, only the creases bordering their eyes and mouth reveal the couple are in fact, my age twice over. Confidently, they jump as if to greet the waves; the woman alone turns to call to me.

‘Coming, Australia?’

I nod nervously in reply, watching them disappear below the surface, their snorkels now the only indication of their whereabouts. They expertly breaststroke away from the boat, darting every which way the captivating fish below them lead, until they are barely visible from where I stand. Then there is only Eddy and I, the captain having closed his eyes once we’d been anchored, his bare feet crossed on the dashboard, hands behind tilted head.

‘I want to wear a life jacket’, I admit to my husband. He promptly sources one from under his seat, and gently but firmly fastens it over my six-month old pregnancy bump. Eddy steps towards the edge of the boat, holding his hand out so that he may help me ease into the water. I shake my head, and urge him forward. I can do this by myself.

I needn’t have worried. Enamoured with the way schools of exotic fish change direction all at once, I would follow them far from the boat, forgetting I ever feared the open sea. I would find the water cool and comforting, a relief from the heat in which the boat baked. As the sun dipped below the Phi Phi horizon, the scent of coconuts staining our fingers, I would know I’d treasure forever after, the day my baby and I conquered the ocean.

None of that could happen however, if I didn’t get off the boat.

I still my breath and slip into the water.

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

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March to the Beat in the USA

It really is a jungle. Crazy, exotic, and absolutely full of people. During my first couple of weeks, all I could do was focus on their feet. Focus on their movements. There were just so many of them—there still are. I am constantly surrounded. How can there be this many? I can never walk more than a few steps without brushing up against one. Watch their feet, watch their shoulders, watch out. I’m a short person, and everything here is tall. Now I am shorter.

 

I am always smelling something. Perfume, garbage, spices, paint, car fumes, burning rubber, sweat. Just the same, I am always hearing something. Car horns, children’s laughter, muffled voices from the apartment below, beeping trucks, hissing steam. There is always movement, which is chaotic and rushed, yet has a certain rhythm. Everyone learns to move to this pace.

 

My first day here, I was staying at a friend of a friend’s place and receiving the key from a cousin, who is also a cop. He proceeded to outline all of the horrors of my new home.

 

“If you act like a victim, you are a victim.”

 

“Always lock the door, even if you’re out for a moment. And always look through the peep hole first.”

 

“Leave one light on in the darkest corner of the room.”

 

“Do you have pepper spray? I’ll get you some.”

 

“Don’t yell rape or help, no one will come. Yell fire.”

 

Suddenly my gut was sinking in on itself, my breathing was coming fast and I feared a panic attack was coming on. I hadn’t had a panic attack in 3 years, and this man was about to ruin all that work. He meant well, and he certainly gave me some good advice, but suddenly the city had a sinister glow. The bright lights that block out my precious stars—the ones I can see so clearly back home in the woods—became spotlights, pointing me out to the predators lurking in this jungle. I was alone, since no one would come help me if I called for it. I thought college was scary. I thought job interviews were scary. But this was different. I was out of college, at a turning point to start shaping my life or be left behind. I had one month to find a place of my own, and I was starting a new job. I had been to the city only twice before, both brief trips. How was I going to survive?

 

I adjusted. Searching for housing proved to be a hunt worthy of an Olympic medal. Settling into my job was made easier by the welcoming coworkers I work with. With only 4 days left to find somewhere to live, I signed a lease with a girl I went to college with (we’ll take the silver). I have survived, though I still think there are too many people.

 

I’ve never been very good with change. I don’t like when something is working well and suddenly someone decides to change it…what if they make it worse? When I was young, my parents announced we were going to be moving, and I was appalled. I couldn’t think about leaving the house I had grown up in. When I was entering college, the panic attacks started. But I’ve always adjusted, mostly with the love and support of friends and family. Grudgingly, I have changed, and the change has in fact almost always been for the better. This last challenge, this city, tested me differently than the others. It really was all up to me. I had to make the job work, or I was fired. I had to find somewhere to live, or I was homeless. I had to learn to make the decisions. I had to be brave enough to face this city, to adjust to it. I’m still not used to the garbage truck that wakes me up every Saturday morning at 6:30 am, but I am used to the sirens. I’ve grown used to the cacophony of smells that roam through the air, but every now and then am surprised by a new one.

