Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 341

In Roman Waters

The sky was insane that day. I thought as I looked upwards, the dab of white clouds meshed with the remaining grey ones overhead. There was no sight of the sky,  the normal tint of blue disappeared quickly. Nothing would get me out of the water, certainly not rain. I had come too far, I dreamt of this too long. I needed time away and in the steaming water I realized it was me, not the sky who was insane.

I had made it to Bath Spa in time of departures. In my city, I left my two best friends struggling  with luggage and bags,  as they readied to move out I packed and ran.  I had disregarded their advice of staying , they insisted it was my flu that concerned them.  I knew they wanted me to stay for another day before our separation. I couldn’t, goodbyes are not exactly my strongest feature not as unlike escape. Before September and its sunshine faded I was on the train heading south to the Roman city that sits poised in the midst of rainy England.

 It seemed the Romans managed to leave remains wherever they went, even way into my childhood stories that’s how I learnt of a city with an odd name as Bath. When I saw photographs of the Roman Baths as an adult I was dumbfounded.  I wanted to meet Aqua Sulis and greet Minerva, at whose account the water flowed in an eternal flame- the Goddesses of the hot streams. I wanted to feel even if it was for a moment the appreciation of my body toward water. Would I be a volcano? Would the waters soften me? I had yet to know.

When I walked out of the station early afternoon I could sense history on the walls of the city, it was old but extremely warm. Stewart, the taxi driver, told me the buildings were frozen in time because it was a heritage site, paperwork and permissions were needed to get the buildings restored, forget remodeling.  I thanked Stewart and descended towards the public baths thinking of the women who walked the street before me, were they so laden with the burden of departures?.

The lady who greeted me at the Baths told me as she did others not to touch the steaming waters. She referred me to the adjunct spa, Thermae where hot waters ran deep even in October.  My bathing suit itched beneath the discomfort of the raincoat and cardigan I had on as I walked the tiled street. Thermae is where I met Aqua Sulis, it is where I greeted her and shook hands. The open air pool swarmed with the intensity of the earth’s breath, above the pool Minerva/ Aqua Sulis’ head was carved, rock benches rounded the pool and a young Roman olive tree stood lonesome in its pot. I undressed under the watchful eye of the goddess and the young lifeguard who pretended to busy himself reading through an old file. I descended the water.

The whiff of sulfur greeted me as I landed in the pool. It was everywhere, inside my lungs, between my ears and over my shoulders. Then I couldn’t tell how but as I moved in the waters I felt connected, light and weightless. It was womanhood floating in my living cells, in my eyes, behind my ears and under my chest. It was a submersion while I still held my breath. This is what escape denoted: carelessness, a softer cushion for the blows you felt in the mornings. In the warm water I said goodbye to my fears of departures. There I met the beautiful Aqua Sulis/Minerva, she smiled at me. It was the spirit of growth that glazed the surface of the water as the wind changed. Alone and silent I watched the shadows of the clouds play, I smiled back. In a few days I will travel back to an empty apartment, alone without any friends or family around me but for minutes it didn’t matter, I had taken time for myself and met another, an invocation of a wise woman weaved out of myth. I earned my first smile in a month.

 

I knew I was insane to swim outdoors in autumn but the weather and the spa’s pool proved me wrong: I had subconsciously said goodbye to my friends the same way  I did sunshine- winter was coming. I dunked below the surface,  I could hear the first rain dripping and felt it on the tip of my shoulders. When I blinked under water I saw was rain’s ripples, the shade of a roman olive tree, the hand of another woman offering me strength and the remains of yesterday’s dream coming true.

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

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My Most Enchanting Summer in The USA

For decades, every traveler who has crossed the New Mexico border has been greeted by a sign declaring they’ve just entered “The Land of Enchantment.” (La tierra del Encanto in Spanish). After spending ten weeks in a 400-square foot casita in Taos last summer, I understand. For the most part, I lived sparely and simply, yet my days were rich and full. Taos was, for me,  a place of light, a place of peace, a place of healing and a place of inspiration.

