Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 323

Life after Actun Tunichil Muknal, Belize

Life after Actun Tunichil Muknal, Belize

As someone who can struggle with motion sickness, a 30 minute bus ride along a muddy and bumpy road seemed like a nightmare at the start of my adventure into the jungles of Belize. In a few short hours on our return trip, that ride would seem like a pleasure cruise.

It’s amazing what a little Dramamine and some perspective can do for an outlook on life.

The bus ride was just the first of many challenges on a group trip to Actun Tunichil Muknal.  A local Belizean who ran a tour company sold my husband on what was billed as an adventure of a lifetime. It’s a sales pitch perfected over time: “It’s an easy walk!” the promised.  Sure, you’ll walk through some water, but it’s always warm: “so warm!”

They lied.

The first part of our cave adventure doesn’t start at the parking lot.  These elements are left off the tour guide’s sales pitch.  First, there are the three river crossings in murky water and a healthy hike along a trail where large cats could be lurking behind the next corner. Finally, we arrive at camp only to be told the adventure is NOW beginning.

So, we leave behind everything we’ve carried along this early part of the adventure, and walk straight into the mouth of a pitch-black cave with a river running through it.

We wear miners lights on our helmets help us see, as we walk through yet another river – the same river we crossed three times earlier. The water comes up to our waists.  Sometimes, it reached our shoulders. We squeeze through narrow openings left behind by fallen boulders and balance in soaking wet shoes on loose rocks beneath our feet.

I slip.  My knee hits a rock and I bleed.  But I’m stuck in a cave miles from daylight.  So, I keep going.

After what feels like hours, we reach a rock wall.  We climb.  From there, we’re told to take off our shoes. I’m really in no place to argue, seeing that the guide who makes the request is really my only lifeline to ever seeing blue sky again. At least we’re out of the river.

From there we walk in our wet socks towards a small opening.  We squeeze through and enter a huge cave several dozen feet tall.  Our guide tells us it’s a sanctuary once used by the Maya. It’s a place they went to hide when danger came their way.  Left behind are signs of life which include a rare clay pot left behind for centuries.  But the main attraction centers on death.

We take one last climb, this time up a creaky ladder, and our tour ends with at the Crystal Maiden.  She’s a fully intact skeleton, whose bones seem to sparkle under the light of our headlamps.  Who she is, no one knows.  Questions on how she got there will likely never be answered.  One thing I do know is the discovery of these bones and they mystery surrounding her death lead thousands of people just like me into a dark, wet cave every year to look on her skeleton and wonder about life, death and everything that comes after.

 

With another tour group waiting for their chance to take their turn looking at the Maiden, our group leaves this final resting place.  We head back down the rickety ladder, though the cave littered with ancient pots and put on our wet shoes.  It’s back down the rock wall and into the water for the slow walk in the river and along the rocks until finally we see the sun.

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

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London The Hub Or the Brutal Congested City!

London the Hub Or the Brutal Congested City…You decide!

Do you share our Passion for travel? Would you like to see more of the world, do you think you have to save forever to take your first dream trip? Allow me to take you on a journey

Recently my husband and I decided to have some R & R in London as he was away for a month over Christmas & London…!

Now I consider London like being at home as I live in UK! So when we decided to head over to London  for a Business event in Ealing, we decided to also take some time out for “us” too Now Ealing is in the west side of London yet not really part of the London West end!

Last time I went to London I headed over to the Holiday Inn Kensington and enjoyed the Science Museum and The Ice Rink by the Castle! Dropped in at Harrold’s and enjoyed the ambience of The Borough of Chelsea!  So I wasn’t really expecting to be enamoured by Ealing town!

Keep in mind that we woke up at 4am to catch a 5am Train from Liverpool Lime Street to London Euston and had to dash to the underground to get to Ealing Broadway for a 9am Start of the event.  Enter Ealing Broadway and we were pleasantly surprised indeed… Word of advice; If you’re going to be in London for more than a day, it’s worth buying a Visitor Oyster Card in advance, which they post to your home before you arrive in London. This is probably the best ways to get around London. If you do not do this and still plan to see London for more than a day, definitely buy an Oyster card at the Tube station…and by all means don’t get lost on the underground….Long story don’t ask :)

This part of London is definitely the Brutal congested rush hour City, Not very friendly!