 

I’ve learned to flow with the pattern, to march to the rhythm. This city dared me to face it down, taunted me. I had to be brave; I had to stand up to it. It was like a big bully waiting to tear me down. I knew if I was going to survive, I had to face my fears. I looked right into the bully’s eyes and said,

 

“Bring it on New York City. I’m ready for you.”

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

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India: Are You Willing To Give Up Your Life for You?

 

Are You Willing To Give Up Your Life for You?

 

A few years ago my best friend was debilitated by an unrelenting illness and was anticipating a diagnosis that would mean further deterioration.  She was a single parent and I routinely traveled the seven hours between us to accompany her to her myriad of medical appointments as an advocate and witness.  I had told her that if she was diagnosed with the illness that was expected, I would sell my business and move in with her to provide the care and parenting support she would need.  She called one day informing me that she did not receive the diagnosis we had expected and dreaded.  Although still ill, she had a chronic condition that would not worsen.  I sagged with relief, and promptly decided I needed to get out into the wilderness for some time to reflect.  Hours later my tent was erected by my favourite lake and I was pondering life by a campfire.

 

Staring into the flames, I reflected on how close I came to giving up my life as I had carefully built it to support my friend.  I asked myself, “are you willing to give up your life for you?”  I answered immediately with a firm “yes”.  “What do you want to do?” I asked myself.  I was floored when my brain responded with “go to India”.  I had never given India a thought.  A few friends over the years had gone to India and always came back smitten with a particularly intense travel bug.  I knew there was something about India that suffused one’s being; that changed you.  But I found the idea of going to India daunting, and believed it would require more than I had.

It took two months to sell my house, my possessions, and close my business. During the relatively quick process of preparing for my trip, I questioned the sanity of my decision.  I was a single woman in my mid forties who according to my society’s mores ought to be working hard and saving for my retirement. I had reached some success in my profession and kept thinking, you don’t “arrive” only to throw it away.  It didn’t help that when people asked me why I was going to India that I didn’t really have an answer.  Numerous times I had to face my fears – especially my fear of being lonely and of being overwhelmed.  Stories and stereotypes of India crowded my consciousness and I feared the onslaught of bodies, the curiosity of the people and their endless inquiries, the myriad of rules and regulations and the poverty of a country of one billion people. 

I arrived in Delhi at 2:00 am, exhausted and fairly tense after having listened to a ninety something year old Indian gentleman provide extensive advice about matters of safety in his country.  He was the oldest man I had ever laid eyes on. He was implacable.  Calm.  As our wheels hit the tarmac, my ancient seat companion turned to me and spoke in an authoritative tone.  “There’s just one thing to remember while you’re in my country,” I was eager for his advice.  “…nothing in India makes sense”. His pronouncement was unembellished and emphatic. His words resonated with me through out my three months there.  They were the best guide I could ever have.  I heard him often in my head.  “Nothing makes sense”.  His deep wisdom allowed me to let go, surrender, and be amused.

 

Carrying my inner ancient Indian guide, I relaxed into nothing makes sense.  Laughed often at my disbelief.  Laughed at my discomfort.  Laughed at my unknowing. 

 

India was the biggest gift to me I will have in my lifetime.  It’s intensity – the intensity of pollution, poverty, harassment, abuse of women, children, animals and the intensity of its generosity and beauty – forced me to live in the present moment.  I could walk a mere street in India and be completely taken over by joy, amazement, mirth, disgust and rage all in a matter of minutes.  India taught me that I could detach from my emotional states, allowing them to flow through me of their own volition leaving me to keep moving forward, keep experiencing, keep engaging.

