Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 332

Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti: “Be a Change Agent!”

“We can all be change agents,” said Mayor Eric Garcetti at Stephen S. Wise Temple on February 10, 2015. Rabbi David Woznica was a fantastic interviewer and the two spoke about our city of Los Angeles, immigration and security as well as Garcetti’s personal life.

Garcetti said, “I am half Mexican, half Jewish with an Italian last name.” He has been called a “kosher burrito.” His humor and wit came through in all his answers and I was proud that he is our mayor of the second largest city in the United States. Our first elected Jewish Mayor is also a Naval Intelligence Officer and Rhodes Scholar. He is inspired to connect this city and all its communities. The son of District Attorney Gil Garcetti learned the importance of family at home and he and his wife have served as foster parents.   

When Garcetti said, “I love this city and I want it to be right,” I knew he is working to make changes to improve Los Angeles. On the issue of the worst traffic in America, Garcetti said that in Los Angeles there is an average of 1.1 passengers in a car. If there were 1.6, we would have no traffic. He is working hard to add public transportation options which include being able to access the airport by rail line. What can you do? Can you travel one day a week with a friend? Can you work one day a week from home? Can you take the bus? The ideas of smart housing and living near where you work are being discussed and plans are in progress for these issues.

Listening to Mayor Eric Garcetti @wiselosAngeles “From Valley Boy to first Jewish mayor” @lamayorsoffice @ericgarcetti

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Feb 10, 2015 at 7:52pm PST

  Garcetti has implemented the entrepreneur in residence at City Hall which is in association with Ernst & Young LLP. Krisztina “Z” Holly and Amir Tehrani are the Entrepreneur in Residence this year. Los Angeles is the most entrepreneurial city in the world with 1 out of 172 residents creating their dreams. Garcetti wants more people to find a success path in this great city. This “City of Second Chances” is going through the largest normalization process with over 550,000 people involved. Garcetti implores us to “find our humanity again” as immigration is the most important civil rights issue of 2015.  

What can you do to make Los Angeles a better place? Garcetti says this is “the most diverse city on the planet.” He invites you to sign up at http://www.lamayor.org/volunteer_corps  

  Mayor @ericgarcetti shares what citizens can do to make #LosAngeles better @wiselosangeles   A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Feb 11, 2015 at 2:38pm PST

If everyone in our city would commit to helping in three service activities a year, there would be great changes. Garcetti said: “Take a risk and get outside your comfort zone.” He also asks you to publicly say what you love about Los Angeles. Feel free to share your ideas in the comments below.

Garcetti asked: “Can you give up one single car ride this week? Can you connect to a school in your neighborhood through Donors Choice and help a teacher? Can you go to an organizing meeting about minimum wage or a 1/2 cent sales tax?” Garcetti plans to raise one million people out of poverty. Are you willing to help? Can you be part of the immigrations volunteer core? Can you help a student apply for financial aid?

“Get engaged! If the four million people of Los Angeles march together, we can inspire, listen, amplify and lead to a better Los Angeles.”

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Rooftops of the North in the UK.

Sometimes it is the thought of imminent fear, not fear itself, that stops us in our tracks. To think of this possibility is one thing, to experience it is another. Two hundred and seventy five stairs didn’t seem bad , I wanted to take a chance.

The guide lady had said fitness was required to climb up the cathedral’s tower. Fitness, not only strong bones but a strong heart too. I had been warned but as usual I didn’t listen.  When silly questions shot out of me without permission, our middle aged guide answered. She told me against climbing under fear’s influence.

 If there’s one downside to being young and stubborn it is this; you don’t know better until you are in the deep or until you find yourself cooped up, hyperventilating on a loop staircase going upwards, latching to sanity by the rail’s metal.

 I blame my curiosity and gothic architecture for my unfortunate halt. It was March, rain was thrashing the streets and the York Minster tempted my senses.  The gargoyles and sculptures, staring down at the passersby’s  bobbing dark umbrellas lured me inside. I had to see to believe their stares were meant to ward off devil, legends claimed. Once inside, warm candle light and a circular stained glass window made me pause. The window was much like the postcards my late grandfather sent me when he visited the Notre Dame in Paris, an odd familiarity. It was reverence coupled with human enthusiasm for recreating beauty, the fumbling of the past against the present.