But…we got to the Other side, though not the west end it was definitely A sight for sore eyes!

The streets were spotless clean… Oh you might wonder which parts of London I normally visit…but bear with me! Every time I go through London it’s never that clean! We headed over to The Ealing Town Hall and I fell in love with this part of London even more.

I love Old Architecture and the Town Hall is a handsome building that blends in beautifully with the rest of the street!

Ealing town is a lovely area to explore on foot, lots of lil cafes and shops. There are smaller shopping streets in the area. Don’t miss the Arcadia shopping centre for your generic buys!

Now we only stayed for the weekend and visited other places family and stuff, it was a kind of Whirlwind stop over but we made time to visit Walpole Park & Pitzhanger Manor House

An amazingly grand and gorgeous Manor House. (I did warn you I love old architecture). This work of art can be found at the entrance of Walpole Park. It is a grade 1 listed building and here is the bonus, there was a free art exhibition and apparently there are several all year-roundJ. And get this the park has some amazing landscaping; ornamental bridges, ponds, streams and a walled rose garden – one of my favourite sites. According to a local resident who chatted us up on our walk, in the summer months of July/August the area & park hosts a multitude of festivals  showcasing jazz, comedy, opera and, of course his fav, lashings of beer. Ealing indeed does have an abundance of lush meadows and parks; one is right across the Underground station that we walked through to the Town Hall!

Like I said I may not do this part of London justice as it was a whistle stop, so I hope I will do the city of Budapest More justice as it is our next stop over!

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

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Sedona, Arizona Top of Bell Rock Club member #649

I press my fingers into the red rock as the whimper in my gut is ripped up through my throat, mixes with my tears’ salt and pours down my face. I push my boot hard against the rock face and scoot my butt a few inches down the opening. Peter tells me to reach up and grab the overhanging edge and slide my foot down and over to a small ledge, then swing my body back around into the crevasse again. The whimper turns into a wail that silently screams through my skull, and I look down to see the ledge. The silent scream turns into a meltdown, and I press my face into the red of the rock and weep. “You can do this”, Peter says to me.

I have come to Sedona to hike, to look at the beauty of the red rock, and like many others, to experience the sacred energies of the vortex sites. Through the Couchsurfing network, I find a place to stay with Peter who runs the Top of Bell Rock Club. He will host anyone who will hike up to the top of Bell Rock and become a member.

Sun warm and shining bright over the middle of the day, the red rock is rich and vibrant against the blue sky. Our group of four climbs up slowly, places our feet onto a small ledge, pulls ourselves up with some fingers wrapped around a protruding edge of rock. I look up the rock face towards our final destination and it starts.

Did I mention my fear of heights? In my mind, we would slowly wind our way up a trodden trail with the occasional boulder climb.

“Move your foot over to the right and put your weight on that small rock lip”, says Peter, “and grab that rock over your head with your right hand. Now reach with your other hand and pull yourself over onto that ledge.” What? I look over to see the ledge, but what I see is the length of the crevasse below me, the same crevasse that I have been inching up and I am petrified. My heart won’t stop pounding as if it will push through my chest and take flight. My mouth, all gummy from breathing in so deeply, glues my lips together so tightly that I’m not sure I can take air in through my mouth anymore. “You’re almost there”, Peter says as he stands just below me so I can’t see the full scope of the crevasse opening. I pull up and swing my foot tentatively over to the too small ledge and slowly bring my full weight to a standing position while holding on with everything I have. 

Tears don’t roll down my cheeks, they spray salt droplets onto my glasses, rush over my cheekbones like a waterfall cascade. I don’t know what feels worse– the fear of falling and dying or this display of vulnerability. I stop and tell myself I can do this. I breathe deep through the mucus and place my foot over onto another rock ledge, and follow Peter’s directions, the same directions he’s given to 648 other people before me. I reach up and pull myself onto the flat area that is our destination, then collapse.

On the way up, I could focus on the red rock in front of my face as I leaned into the hill. Coming down, I now have to face forward, the whole view of the curved bulges sweeping down in front of me.                                               

Peter smiles while I attempt to work through my personal challenges. Going up,I somehow kept moving one step at a time. Descending, the tears and terror rip through me, melt me down, paralyze me. “Push your left foot against the rock across the crevasse, your left hand on the rock higher up while you place your right foot over here, and grab there with your right hand. Now, shimmy inch by inch down the crevasse “, Peter says as I move an inch, stop and take a deep breath, then move another inch. There is no time now, just each inch.