India also taught me gratitude.  Not only for my privilege and comfort, but a deeper sense of gratitude taught to me by a legless beggar.  This unnamed man had been inching his way towards our bus, dragging his torso across unspeakable filth to beg his sustenance from us.  My pity was instantly humbled into a deeper connection, when he bestowed a beatific smile upon me as I gave him a small offering, and I was bathed in his joy.  Gratitude expands beyond circumstances and experiences.

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

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Stepping Off in Costa Rica

 

Stepping Off

 

I placed a check mark underneath canopy tour.  It sounds so benign.  I abruptly walk away, my heart thundering in my chest, a queasy sensation in my stomach.  I’m in Costa Rica on a writer’s retreat.  I had promised myself before leaving home that I’d zip line, ignoring the cortisol in my body that screamed “don’t”.

 

I’ve always been afraid of jumping off.  Swimming lessons as a child.  My first dive was effortless, then my brain kicked in and I registered that I was launching myself into the unknown, into that space of nothingness, and I panicked.  My patient instructor cajoled, reassured, repeatedly told me I can do this.  I knew how to dive.  I did.  He was right.  I would assume the pose and for all the on-lookers, my six year old peers, and my disappointed mother, it would seem that this time, at last, I would dive.  At the last second I would jump into the water, my instructor turning his head to avoid the splash of water.

 

I’m attracted to adventure.  I routinely place myself in adventure’s way, and then midstream my brain catches up, I register what I’m doing and the fear, if not terror, sets in.  I watch the crew dive off the roof of our cruise ship in the Galapagos.  They’re transformed into little boys, calling out to each other, hooting their delight.  I scramble up on the roof to join them.  Their eyes widen to see a gringa on the roof. Perched on the edge of the listing ship, I freeze.  My brain kicks in. Ultimately, I scramble down to the next level and finally jump – the sickening river of terror thundering through my veins overshadows any sense of enjoyment.

 

I’m in Malaysia and read about a suspension bridge strung across the jungle.  I know immediately I want to do this.  I take a bus, then a tram car up a mountain.  I first have lunch on a hotel balcony that has a hand printed sign to be aware of the snakes.  I look up towards the vines above my head, and stare at the bright green and yellow snake that is taking in his?her? afternoon sun.  My breath catches.  I’m grateful I’m not scared of snakes.

After lunch I walk a short way and pay a pittance to obtain entrance onto the suspension bridge.  I’m the only walker.  Halfway across the bridge my brain kicks in. I’m on a swaying rope bridge, eight inches in width, kilometers off the ground, a bridge that no one tests or maintains.  My racing brain catalogues the amount of humidity, rain, that a tropical environment endures.  I stare at the girth of the rope, calculate rates of deterioration, my legs shake so badly I wonder if I may just collapse and tumble off crashing through the canopy I’m supposed to be oohing and awing over.   I think about my family, friends, who have no idea where I am, what I’m doing.  How long it will be before they discover I’m dead.  I realize that either way I am walking back to the start (the walk of shame) or finishing this walk that has all of a sudden been labeled interminable by my brain. But walk I must, remaining frozen is not an option. I finish.  I make it, if I had less pride I would have kissed the ground, it seemed a little too dramatic.

 

I’m at home, rural northern B.C., three years into a job where I provide counselling to Aboriginal children who have been permanently removed from their homes.  Survivors of neglect, trauma, abandonment, little ones whose stories shatter my trauma seasoned heart.  There is a child I have counselled for three years, who due to her experiences of abuse and neglect plus ten failed placements, fundamentally believes she is bad and unlovable.  Her whole life, she has never lived anywhere for longer than two years.

 

I step off into the unknown.  At fifty-two years of age, I let go of my safe, independent life and apply to be her parent. In two months time, I will be a single parent to a twelve year old girl who I have loved for years.  My brain will kick in, and I know to face my fears and carry on anyway.

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

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From the USA to Malaysia to the USA with Regret

On October 3, 1999, I stood in disarray on the edge of a sidewalk in Singapore and stared at a busy street. I looked up from the small cars and motorcycles rolling over the steaming asphalt to the sixth floor of Singapore General Hospital.