The ticketing officer brought me out from my childhood when he asked if I was interested in touring the central tower. It was meters above earth, promising an unforgettable view of York and the north cities off the horizon. Fearless, I had agreed.

An hour later I was silently cursing myself, my bravery and stupidity. There I was then, halfway between heaven and earth rationalizing with myself the need to finish the climb. Despite the vertigo that settled comfortably in my limbs first, despite stalling the line of movers, climbers, fearless beings.  I sat on a window vault, heaving. The circular walls  around me closed in. On them was ink and carvings. Initials, promises and assertions of visits.  Dates and names to those who passed before me. We leave our legacy in stone, with stone we cannot erode. I thought of pulling out a pen, I couldn’t yet move my fingers.

‘I am scared too, you are not alone.’ called a lady who stopped by my feet, heaving.

I nodded hysterically.  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ she added.

One step, two steps, three steps, breath.

Four steps, five steps, a gentler heart beat then wind.

‘I can see light,’ I said.

‘I know,’ the lady panted.

I’ve climbed many towers since then but I can never forget the wind fondling my hair and the intense, epileptic rush in my legs. The rooftops donned in red bricks. There were other cities off the horizon, there were treetops and people as small as ants. There were bell chimes from the adjunct tower sending waves down my spine. There was a photograph of my face whiter than the clouds.

If there’s one downside to being young and stubborn it is this; you don’t know better until you are on top of the tower, breathing a lungful of midday mist and midday chimes. Fearless.

 

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

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Italy: Blood and Sacrifice Part II

Italy: Blood and Sacrifice Part II (Read Part I)

Roma Termini had changed in seven years. It was bigger. There were shops, restaurants and a newness that propped up with new millennium money. Before, Termini was dirty and dank. Prostitutes, vagrants and of course the ever present gypsies lined the outside waiting for the unsuspecting tourist. While three begged for your money and harassed you a little rascal was deftly feeling around pockets, belts and inside your shirt with scissors until he, or she found what they were looking for and then clip. More often than not they found their treasure. Ali Baba himself would have been proud. Now it was cleaner, newer. Those same prostitutes, vagrants and gypsies were still around, but they had gone underground. The 90’s were over. Italy was trying to shed its image as a dangerous place where the mafia ruled, the aforementioned gypsies clipped your pockets right in front of you and as rumor would have it people were drugged and taken off night trains anywhere from Rome headed South only to wake up the next day without a body part. I’m not sure about that last part, but I did hear the tale more than once. Over the squeaks and clanks and horns of the trains, as well as the bustle of locals and tourists from around the world the female voice over the loudspeaker monotonously rang out arrival and departure times. My train was arriving from Milan. Knowing I had fifteen minutes to spare I made my way to a new wine shop located at the northern end of Termini and looked around. I found what I was looking for, a bottle of Cesanese del Piglio. I grabbed it and headed toward the register. The clerk rung up my purchase and looked at me. He spoke to me in English. I responded in Italian. He smiled. “Buon viaggio,” he said. I smiled back. “Grazie.”

I made my way to the platform and waited with my two backpacks, a large duffle bag, my good luck charm Ferrari cap, a bottle of water, some cheese and bread and the bottle of Cesanese. I double-checked my ticket confirming my car and bunk number. Anyone who’s ever been on an Italian train knows how impatient people are to get on. I had a reservation and was in no hurry, so I waited until everybody had boarded until I made my move. There was a lot of hustle and bustle on the train, however there was nobody else in my compartment. Maybe it was my lucky night. I made sure my passport and my money were secure in my money belt strapped to my waist and situated down my pants. If somebody did want to rob me, or worse they were in for a Hell of a fight. My dad was a cop, so was my brother. I was well trained. After stowing my belongings I went out to the aisle of the train and stuck my head out an open window. I took in all the sights, sounds and smells. With me I could always close my eyes and tell you what country, city, or place I was in based on the smell. Roma Termini had held many memories and would hold many more. I was nervous, yet I felt at peace. I felt at home here. In the aisle of the train there are seats you can pull down.  As the conductor’s final whistle blew and as the night train began to trudge out of the station I pulled down one of those seats and took out my knife, my water, cheese and bread and the bottle of Cesanese del Piglio and grinned. I was exhausted, but not tired. There were many stops ahead until I would reach my final destination the following morning. The train picked up speed and the clanking of train tracks and wheels gave the indication we were changing direction. The engineers were in control and the industrious North was now to our backs. .