We finally reach easier rock and shimmy down on our butts to larger and more level ledges. I look back up the crevasse in disbelief that I actually climbed up it, or down it, at all. My legs start to shake a bit in the emotional aftermath, and I feel that I have endured some ancient vortex initiation ritual.

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

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Boston Strong

Boston means a lot to me. The hot, sweaty summer evenings; the chilly winter mornings; the gulls down by the harbor and the street performers at Fanueil Hall. It means three years of my life. Hours spent at school, at work, at play. It also means a lot of firsts. My first apartment, my first full time job, and my first experience of a bombing. And on that day, when something that sounded like a firework being shot off ricocheted down the street, I was not brave. Everything in me turned inwards, tried to run away as I saw the mass of people streaming down the streets. The phone lines were dead. My internet was sluggish if nonfunctional. I just saw all the people running and screaming, a few cop cars going the other way.

It was warm by that time of year, a welcome relief from the wet winter, and I stood in my apartment, alone, staring out. The flow of people had slowed but the scream of the sirens had not. It took me a minute to realize my phone was ringing. I assumed it was an emergency alert, but it was my friend, Ana. I picked up the phone; it felt like a death sentence. Until then, I had no idea what was going on. In the next second, I will. Can I handle that?

Behind Ana was shouting and sirens and the static sound of chaos. She was choking back tears, repeating my name. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” I kept asking, telling her it would be okay in intervals, even though I had no idea what she was so worried by. The dread I felt at knowing deepened.

“They bombed the marathon,” she said with a hiccup. My stomach sank. We were supposed to be there together now, at the finish line, but my computer had gotten a virus that I had to take care of. We called it off, but it sounded like she had still gone. “I was on the green line when it happened, at Park St, they forced us off. I—I don’t know who did it or what’s going on, can you come get to me?”

It was a small question, one that was hard to pick out from the all the background noise. I was about to say yes even though I knew it was impossible—the bombing was between us and the T was shut down. My response was precluded when Ana started up shouting. A reporter was asking her for a statement. She did not want to talk. The phone call ended and my service refused to come back.

I decided to go out, see what was going on and meet with a friend. And while I was not brave, still terrified out of my mind, the people of Boston changed that. Walking down Columbus Avenue, I heard stories of runners in the Marathon that had continued on past the finish line to run to the hospital to donate blood. Of the first responders who were able to clear out the area quickly. I expected an atmosphere of anger, or some degree of a violent, visceral reaction. But the bombing had not torn Boston apart, rather, in those very moments, it had brought the city together.

When the city was shut down. When terrorists were being chased. When men with assault rifles guarded the streets. I felt no fear in me. I felt invincible. And I still do, whether I am on the bricklaid sidewalks of the South End or now on the cobblestones of Germany. I remember the bravery of so many and the strength of the community, and with that I am braver as well. I look forward to moving back to Boston in a year, but look even more eagerly towards the adventures between then and now.

Boston made me brave and, one day, I look forward to giving back to the community.

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

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Fulwa, India

 That night before going to sleep, she asked me if I regretted anything in life.

Today, when I look at those dusky sand dunes, those elegant attires, those royal palaces, those grand food servings. I feel proud. Proud of the decision I took back then.

The most awaited month of the year had arrived. My birthday month, which fortunately coincided with my vacations. And all I wanted as my 18th birthday present was a trip to Rajasthan all by myself. These were the perks of turning an adult you know. I put across my wish to my parents that night and they said they would grant me the permission if their morning self agreed with their night self. To my surprise I woke up in the morning just to find a ticket to Rajasthan from my parents. Without wasting any further time, I got ready, hugged them and boarded my train to Rajasthan, ‘the land of great kings.’

Travelling by yourself makes you appreciate the finer things in life, makes you realize how beautiful the world is, makes you realize how important time is and leaves you with a gift of keen observation.