 

How did I end up here? was the only thought that I could verbalize.

 

Over the past two years, I had accumulated thousands of dollars in debt in the United States health care system. My wife’s family was Malaysian citizens, but they had heard that Singapore had some of the best hospitals in the world. So when my in-laws offered to meet us in Singapore, I had no choice but to comply.

 

After a week she was released from the hospital. We stayed in Singapore for the rest of the month in order for her to continue to check up with the doctor. I tried to find a job, but legal work is difficult to obtain when you’re not a citizen. Jobless and helpless, I wandered around the streets of Singapore-Orchard Boulevard, Pagoda Street, Serangoon Road, Sommerset Road, …sometimes I sat on the MRT (Mass Rapid Transit) and alighted at random stations. After a month of aimlessly drifting around the island of Singapore, I told my wife’s family, “I am American and I belong in the U. S. We will return as soon as she is well.”

 

On November 3, 1999 my wife, her family, and I took a bus across the Johor-Singapore Causeway from Singapore to Malaysia. We stayed in her home town of Maran for three and a half months. I think they had hoped that I would find a reason to stay in Malaysia, but in my culture shock, my lack of competence, and to my wife’s frustration I insisted that we return to the United States.

 

Late one night in February of 2000 my wife and I strolled through the Mobile Regional Airport in Mobile, Alabama. The next day we rented an apartment and began our life again in America. Over the next four years, I became a successful guitar instructor. Despite my success, I often found myself telling friends and students that in Malaysia I saw monkeys causing trouble in parks like squirrels play in your yard; Singapore General Hospital is as good as any hospital in the United States; or Kuala Lumpur is the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. In the fast food restaurants of Mobile, I would say ‘take away’ instead of ‘to go.’ I spent hours studying Mandarin so that I could communicate easier with my in-laws.

 

In Singapore and Malaysia I lived in regret of what I did wrong in the United States. Why couldn’t I have taken care of my wife there? In the United States, I said our life would have turned out better in Singapore or Malaysia. I lived in regret of what I did wrong in the Southeast Asia. Why couldn’t I have made life work there?

 

In December of 2004, we took our two year old son to Malaysia. It was an adventurous trip to say the least. He cried the entire twenty-two hour plane ride. On the first night in the hotel in Kuala Lumpur he slipped in the bathroom and his head was bleeding. With him in arms I ran down stairs, jumped into a taxi, threw some green American cash in the taxi driver’s hand, and the driver rushed us to Kuala Lumpur General Hospital. They treated his minor head wound and found out that he had been crying on the airplane flight because of an ear infection. In Maran, my wife’s hometown, he hid behind a rack of clothes in clothing store and sent me searching all over the street for him.

 

Early on the morning of December 30, after an exhausting one month visit, my wife and son slept most of the taxi ride from Maran to the Kuala Lumpur International Airport. I watched the mountainous jungles rise and fall as the taxi driver flew through the snake like highways of Malaysia.

 

What would I have done had I not been a coward and left Malaysia four years ago? I asked myself.

 

I looked at my son who was asleep in his mother’s arms, and I thought, I would not have had the experience of rushing to Kuala Lumpur General Hospital at 3:00 a.m. because of a fall; or I would not know what it is like to have entire airplanes filled with people from Mobile Regional Airport to KLIA look at me like they wanted to kill me because of a crying baby;  and I would not know the mixed emotions of searching the streets of Maran for a child whom I was ready to kill or die for.

 

 

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Not Quite Hi Ho Silver in the USA

Not Quite Hi Ho Silver in the USA

A grainy Kodachrome slide shows me sharing a saddle with a park ranger somewhere in California. My look of sheer terror tells the whole story. At the age of five, I made a lifelong decision to avoid horses. 

When I was 12 peer pressure caused me to rethink things. 

Wanna go horseback riding, my friend asked?

Sure, said my 11 year old daring self, failing to state the obvious. I don’t recall how I managed to get myself atop that stabled horse. I don’t know what I said or did that turned the hay munching nag into its untamed alter ego. I did know enough, however, to hold on with all my might until the wild steed came to an abrupt halt in the middle of a stand of trees, where said horse allowed me to dismount. How either of us got back to the barn remains a mystery.