I cut some cheese and bread and opened my bottle of wine. The night air flowed pleasantly through the train, cooling those that were hot and warming those that were cold. A young man about my age in the next compartment sat in the aisle next to me. In Italian I offered him some wine, which he accepted.

“Where I’m from wine is the elixir of life,” he said in Italian.

“Oh yea, where are you from?” I asked back in the language of where I was.

He responded in Italian, but it wasn’t Italian. He laughed. He took a drink of wine and spoke in English.

“My friend welcome to the real Italy.”

Little did I know then the importance of his words.

 

 

 

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Romancing Midsummer’s Eve in Helsinki, Finland

 

Just before we boarded the ship of the Silja Line on Midsummer’s Eve, a blonde girl in her early teens, dressed in white with meadow flowers in her braided hair, passed us with her family and friends.  Together they were a living symbol of fruitfulness and joy of the season.  Now on the white, majestic liner, my companion and I would cross the mild waters, ruffled with a gentle wind, on a confident behemoth weaving its course through both submerged and visible islands lining the southern boundary of the Gulf of Finland. 

 

After the mooring lines had been cast off and the cruise ship had gotten underway and left the port of Stockholm, my companion and I went right up to the cabin house and talked with the captain and his watch team as they plied their time-honored mariners’ trade.  Each of many turns to new headings was expertly made by these watch standers themselves, an international crew of sailors–Finns, Swedes, a Dane and Norwegians.  Sometimes the ship passed so near to rocks that lay even with the water’s surface or to submerged shoals that laid just below, that navigation seemed divination.

 

Satisfied that we were sailing with experts who were adept but also good humored and wise, my companion and I left the bridge and went below to sit almost at the waterline on blonde wooden benches with a view of the Gulf through broad windows. 

 

Feasting was available throughout the passage.  Thirty different fish dishes and pastes, including caviar, were served at every meal.  Food in abundance was available even between meals.  Alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks were also available for toasts to the Eve and to each other.  The mighty engines tremulously shook as we weaved, but the liner hardly pitched or rolled on that flat, broad and mostly even sea.  We sailed at nightfall a lighted barque with starlight above and the heavens reflected on the water mirror that spread all around us.

 

The range of activities that were available for passengers was broad.  A sauna and indoor pool were available and not overcrowded.  Two young men sporting with each other on holiday coursed from the sauna to the pool and back again.  You could dance, sing, walk the deck, or just stand fore or aft on the weather decks and gaze at the stars. 

 

Our night was met with joy on every side.  We were careful not to eat or drink to excess.  So much we savored, and the passengers both young and old were genuinely happy.  What did the islanders in the Gulf think of us looming large, and then passing by? A few lights showed that some people were still stirring on the islands as we sailed narrow passages.  It happened that we fell asleep below decks sitting on a bench, our heads together. 

 

The highlight of our Eurail vacation was our passage on that cruise ship that Midsummer Eve.

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

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Italy: Blood and Sacrifice Part I

When people ask me how it all began it becomes a jumble. It would be like asking someone how they entered an ancient labyrinth. You know how you entered, but once inside the direction you thought you were going was only a mirror of what you thought you believed.

It was a warm and pleasant mid November night in Rome. Walking around Roma Termini people seemed to be in good mood. The new millennium had finally arrived. That summer I had been in Florence realizing a dream to learn some Italian and spend quality time in Italy. My plan was simple. Go to Florence for the summer to learn Italian, a little Italian culture and maybe meet a beautiful dark haired olive skinned beauty to have fun with. Seven years before I had been to Italy under very different circumstances. At the time I started something, but didn’t finish it. More on that later. I could kid myself all I wanted about why I was here now, but the truth is I had to come back.