Within 40 hours, I was In the Pink City. City of Jaipur. I had streams of excitement yet nervousness flowing through my body, because this was my first outing alone. I booked my room and after my sleep, I was off on my tour. My uncle had arranged for a guide to show me around the city. The forts, the temples, the culture were all mesmerizing. Pictures don’t do it justice, it is a must see in person. But what constantly kept grabbing my attention was the teen girl called ‘Fulwa’ with the guide. I wondered if she was his daughter. She looked daunt, quite dominated. Not for once did he give her a fatherly look. When the guide stepped out of the cab to quench his thirst, the girl with some hope in her eyes said that she wanted to run away with me. I knew there was something terrible happening. Without even giving her request a second thought I took a rickshaw which stopped only in front of my hotel.

I comforted her in the room and made her tell me what was wrong. As she proceeded with her story, I realized this 16yr old was not a daughter but a wife to that 30yr old man. She had been sold. Sold by her parents to kill their hunger and other greed’s of life. Their daughter meant nothing more than a material to them. The practice of selling daughters to older men and tagging the process as marriage was no new thing in her village she said. I hugged her to give her a homely feeling but then I realized that a homely feeling must have been totally unfamiliar to her. I promised myself to help this girl out by admitting her into a women’s organization. My decision was not just because she was a victim to injustice but also because she was brave and had big dreams which she wanted to fulfill. When she talked of her dreams, her eyes spoke more than her words. She knew she had no resources, no support but she somehow wanted things to change and be in her favor. “What do you want to be Fulwa?” I questioned. “A pilot” came a beaming reply. “I want to fly, I want to see the world, I want to be respected and” “And what?” I encouraged her to talk. “And I want to show my parents that I am no material to be sold. That I am priceless” Tears started rolling down her eyes. Wiping her tears, I told Fulwa about admitting her into the organization, and she was on cloud nine. Her eyes beamed with hope again. She felt courageous.

 That night before going to sleep, she asked me if I regretted anything in life, “I wish I was a little more beautiful.” I said smiling.

 

The next day when I dropped her at the organization, she looked at me with teary eyes and whispered in my ears something which still resonates in my ears, “someone will always be more beautiful, someone will always be more intelligent but someone will never be you.” I knew why she said this. I hugged her tight because I felt quite emotional now. With a promise to visit at least once a year I asked her to step towards her dreams. This was her first step into the big world. I was really proud of Fulwa for the bravery she had shown and I patted my own back for helping the helpless. I felt proud. I felt brave. I felt beautiful and I felt me.

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

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Fairy Chimneys and foetal positions in Central Turkey

Eighteen months ago my partner and I made a decision.  We’d give ourselves one more year working and saving in London before loading up our bikes and cycling around the world.  Excitement, madness, months of planning and getting used to life in ‘technical gear’ ensued. And it was with a generous stash of lycra, a large dollop of vaseline and two very big smiles we set off in June 2014.

Our first days peddle took us North for our ferry to Holland.  The journey across Europe and getting used to life on a budget of $15 per person per day, took some adjusting. Though cycling is at the heart of our relationship and hitting the saddle each morning not knowing what lies ahead, is undoubtedly what keeps us moving.

It was a rainy first couple of months and with me having Coeliac Disease it means most meals have to be prepared and/or cooked.  Rain, wild camping and using a methanol stove can be a killer combination that, on occasion, pushes one to the limit.  But this was, and is, our choice. We love it for all the sparkly and soggy bits in equal measure. So eight months on we’re feeling blessed with each turn of our pedals.

Cycling touring is a popular past time and each rider approaches it in their own way.  We chose to keep off the beaten track. Our route has taken in some incredible and isolated mountain ranges from the Bavarian Alps in Germany to the Carpathians in Romania and the Staraplanina Range in Bulgaria.  But we were delivered a warm buttery slice of heaven when our wheels rolled into the Tauras Mountains in Central Turkey.

In the edited words of Forest Gump ‘The Taurus Mountains are like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you’re going to get’.  Be it her crystal clear mountain lakes of Egridir and Beyşehir, the snow capped peaks and plains of her central range or the ever present troglodyte dwellings that pot the mountainsides from the moment you’re in her company.