 

I rolled into town in early June, reluctantly, and with little more than a suitcase after, being blindsided by the demise of my 23-year marriage. In retrospect, it was the best choice I could have possibly made.

My affinity with the region was born of a sense of wonderment that was both intellectual and  visceral. Knowing a region is historic is one thing, but sensing it in ways beyond words was quite another. Whether strolling the adobe lined streets in town among descendants of the early Pueblo ancestors, appreciating the masterworks created by the Taos arts colony founders, or hiking the rim of the Rio Grande Gorge to watch purple shadows paint the Sangre de Cristo mountains at sunset, there was a sacred “forever old, forever new” vibe in the air—something that reminded me that we are all part of something immense and eternal, and that each of us has a purpose. In other words that we are all part of something bigger, more substantial, more important than ourselves.

 

 

Perhaps this feeling came from the fact that the sky is particularly bold, blue and clear in northern New Meixco, making vistas and possibilities look infinite.  Perhaps it had to do with the slow pace which freed my thoughts and emotions from the tyranny of time.  Perhaps the dry, clear, high altitude wind swept mental fog and cobwebs from the corners of the mind.

 

 

As my summer in Taos progressed, the colorful horizons, lustrous sunlight and proximity to nature dwarfed me, allowing me to “hide in plain sight” and think, as I went about my days. The centuries-old missions, forts and dwellings built lovingly on inhospitable desert soil stood as testament to the tenacity of humankind. These tangible reminders that I belong to the single species that inhabits all parts of the planet, adapts, thrives and creates made me feel stronger.

 

 

Of course, my Taos adventure held more than observation, reflection and contemplation. There were wholesome-yet-hedonistic pleasures, too! Culinary adventures ranging from locally-grown fare at the Farmers Market in the Plaza, to unpretentious regional delights in small family-owned cafes to sophisticated small plates at budget-friendly happy hours.  More than once, a scenic, forty-five minute  drive took me to the deliciously-decadent Ojo Caliente hot springs for a soak, steam and a massage.

 

 

When my mind craved activity, I enjoyed world class concerts that were open and free to the public or enjoyed chess and conversation in a charmingly Bohemian coffee shop. This was easy because the people I met were open and friendly.

 

I spent few and far-between rainy afternoons book browsing at the public library and perusing the museum, which proved a welcome change of pace.

By summer’s end, I returned home fortified by the inner serenity I needed to meet my life’s new challenges. For this, I am, and always will be, grateful for my time in Taos.

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

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Lost & Found in Ireland

There is nothing quite like the moment you begin to know who you are. You’ll think you have it figured out a hundred times before you ever even start to. Each time you will look back at the last, and think of how silly you were. Then soon enough, you’ll be lost all over again. We’re not actually lost though. That’s just what we like to call that reoccurring stage where we haven’t a clue what we’re doing with our life. Everything around us is still familiar, and we know exactly where we are. We just aren’t sure if that’s where we belong. Well, speaking for myself, I began to know who I was the moment I was literally the most lost I have ever been.

Once again, I thought I had it all figured out. I was set to start my career, I was falling in love, and I was planning to spend the money I saved on “responsible” investments. Moving abroad had always been a dream of mine, and I always expected it to remain a dream. But one day, that dream of mine jolted from the back of my mind to the front at lightening speed, and was stomping all over those plans I made. For more reasons that I can count, I am so fortunate that it did.

As humans, we get to know the world in one of three ways. There’s the people whose curiosity drives them as far as the library, and others whose flies them across the world. The rest of us are just like them, except we didn’t purchase a return flight.

In less than two months, I was wandering Dublin alone in the lashing rain without any direction – and it felt incredible! I had nowhere I needed to go, nobody I needed to see, and nothing I needed to do. I was free. I thought I had felt independence before, but nothing compared to that day.