“Why Italy?” People always asked me.

“Why anything?” I responded. With travelers oftentimes there is no why. It’s a feeling. Some choose France, or Spain, or South America, Africa, Australia, or Japan. It could have been something we heard, or read. Maybe a movie, or a song? We fell in love perhaps. For me it was Italy and the experiences I had had over time. Experiences that cut deep and left scars, both good and bad. Experiences that transcended who I was and who I would become. It was the language, the culture, the food and the people in all their glory and their dark history. I always believed that to understand a place and the people who lived there you needed to know their language, their history and the land they called home. For many in Italy la Terra, the land, is their blood and sacrifice. It’s what created how they are, how they speak and how they express themselves. The root to knowing how things ticked was learning their language. Once you did that doors opened up and it could also save your life. Learning a language takes discipline and time. It’s not about staying for a summer and expecting to keep it in the foggy recesses of the brain. Yes I learned some Italian this past summer, however it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I needed more. I had to finish what I started, no matter how long it took, or I would forever be trapped in a world where I didn’t belong.

Read Italy: Blood and Sacrifice Part II

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The Brave and the Beautiful In India

The moment I saw Roopa*—beautiful, dimpled and dusky—it was clear that playing mother to her son was her sole vocation in life. Sitting in the verandah in the mild winter sun, unravelling a sweater, she didn’t once avert her gaze from him as he, unmindful of her, doodled in a notebook. “Keechu kheye ne (eat something),” she pampered in their native language, Bangla. Chips, came the answer. Roopa sent summons and a packet was produced in no time. Mother carefully kept aside the ball of wool and what was left of the red sweater, ripped open the foil and started feeding her child.

I was witness to a textbook moment of mother-son bonding.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget. In that instant, I didn’t remember that this was not a typical mother; Roopa is a prostitute who lives, loves and works in one of the kothas (brothel-houses) of Delhi’s red light area, GB Road. Sleazy, filthy, and atrociously unhygienic, this road houses several kothas (marked as numbers for identity), each broken down into stuffy living quarters of unfortunate prostitutes, and puny, dingy rooms that serve as their ‘workplace’. Barely visible in the light of the low-watt naked bulbs is the sole furniture in each room: a wooden plank passing off for bed. Roopa’s son was conceived on one such plank seven years ago. He doesn’t know it, of course. But she remembers clearly. Everything. Including the man who impregnated her. “Someday I’d like my son to know who his father is,” she said, adding wistfully, “and who his mother really is.”

Roopa is fortunate as she knows who sired her son. Most others either don’t or prefer to forget. For these sex workers, existence is sodden twice over: condemned to a life of derision and, worse, of subterfuge, they play a game of hide-and-seek with their own flesh and blood. “My son believes I work as a cleaner in a school,” one told me. Paying a price for a crime they didn’t commit, they are the victims who rarely find empathy or support. Tales of deceit and heartbreak are commonplace—aunts who promised jobs and sold them to pimps, boyfriends who promised marriage and forced them to sleep with several strangers, men who faked love to swindle them of their hardearned money … Yet they plough on. “I want my son to be an honest, straightforward man,” Roopa told me.

How often in life can we—do we—eke out hope from utterly dismal situations? How many times do we find the strength to carry on regardless of failures? How often are we able to let go of our miseries and genuinely smile? My time with the sex workers—those beautiful, cheerful, affectionate and warm women—taught me that though life and its pleasures are erratic, the only way forward is to live chin up.

I can’t forget Roopa mollycoddling her son but I don’t want to recall her angst. Sometimes it’s easy to remember but best to forget. What is inerasable is the lesson I learnt: bravery is not always about machismo, heroism, action or overcoming fear; endurance is its far rarer and exalted form.

And me? My bravery is a work-in-progress. I didn’t have to travel far to recognise the truth.

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

(* Name changed) 

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Feb News from WSGT: 2014 Gratitude Finalists

Feb News from WSGT:
2014 Gratitude Travel Writing Competition Finalists
Thank you to the Fairmont Miramar for my stay at the Presidential Suite Bungalow One! Enjoy the video!  (see photo)


Thank you to Jessie Voigts of Wandering Educators for interviewing me for her #StudyAbroadBecause Series: “It Will Change Your Whole Life!”