By the time we arrived at the Western edge of the range it was late October and winters grasp was starting to tighten.  Our ascents were taking us beyond 2000m and we often found ourselves cycling through icy mist clouds on peak passes. Using every layer of clothing to stay warm was sometimes not enough and on one such pass I suffered a bout of hyperthermic shock.  We stopped and as my vision began to fade I hit the foetal position on the side of the road, my limbs feeling empty and drained. No sooner had my head met the gravel, my partners voice bellowed me back to reality. A couple of Marathon bars and some vigorous body warming got us back on track. You never know what mother nature has in-store. But it’s moments like this, when you have to push on in the face of adversity, that you feel most truly, and literally, alive.

The end of the Taurus range meets the Unesco Heritage plains of Cappadocia.  It’s very hard to express the magic, energy and sheer beauty of this region.  The earth is made from solidified volcanic ash deposited thousands of years ago.  And in line with the rest of central Turkey, this soft rock has been carved out by both nature and humans to form the most fantastical structures and dwellings.  From the underground city of Derinkuyu, that at it’s peak held 20,000 inhabitants in a series of chambers up to 100metres underground, to the Red Valley scattered with churches and temples her entire length to the mesmerizing fairy chimneys and overground cities carved into the faces and roots of mountains.

Our journey from the start was a brave decision. To step away from everyday lives and open ourselves up to the world in all its colour. Getting a bashing from the Taurus giants left me questioning the sanity of the trip but being humbled by their majesty and power gave me the strength to go on. We were left speechless by the resourcefulness of the human species in harnessing nature as their home in the foundations of Cappadocia. In hindsight, my hypothermic episode paled in comparison to the vastness of what we as a people have, and can achieve. As we pedal on these memories will continue to inspire us to be brave, bold and perhaps just the right amount of crazy.

Anything is possible and we must strive to find our limits in order to better understand who we are. For us this is built around our tent, two bikes, a tight budget and a heart bound for exploration, all propelled by the everyday wonder of nature and the adaptability of the human race.

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

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Finding my ‘Om’ in Thailand

Finding my ‘Om’ in Thailand

Leaving my comfortable, secure job in Seattle to travel for a year was SCARY, to say the least. I would be roaming SE Asia with my boyfriend of nearly six years though, so that made me (and my parents) feel better about this unorthodox life decision. We would start in Thailand and make our way through 9 countries in 9 months. It would be wonderful, fulfilling, adventurous, and we’d return home ready to take that next step in our relationship.

Fast forward three months and two countries later, I’m now one of those “solo female travelers” that people like to call brave… or crazy. Setting off on my own path was the toughest thing I’ve ever done, but also the most empowering. I’m certain I wouldn’t have been able to hear that little voice inside my head telling me to move on, if it weren’t for a meditation retreat I attended about a month after leaving home.

Located in Surat Thani, Southern Thailand, Wat Suan Mokkh offers a 10-day silent meditation retreat for anyone who is interested in learning more about Buddhism and is willing to “live like a monk”. Participants hand over a required donation of 2,000 Baht (around $65) along with our phones, cameras, books, journals, and even watches. There would be no reading, writing, dancing, playing, talking, eating after noon or before dawn, and no lying down anywhere besides your room.

Now if being stripped from a voice, personal electronics, and even our journal wasn’t harsh enough, our cement slab they called a bed and wooden pillow really emphasized the theme of the retreat: SUFFERING. The discomfort will help us with discipline and determination through meditation and breathing techniques.

It would be an understatement to say that I was a bit apprehensive about committing to 10 full days of meditation. Like most people seeking solitude and enlightenment, I’ve dabbled in different meditation techniques, but am easily discouraged after restlessness and boredom set in. Also, pledging to remain silent in the middle of the jungle where we were warned of spiders, snakes, scorpions and other creepy crawlies, was not the trip-of-a-lifetime I had imagined.

Pushing through my nervousness, I found myself sitting in the sand on top of a mat and pillow with 133 other men and women, ready and eager to find that inner peace that comes along with meditation. The first few days were TOUGH. My joints ached from sitting cross-legged and I was tired of seeing jungle spiders the size of small housecats. I gave myself permission to leave, but by Day 6 something had shifted. I was feeling extremely grateful for the opportunity to have this time for myself and was feeling more and more “present” each passing day.

Before long it was Day 10 and I had made it through the entire retreat! I felt refreshed and inspired and ready to take my newly found mindfulness with me on the rest of my travels. While on the bus leaving my new friends at Wat Suan Mokkh, I promised myself that I would find time for solitude and reflection every day. I’ve learned that I’m the best friend, daughter, sister, and lover that I can be when I’m taking care of me first.