 

A few years ago my disabled friend, Amy, mocked my vow to keep my boots on solid ground. Her fearlessness inspired me.  Regular horseback riding provided Amy with both recreational and therapeutic benefits. If she could ride, maybe I could ride too. Scared beyond measure, I decided, in the words of John Wayne, it might be time to “to saddle up anyway.”  As luck would have it, I didn’t have to travel any farther than Woodbine, Georgia.  Palmetto Oaks Stables, a small operation with big heart, provides riding opportunities to the physically, mentally and emotionally challenged. Fifty years of equinophobia surely fell into one of those categories. 

A welcoming committee of two greeted my anxious arrival. Not waiting for formal introductions, Alice, the chubbiest goat I’d ever seen, and her sidekick, Sassy, more dust mop than dog, let it be known they were only interested in whatever treats I carried in my pockets. Stable owner, Teresa, tossed some kibble in their direction so I wouldn’t get trampled getting out of the car. Dressed in rust-colored jeans, a sweatshirt and mud-caked boots Teresa possessed a zen-like demeanor — the perfect antidote for my jangled nerves.  A firm, calloused handshake belied her gentle nature. Compassionate eyes assured me I’d come to the right place.

Teresa awaited my nod before leading me into the barn to meet the horse that would be my partner for the day. My knees knocked when I first laid eyes on a thousand pounds of muscle, mane and magic, named Thunder. Not Baby. Not Cupcake. Thunder.

The object of my fear did not appear stormy as his name suggested. Tethered to a metal ring, he waited motionless for my approach.  Like a shy toddler, I hid behind Teresa as I dug deep into my consciousness for the girl that once sought out adventure rather than live in nail-biting fear. With tentative hands, I reached for Thunder’s withers, then his forehead. Long, slow strokes from his ears to his snuffling nose relaxed me more than him. I peered into Thunder’s eyes, one deep brown, the other milky white. His blindness mirrored my inability to see beyond my fears. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I petted his broad back and bristled mane.   

The next step was to get a feel for a horse in motion. Teresa led Thunder out of the barn, then instructed me to walk down a dusty path with horse in tow.  About the time I loosened up, Thunder decided he’d had enough walking for one day. He cocked his head longingly towards  the other horses back in the corral. Teresa coaxed him forward. When we got to the end of the path I told Thunder, in my most commanding voice, to turn around. I said go. Thunder heard stay. We stayed until Thunder agreed to go home.

That horse had you figured out before you ever said hello, said Teresa. 

Along with my fear, I had to give up any decorum I might have had. There’s no way to hike one foot into a stirrup, hold onto the saddle horn, swing your other leg up and over the back end of a horse, and look good. Thank God Thunder understood the importance of standing still. I managed to plop my butt into the worn leather saddle and froze like a bronze park statue.  What had I been thinking?

Actual riding, however, involves movement. Teresa held the reins. With the gentlest of steps, Thunder inched forward.  Minutes felt interminable, yet as each one passed I relaxed into the horse’s motion. An unlikely pairing, Thunder and I circled the ring as if dancing a slow, graceful waltz. You are so brave, I whispered to the pigtailed girl in the Kodachrome slide.

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

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I Found My Heart in South Africa

‘Well, if you feel like you should go volunteer in South Africa, then go.’ I starred at the screen of my iPhone, reading the words from my mother over and over again in disbelief. I had been talking about volunteering in South Africa for months, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to spend the only extra money I had on a flight.

All it took was that one push, from the one person who could ever make me feel like I was brave enough to go through with one of my many crazy ideas. ‘Then go’, she said. So I did.

When I arrived in the small, shanty town of Muizenberg, I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. A million thoughts ran through my mind like, ‘What if the kids don’t like me?’, ‘What if the other volunteers don’t like me?’, ‘What if I don’t find whatever it is I came here to look for?’