Thank you to Stay Adventurous for including my Palau photo in their Sunset Sunday Series.

The Finalists from the 2014 Gratitude Writing Contest were announced yesterday. Thank you to everyone who participated.
Enjoy their entries:

From Kayla Nesbitt about Canada: MUSINGS OF A BACKPACKER


From Agnes Chew about Morocco:  SECRETS OF THE SAHARA 


From Tina Murty about Nicaragua: CLOTHES TO GROW INTO


From Kathryn Hodgson about South Africa: SOUTHERN SUNRISE


From Andrea Duty about Morocco: EMBRACING THE MADNESS 


From Elaine Pike about Nepal: THE LAST LONG DAY 


From Kevin Quigley: A DECADE OF DEPARTURE AROUND THE WORLD


From JoAnna Faircloth about Tonga: HOW TO THANK A WHALE 


The winners will be announced in March.

Thanks to MatadorU for promoting my writing competition!

Please join in my 7th Travel Writing Contest about Bravery.

Please share a story about a place that inspires you to be brave and save the day.

In Chris Brogan‘s, It’s Not About the Tights: An Owners Manual on Bravery, he shares his definition of bravery as “not being afraid of yourself.”

He says: “You’ve got to use whatever past you came from as part of the origin story that shapes the hero you will become. Welcome to day one. You are the superhero you’ve been waiting for.”  Enter now!

My recent article about Bravery: “YOU ARE THE AUTHOR OF YOUR STORY. YOU ARE THE HERO YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR. ACCEPT THAT YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WILL SOLVE YOUR CHALLENGES, AND THAT YOU ARE THE RIGHT PERSON FOR THE TASK.”

Recent Articles for USA TODAY 10Best:

Rodeo Drive: Iconic and Historic Shopping in Beverly Hills
Farmer’s Daughter: A Retro Property in the Fairfax District
Spaghettini and the Dave Koz Lounge: Great Music, Fine Dining
Ocean Prime Beverly Hills: Dining and Drinking with Style
Explore Revelry in Beverly Hills at New Nightlife Hot Spots

 

 

See all the We Said Go Travel news: Click here!

The post Feb News from WSGT: 2014 Gratitude Finalists appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Untouched Amazon in Ecuador

 

As the result of a devastating brain injury sustained as a teenager, I am fortunate to still be alive.  However, this ultra rare anomoly did so much damage that I was essentially written off, told that I would never accomplish any of my many dreams or even take a step under my own power.  Day in and day out, “experts” bombarded me with the concept that I was now relagated to limited life that consisted of wathcing television while laying in bed or sitting in a wheelchair.  I would not go to college, I would not be able to do any kind of job, no woman would ever take any interest in me, and a family of my own was out of the question.  I had a simple choice to make, either listen to strangers tell me everything I can not do, or listen to my heart and accomplish more than they could possibly imagine.  I chose the latter.There is simply too much to see and do in this world to just reside myself to a life of hospitals and caregivers. 

 

Growing up I dreamed of exploring exotic lands, finding hidden treasures, and solving age old mysteries.  I poured over books and documentaries that detailed such adventures.  However, of all the places I studied, I was drawn to one place in particular, the Amazon.  The idea of such a vast and untamed place fasicnated me.  I dreamed of trekking through deep jungle that no Westerner has set foot on, seeing animals that are unknown to science, and stumbling across ancient lost cities.  There is no way that a brain injury will stop me from doing just that. 

 

Hard work and pain have become my daily companions as I struggle forward in my recovery.  With every wobbly and rigid step, I know that I am that much closer to going to the place I have dreamed of since I was a child.  When I fall, I pull myself up and keep pushing no matter how bad it hurts.  My surroundigns might be concrete and buildings, but in my mind I am surrounded by lush, green foilage.  I can  hear the noises of jungle when I close my eyes and I can smell the hot, musty air.  That keeps me going.  That keeps me pushing. 