Thailand will always be the place that inspired me to be brave, but wherever there is a mat, hammock, sunrise, beach, pillow, or even a plain ol’ wooden chair, is where I can be fearless each and every day.

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

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Bharat Mata, India

Bharat. My father’s name is synonymous with India’s traditional name, which in turn comes from one of India’s earliest kings. It’s a good name for him; he was kingly in his own way. Even as as a tumor ravaged his brain, he maintained his dignity and loving nature. In the hospital in Houston, a nurse asked him when his birthday was to test cognition. He immediately replied,”September 15, 1954.” Although that’s my mother’s birthday, it tells you what was important to him.

It’s harshly ironic to me that I am doing my father’s death ceremony in my mother country. It’s five in the morning here at the shore of the Ganges River, and the water numbs my bare feet as I immerse them. My feet turn pale, and my blue veins resemble rivers in a white desert.

           My brother, Kunal, is suffering the same. The Sanskrit mantras barely squeeze through his chattering teeth. As soon as the puja is over, we escape the icy water and limp to the car. As we near the parking lot, the insulated serenity of the riverbank gives way to a line of street stalls. Most of the vendors sleep beneath their stalls on sleeping bags, sharing mutual fires to fight the cold. They sell everything from jewelry to shirts, rosaries to hot tea.

Kunal and I stop at a tea stand. The tea scalds my tongue, but I don’t care. The stream of fire travels down my throat and to chest, where my heart pumps the heat through my chilled veins. It’s a temporary relief, and I’m tempted to thaw my frozen feet with the boiling beverage.

About 100 feet to my right, I notice an elderly man standing with his feet in the river. The man is terribly thin, and his clothes resemble rags, but as he stands erect facing the rising sun with clasped hands, he resembles a saint. With no warning, he dives into the water. My brother and I simultaneously cringe as the man rises to the surface. Although the man is hyperventilating from the cold, he acts as if he’s in a hot-tub. He runs his hands through his hair and sings devotional songs through his halting breaths. If serenity was person, it would be that man.

Kunal. My brother’s name means lotus. When I imagine a lotus, I think of something thin and tenuous. That wasn’t my brother. He was more like a solid oak, but his ashes don’t retain those qualities. They curve and bend with the ripples and eddies of a small river in the city of Gondal in west India.

The same priest who performed by grandfather’s ash ceremony does it for my brother. He’s old and has a bad leg, so he uses a red scooter to get around. However, his laugh is of someone much younger, and he guns his old scooter like it’s a Harley. When I look at the priest, I’m reminded of the man my brother and I saw bathing in the Ganges three years ago. The priest and that man share a longevity that I’ve never seen.

I’m not speaking of longevity in the sense of life-span. I’m talking about the endurance of vitality. The children of “Bharat Mata”, or “Mother India”, as we are so fond of saying, display that same energy. My father brought it over with him to America, and it took him through many surgeries, economic depressions, and racial persecutions. And then he handed that hardiness off to Kunal and I.

 India fosters that sense of bravery, that need to fight for one’s goals. Now that my father and brother are gone, it’s my turn to carry the torch forward. One day my children will return to India, for my final rites, and they will find something new. They will find an energy, an almost spiritual need to keep fighting through adversity. Maybe it’s something in the air.

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

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New Design and Making Choices: We Said Go Travel April News

April 2015 News from Lisa & We Said Go Travel:

We Said Go Travel has a new look! Thanks for all the compliments on the new design.
My first trip to Ireland last month was incredible. I loved being in the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Dublin. See Chris McGinnis and I on the bus in the parade below. 
New videos from The Redbury, The Bowery, Fig&Olive and mom’s birthday at Spaghettinis are on my YouTube channel now. I was in Santa Barbara last week and those videos will be live next week. See over 340 videos on my channel: WSGT YouTube​










Thank you to Charles McCool for interviewing me for his 5 minute traveler series.
Thanks for all the support for me and the site and social media.My Klout score is now 70.











The Power of Choice
At this time between Passover and Shavuot, I am counting the Omer with readings by Rabbi Karyn Kedar. Thank you to Rabbi Faith Dantowitz for the introduction.