Then I remembered something. I did it. I left my social bubble in L.A., scrounged up as much money as I could, and came to volunteer with kids in an impoverished area in Africa. Involuntarily, a smile made its way across my face as I lay in my bunk bed in the gravely cold volunteer house, waiting to meet the kids at school in the morning.

When we arrived, dark, threatening storm clouds made the already glum schoolyard look even more depressing, but something about the way the darkness contrasted with the building made it seem bright. I felt a pit of nervousness in my stomach as I realized I was about to meet the kids for the first time.

Diiiing! The shrill sound of a bell rang and suddenly, all the doors of the rickety school flew open, and out poured dozens and dozens of tiny uniform-clad children. My heart started racing, wondering how I was supposed to introduce myself to them.

“Teacha! Teacha!” Before I had time to think, a swarm of little kids surrounded my waist, grabbing my hands in theirs and latching onto me like I was their mother. They’re holding my hand! I thought, instantly filled with love and gratitude for these tiny people who I had only just met.

“Teacha! What is your name?”

After slowly annunciating my name and asking theirs in return, I spent the rest of recess doing the same for dozens of other kids that would run up and jump on me without thinking twice.

I had never felt such pure, unquestionable, undeniable love before in my entire life. I had also never felt love at first sight, but in that moment, I knew it was real. These kids, who live in tin shacks, who have one outfit to wear and hardly anything to eat, found happiness simply by holding my hand. They loved me without knowing anything about me; they loved me just because I was there. I admired them because they loved in general, and opened their hearts and minds to not just me, but people from all over the world that were there to volunteer as well.

Suddenly, there was nowhere else in the world I would have rather been than on that cold, gloomy, muddy playground.

I had felt love, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of not knowing where I was, or what I was doing, I just wanted to be there, with them. I had fallen in love with these kids, and I had fallen in love with South Africa.

I woke up every morning, in the numbingly cold and drizzling weather, excited to see the powerful mountains that prominently stood guard of the seemingly fragile town, and the smiling faces of the happiest kids I had ever met. The days flew by, my heart growing more and more by the minute.

On my last day at the school in Muizenberg, I walked along a row of half-buried tires, holding the hands of a small first-grade girl and boy as they tight-roped along the tires in the uttermost excitement. We didn’t speak other than the occasional, “Good job!” but they insisted on continuing to walk along the tires.

“You know,” the little girl said in a small, sweet voice, “you don’t have to leave, you can stay here with us!” My stomach wrenched and all of the air left my lungs as my heart broke into a million pieces. I glanced down at her tiny face, my blue eyes meeting her pleading, honey-brown eyes.

“I wish I could,” I choked, realizing that I really meant it, “I’ll come back one day.” I whispered, hating thinking that it might be a lie. But knowing it was enough to encourage me to try.

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

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Everywhere the Second-Class Buses Could Take Me in Mexico

There is a special magic about first times. The first time that I screwed up my courage, took the leap of faith and jumped outside of my comfort zone, I landed in Xalapa, Mexico. Unaccompanied, I traveled to a place where the only person I knew from home was my faculty advisor, Dr Tony Serna.

The opportunity was a summer study abroad program—a language and literature intensive. Even though I’d studied Spanish from seventh grade through my freshman year at Ohio University, the prospect of immersion in a culture where I wasn’t fluent in the language and customs was daunting.

Four days out of each week between mid-June and early August, Mondays through Thursdays, I attended classes at Universidad Veracruzana. Our instructors, all native Spanish speakers, taught Mexican history, folklore and contemporary Latin-American literature. My classmates were other foreign students. On Fridays, it was customary for us to cut classes and take off on the second class buses for other locales. Sometimes I would travel with my classmates but, as often as not, I would strike out on my own.

My earliest forays were to cities about two hours distant—Veracruz, Puebla, Tecolutla and Xico. By late July, I felt confident enough in my growing language and cultural fluency to hop the second class bus to Oaxaca. I told my classmates, the family I boarded with and Sergio, my Mexican sweetheart, about my plans. Sergio was skeptical about my insistence on traveling solo.