 

As time has passsed, I have achieved goals that I was told were unnattainable.  I  have had to learn to face fears and overcome nearly insurmounalbe odds.  I have a Masters Degree and a well paying job.  I am even fortunate enough to be married to a beautiful Ecuadorian woman and we have a family together.  It seems that my course has been set since my wife’s native country is exactly where I have been longing to go.  My goal is to show my children that dreams do not have limits set upon them.  I have learned that the only thing that can hold me back is myself.  I know very well what I am capable of, which is being in peak physical condition, and I know very that I will continue to achieve my dreams. 

 

Though I have not set foot in the vast Amazon jungle yet, I will.  I will make my way through the jungle under my own power and as I am doing so I will be all the more appreciative of where I am at because of the long and winding road I had to take to get there.  I find it somewhat strange that a remote and isolated place that I have yet to set foot on inspires me so much  as to keep trying hard everyday, but it somehow does. 

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

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Finalists: Gratitude Travel Writing Competition 2014

Thank you to everyone who participated in the 2014 Gratitude Travel Writing Competition. Please see below for the eight finalists! Winners will be announced in March 2015. I hope you will enjoy all the incredible entries. I am so honored to have had over 1600 writers from seventy-five countries share their stories on my site.

SHARE YOUR STORY: Our seventh Travel Writing Contest is open! The theme is Inspiration: A place that inspires you to be brave!

PLEASE ENJOY THE ENTRIES FROM THE FINALISTS of the 2014 Gratitude Travel Writing Competition: 

From Kayla Nesbitt about Canada: MUSINGS OF A BACKPACKER


From Agnes Chew about Morocco:  SECRETS OF THE SAHARA 


From Tina Murty about Nicaragua: CLOTHES TO GROW INTO


From Kathryn Hodgson about South Africa: SOUTHERN SUNRISE


From Andrea Duty about Morocco: EMBRACING THE MADNESS 


From Elaine Pike about Nepal: THE LAST LONG DAY 


From Kevin Quigley: A DECADE OF DEPARTURE AROUND THE WORLD


From JoAnna Faircloth about Tonga: HOW TO THANK A WHALE 


WINTER 2015 INSPIRATION TRAVEL WRITING CONTEST #7

We are looking for an article about a place that inspires you to be brave and save the day. In Chris Brogan‘s, It’s Not About the Tights: An Owners Manual on Bravery, he shares his definition of bravery as “not being afraid of yourself.” He says: “You’ve got to use whatever past you came from as part of the origin story that shapes the hero you will become. Welcome to day one. You are the superhero you’ve been waiting for.” Enter from Jan 2, 2015 to Feb 14, 2015.

THEME:  Inspiration: A place that inspires you to be brave [Lisa’s article on the theme of Bravery] **Over 160o writers from 75 countries have participated in contests #1-6 since Jan 2013. Share your story!**

DEADLINE:  Enter by midnight PST on February 14, 2015

To Enter:  submit your entry here

PRIZES:  1st Prize – $500 usd cash 2nd Prize – $100 usd cash 3rd Prize – $50 usd cash

Winners will be selected by our judges and We Said Go Travel Team.  Cash prizes will be paid through PayPal in United States Dollars.  All winning entries will be promoted on We Said Go Travel.

RULES: Publication is dependent on proper use of English language and grammar, appropriateness of theme topic, and being family friendly (G rated). If your post is written in a language other than English, please also send an English translation. Travelers of all ages and from all countries are encouraged to participate. Each individual may send up to 5 entries that are 500-800 words with 1 photo. Your article must be an original and previously unpublished piece. All posts, which meet the requirements, will appear on WeSaidGoTravel.com.

JUDGING:   Richard Bangs, AnneLise Sorensen and the We Said Go Travel Team

Richard Bangs, the father of modern adventure travel, is a pioneer in travel that makes a difference, travel with a purpose. He has spent 30 years as an explorer and communicator, and along the way led first descents of 35 rivers around the globe, he is currently producing and hosting the new PBS series, Richard Bangs: Adventure Without End

AnneLise Sorensen is a travel writer, editor, photographer, and TV/radio host who has penned – and wine-tasted – her way across four continents, reporting for multiple media outlets, including New York Magazine, MSN, Time Out, Yahoo Travel, Rough Guides, Gourmet, and Galavante. AnneLise regularly appears as a travel expert on NBC and CNN and she teaches popular travel writing classes and workshops at Mediabistro and travel events and shows.