From Day 15 of Counting the Omer:

Choose the one next step towards self-actualization, towards shift in perspective, towards living in the light and emerging from darkness.

To choose! To acknowledge! To affirm! Choice is empowerment when we choose to live differently, to be better. With every choice we defy inertia, with every choice we expand our sense of possibility. With every choice we become emboldened. But it isn’t easy, nor is it linear. We go back and forth between choice and discernment, reaffirming our decisions, reexamining everything. The spiritual path is a zigzag, a switchback up a mountain. It is exhausting, riddled with doubt and setbacks. There are so many ways to get us to where we need to go.

Rabbi Karyn D. Kedar, from Omer: A Counting

Klout score and Instagram Photos from Santa Barbara

Independence Writing Contest opens in May!

Winners from the Inspiration Contest will be announced in June and the Independence Contest will open next month  in May 2015. Thank you to everyone who has participated in all my contests! This next one with be #8!

YouTube is at 315K views!Thank you for watching my WSGT YouTube channel which is now over 315,000 views! Enjoy movies from Los Angeles, Bermuda,  Puerto Rico, Palau, Guam, Hawaii, India as well as Bali and Lombok  Indonesia,  Southern Thailand, Myanmar (Burma), and Nepal.  To find all 347 Videos:click here for the WSGT YouTube Channel. I am over 1000 followers on Pinterest, and up to 646+ subscribers on YouTube!

See the videos!

Thanks for reading and participating!
Happy April! Lisa

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Spring Skiing in Utah with the Family!

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New Hope in the USA

Maya Angelou once emoted, “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” For me, home began with a view of blurred treetops basking in the sunlight. As my best friend Rachel and I drove past the sun shining over a grand body of water we reached a town. There was the most tranquil house I had ever seen. The home was a representation of her Aunt’s dreams coming into play, something I could only hope for. I have found my home away from home only 60 miles away in New Hope, PA. This home, where I found myself, is where I feel the most content. It is where I can emerge as the truest version of myself.

New Hope has shown me the value of creativity, community minded people, and how art can be applied to every aspect of your life. It’s ironic that her Aunt’s shop is named “Soul, Body, and Home” because it fully explains why when I’m leaving New Hope, I feel as is I’m leaving my soul behind. As we ventured into town, we visited Farley’s bookshop. The shop is non-commercial and modest. There I picked up the first book that got me involved in literature again. Then I recall as we passed “Moo Hope Icecream”, I saw it for the first time. The bridge. When I walk over the bridge and watch the Delaware River end where the mountains kiss the skyline, I transcend to a place where I truly feel like myself. There’s something so freeing about the wind brushing the water as cars speed by and families photograph each other in unison. When we crossed the Lambertville bridge and suddenly appeared in a different state, Lambertville, New Jersey, Rachel and I walked down to the side of the river where ducklings greeted us as the sun fell and greeted the river. As we made our way into Lambertville, we were shocked by the change in scenery. It was modern, high-class, and did have the friendly aroma that New Hope did. Walking back over the bridge from Lambertville to New Hope was awfully significant for me. Lambertville represented a conservative and structured life, and New Hope represented art, love, and compassion. This conservative and structured life reminded me of my parents. I am the first generation born in America and they’re still living on the Albanian precedent they grew up with. It’s no question that this mindset isn’t shared by me. I am progressing, as they are stagnant.

New Hope was previously named “Coryell’s Ferry” because travelers would be ferried across the river. However, a fire in 1790 burnt down the area and its reconstruction was a “New Hope”. Something similar happened in my life. On October 3rd, 2011, my mom got into a car accident in which she was hit from the drivers side while driving alone. Falling into patterns of procrastination and bad study habits comes with ease when your home life is ripping at the seams. It was up to me to turn things around. Junior year hit me hard with a wakeup call. I suddenly became involved because I wanted to succeed. Just as the reconstruction of Coryell’s Ferry was a new hope, my reconstruction was a new hope.

When I am asked what my motivation to go away to college is, I provide the same answer. College is not only an escape from my daily life, it is an escape from everything that I believe went wrong growing up. The way that I used my junior year to make my goals a reality has really set a precedent for my success. College is the end of the bridge, as I am walking away from all that I have faced. It is my chance to turn all of my compassion and dedication into something important. College is my New Hope.

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