While it may have seemed foolhardy and overconfident in Sergio’s view, everything worked out for the best. By traveling alone, not engrossed with a boyfriend or a group, I was more approachable, more open to meeting new people and having new experiences.

Shortly after arriving in the Oaxaca, I met a Canadian traveler whose name I’ve long since forgotten. We agreed to share lodgings to save money. During my afternoon siesta, I felt my first earth tremor. At first I thought it was an overloaded truck rumbling through the narrow street outside the hotel. My roommate set me straight on returning from his day’s ramblings.

On Saturday I took local buses to the Zapotec archaeological zones of Mitla and Monte Alban. I climbed the pyramids and shopped the local crafts markets for souvenirs. Some locals invited me to a quinceañera that evening .

By late Saturday night, I ran low on funds and waited in the ADO station for the morning bus to Xalapa. A local journalist, Roberto (Beto) Palacios, passed through the bus station on his return home from an out-of-town assignment as I sat in the terminal. We struck up a conversation.

When Beto learned that I was a journalism student, he insisted that I stay the next day as his guest for the Guelaguetza events. We used Beto’s press credentials to get seats in the press section. Before dropping me back at the ADO afterward, we went out for coffee. We exchanged addresses and promised to stay in contact.

The success of the Oaxaca trip emboldened me to attempt an even more ambitious solo adventure once classes ended the first week of August. When I shared my plan with Sergio, he grudgingly accepted every part of it except the final weekend in Mexico City. There he insisted that, for my safety, he accompany me.

There was a brief delay to the beginning of my final odyssey due to a stomach ailment. Once Sergio had nursed cme back to health, he saw me off at the Xalapa ADO, promising to meet me in Mexico City’s main terminal in eleven days.

I made the most of those eleven days, covering as much terriory in central Mexico as time and my budget would allow. Everywhere the second-class buses could take me, I went. I was serenaded by mariachis in the Patio Tapatio in Guadalajara. I stared into the vacant eyes of the mummies in Guanajuato. My main reason for picking the beaches at Manzanillo over Puerto Vallarta was that the bus route to the former passed through Autlan, my guitar hero Carlos Santana’s birthplace.

After watching Pacific sunsets and feasting on fresh-caught seafood in Manzanillo, I hopped a bus for the eastbound trek toward Mexico City. On that leg of the trip, my principal stop was Patzcuaro so I could watch the fishermen cast their butterfly nets on Lake Janitzio. I transited Morelia and Queretaro on the way to my rendezvous with Sergio in the capital.

During our whirlwind weekend, Sergio took me to Teotihuacan, Chapultepec and Xochimilco. He proposed on our final night together. The long-distance romance fizzled but that never tarnished the memories.

Whenever I experience self-doubt, I remember my daring Mexican adventures.

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

The post Everywhere the Second-Class Buses Could Take Me in Mexico appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Bedding U-Shaped Memory Foam Travel Neck Pillow with Soft Velvet Cloth Zipper Cover Sunflower Neck & Cervical Pillows

The SUN ( best selling newspaper in the UK ) “it’s simple, it’s brilliant, and it works!”

The INDEPENDENT “this comfy pillow….provides support for the neck and chin, as well as cushioning for the side and back of the head.”

USA TODAY “The curvy part of the “J” curls under your chin, cradling and supporting your neck and chin, preventing you from snapping awake”

DAILY MAIL “A product that would make those red-eye flights more comfortable”

VIRGIN ATLANTIC “With the J-Pillow , your chin, neck,back of head and side of head are all comfortably supported”

LA TIMES “On a recent flight, it kept me from bonking my head on the plane window; when I switched to the right side, it kept me from becoming too familiar with my neighbor.”

EKSTRA BLADET (Danish best selling newspaper) “Here is a travel pillow that actually works”

VELVETSCAPE.COM “On my first flight with the J-Pillow, I slept for seven hours straight without waking up once! That was a whole new experience for me!”