 Other Contests, Courses and Books about Travel Writing

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The Replaced Roses: Belarus

The Replaced Roses: Belarus

by Klaudyna Szewczyk

I stood far high up above the ground. At least higher than I previously thought. The

distance from the last step off the train to the grass in the ditch below appeared to be at least

3 feet. When the train slowed down, I jumped and suddenly everything stopped. My heavy

backpack hampered my movements. As I hit the ground I dispersed the force of the impact

by collapsing into a crouch: one knee on the ground and my hands touching the cool grass.

I slowly looked up. I could smell the characteristic and familiar smell of the train tracks, a

mixture of rust and steel carried by the wind. A gust of wind swirled around me, carrying a

greeting from this unfamiliar country. I was ready to explore. Silently I accepted the invitation

from Belarus.

Behind me, I heard anxious voices. The train had stopped before arriving at the

platform of the train station. During trips to the East such things cause concern. I also felt that

something was not quite right. I wondered to myself why, without any warning, were we told

to leave the train in such an unorthodox fashion? I looked at the outskirts of the city with its

towering grim buildings surrounded by small clusters of trees. A tingle of fear ran down my

spine. During World War II most of the professors and academics in Poland were captured

and sent to East to work in labor camps or to be executed. Despite my resolve, I could not

help wondering how those who had come here before felt as they were transported to the

labor camps?

The train finally came to a complete stop and I reached out and helped other travelers

down off the train. We trudged to the only bus stop where the bus took us to the center of

the city. The frightened voices of the group flooded over me like a mounting wave. The

sound drilled into my ears until they reached my stomach and fear set in. A thought sprang

up unbidden in my mind, “All important feelings have their origin in the belly.” At the time,

I did not remember whether they were the words of Winnie the Pooh, Garfield, or Snoopy.

However, if they were true then the dinner which I consumed later should have silenced my

fears instead of keeping them and me awake.

The tension continued to grow later as I sat with a group of educators from my

university in a restaurant within the city. The decor of the room gave the a strong impression

of the essence of the works of Jules Verne. The walls were covered with maps, sketches, and

pictures of models of many strange devices such as flying machines and submarines. The

dinner itself felt more like a play in a theater than a meal. The waiters appeared like actors on

the stage. They played their roles well suggesting dishes as if they were mere props. It was

difficult to decide if this was a great performance or Tea with the Mad Hatter? Certainly, the

design of this place was beautiful but the tension in the pit of my stomach still grew.

Later as we walked through the strange city we passed several dozen groups of

gardeners planting fresh flowers in the city’s public flower beds. Just like in “Alice in

Wonderland” roses were being replaced: red for white or white for red, it was difficult to tell.

The streets, monuments, museums, fortresses… everything was perfect like a set designed

expressly for the ceremony accompanying our visit. Involuntarily I looked around expecting

to meet the Queen of Hearts. We had to take a bus to go visit the city’s ancient fortress which

is usually closed to the public. Suddenly the thoughtful silence of the group was shattered by

softly uttered words, “Do you remember how many Polish intellectuals were murdered here

during World War II?” Panicking, I had not realized that I had spoken my thoughts aloud and

in the shocked silence I could almost hear the roar: “Off with her head!” I looked around to

see how others had reacted to this statement. However, no one looked at me. All eyes in the

room stared at the mousy student sitting dejectedly in the corner seat. With a sigh of relief, I

realized that it was he, not I who had actually spoken the words we had all been thinking

since crossing the border into this country. Do you remember November 6th,

at the mercy of a tyrant much worse than the Queen of Hearts.

A few days later, I stepped out of the train station in my hometown and my brother

took my heavy backpack away from me. As I stood there, surrounded by the familiar and

precious sound of free and uninhibited conversations, the hidden fear I felt during my days in

Brest allowed me to see something that was as natural for me as the air I was breathing. I

finally took a deep breath and the knot of anxiety disappeared from my stomach.

I suddenly felt that until that moment I had never understood the true meaning and price of

strenght and freedom.

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