MYTRAVELSITE.COM “It works! It’s definitely more comfortable than a standard pillow”

QUITEWANDERINGS.COM “The design of the J-Pillow is sheer genius for the simple fact that it supports your neck, it supports your head and it supports your chin. …Your chin!! Genius.”

ALLABOUTYOU.COM “Designed by a flight attendant, this travel innovation will sort all your napping needs. Its special chin rest ensures your head won’t jolt forward mid-snooze! What more could you ask for?”

NOTWITHOUTYOURPASSPORT.COM “The J-Pillow is the most comfortable travel pillow I’ve rested my head on.

UNIQUE PATENTED design and winner of the British Invention of the Year 2013

STOPS HEAD FROM FALLING FORWARD while sleeping with ingenious chin support, while at the same time supporting your head and neck in the perfect position from the side. It’s like lying down while you’re sitting up!

REALLY HELPS you to get uninterrupted sleep when TRAVELLING long haul, or in the car, or on train or coach journeys

ALSO GREAT FOR USE at HOME when relaxing on the sofa or in bed. Or if you have to sleep upright in bed for medical reasons or post operation

EASY TO CARRY, this super soft plush pillow folds down smaller than an average “U” shaped pillow, it can be squeezed in the smallest of spaces or it can be clipped onto hand luggage with the handy snap-loop fastener.

The post Bedding U-Shaped Memory Foam Travel Neck Pillow with Soft Velvet Cloth Zipper Cover Sunflower Neck & Cervical Pillows appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Bedding U-Shaped Memory Foam Travel Neck Pillow with Soft Velvet Cloth Zipper Cover Tree and House Neck & Cervical Pillows

The SUN ( best selling newspaper in the UK ) “it’s simple, it’s brilliant, and it works!”

The INDEPENDENT “this comfy pillow….provides support for the neck and chin, as well as cushioning for the side and back of the head.”

USA TODAY “The curvy part of the “J” curls under your chin, cradling and supporting your neck and chin, preventing you from snapping awake”

DAILY MAIL “A product that would make those red-eye flights more comfortable”

VIRGIN ATLANTIC “With the J-Pillow , your chin, neck,back of head and side of head are all comfortably supported”

LA TIMES “On a recent flight, it kept me from bonking my head on the plane window; when I switched to the right side, it kept me from becoming too familiar with my neighbor.”

EKSTRA BLADET (Danish best selling newspaper) “Here is a travel pillow that actually works”

VELVETSCAPE.COM “On my first flight with the J-Pillow, I slept for seven hours straight without waking up once! That was a whole new experience for me!”

MYTRAVELSITE.COM “It works! It’s definitely more comfortable than a standard pillow”

QUITEWANDERINGS.COM “The design of the J-Pillow is sheer genius for the simple fact that it supports your neck, it supports your head and it supports your chin. …Your chin!! Genius.”

ALLABOUTYOU.COM “Designed by a flight attendant, this travel innovation will sort all your napping needs. Its special chin rest ensures your head won’t jolt forward mid-snooze! What more could you ask for?”

NOTWITHOUTYOURPASSPORT.COM “The J-Pillow is the most comfortable travel pillow I’ve rested my head on.

UNIQUE PATENTED design and winner of the British Invention of the Year 2013

STOPS HEAD FROM FALLING FORWARD while sleeping with ingenious chin support, while at the same time supporting your head and neck in the perfect position from the side. It’s like lying down while you’re sitting up!

REALLY HELPS you to get uninterrupted sleep when TRAVELLING long haul, or in the car, or on train or coach journeys

ALSO GREAT FOR USE at HOME when relaxing on the sofa or in bed. Or if you have to sleep upright in bed for medical reasons or post operation

EASY TO CARRY, this super soft plush pillow folds down smaller than an average “U” shaped pillow, it can be squeezed in the smallest of spaces or it can be clipped onto hand luggage with the handy snap-loop fastener.

The post Bedding U-Shaped Memory Foam Travel Neck Pillow with Soft Velvet Cloth Zipper Cover Tree and House Neck & Cervical Pillows appeared first on We Said Go Travel.