As I developed a life in the Emerald Isle, I realized where strength and happiness laid – in the exact same bed. Parts of who I am began falling into place. Interests and hobbies were starting to stand out to me, and I had never felt so honest in the entirety of my life. The fear of making friends disappeared my first day. It didn’t matter how poor I felt, there was always somewhere new to go, and something new to see. “Bored” vanished from my vocabulary the day I stepped off that plane.

My mind became wide open, and my ignorance rapidly disappeared. I was awakened. Although I am back in Canada (for the time being), my feelings towards myself and the world around me are much different than before I took a leap across the Atlantic. Along with all the other countries I visited, I have a new found respect for Canada. I have always loved this country I call home, but never had I understood our culture more until I was viewing it from the other side. It may take a lifetime to fully figure out who I am, but I wouldn’t have got this far yet if it weren’t for a little wanderlust. My hopes will forever be high – no matter where my feet land.

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

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All Warfare is Based on Deception, China

All Warfare is Based on Deception

When my parents set out to adopt a child, China seemed like the natural place to turn.  One-child limitations imposed on some members of the population led families to leave their infant daughters on the streets to be found to try again for a male child.  After a bit of research online, they found documents for a girl named Guao Sho-Li.  My parents remember more bureaucracy than I do during the ten-day trip to China a year later, but they never regretted a minute of it.  I would like to think we found her a good life, and that the name Victoria suits her better, but I also know that she was not the only one whose life was touched by the trip.

Two days before I met my sister for the first time, we went for a walk in a local park.  It had many of the staples of an American park, but it was substantially more scenic.  Old men still played chess and other board games, children still ran, fountains flowed, and rows of bushes were cut in labyrinthine patterns.  That, I remember distinctly twelve years later because I wanted to walk through them like a maze, but my mother told me not to.

Luckily and, in hindsight, oddly, I was allowed left to my own devices for short while.  By the time I was let alone, I had forgotten all about the maze-bushes, but shortly, I crossed paths with something much more powerful and even more impressive: a dragon.

As an eight year-old, I called it golden.  In hindsight, it was probably just a cheaper metal with a gold tint, or a stone statue given life by an excellent painter.  Unlike the stocky, winged dragon of European folklore, the Chinese dragon’s body flowed like a serpent’s in the air, bending and winding like a river.  The eyes were the same as those of most statues- a blank, godlike stare not marred by pupils.  Stepping up to its pedestal, I stood beside it proudly.  Something about the piece just resonated with me.  I could not place the feeling until it set in when an old man began to speak to me in stern Chinese.

Typically, I was a good kid.  I did what I was told, and ten years after this trip to China panned out, I was recognized as ‘the easy one’ by my parents. Still, beside that dragon, I may as well have been one myself.  Without speaking a word of Chinese, I knew exactly what he was telling me.  It hardly took a genius to figure out that he wanted me to get off the statue, but at eight years of age, I decided not to listen.  If I would ever get a chance to play Dumb-American-Kid in my life, now was the time… and if I played dumb as I channeled the heart of the dragon, I would play dumb to win.

So, I shrugged.  I held a hand over my ear as if to tell him to repeat himself.  Looking back, I was definitely overacting, but I was still young enough to think I was slick.  Either way, I was beyond eye-level from him where I stood, cutting down on the intimidation factor that an adult’s height might have had.  He dressed casually – a pair of simple pants, and a jacket over a plain white shirt.  It may not have clicked then, but I may have subconsciously assumed that he had little authority, cutting the intimidation down to something even smaller.  He spoke once more in Chinese, and for lack of desire to understand, I explained: “I don’t speak Chinese.”

He seemed to give up.  There was no heavy sigh or palm on his face, but he said no more, and walked off without another comment.

Sun Tzu, the author of The Art of War, put it best: “All warfare is basedon deception.” I would like to think I did the ancient strategist proud. I was fortunate that the consequences ended with my mother telling me that I should have listened when I bragged about the incident to her.  I regret telling her anything, because the day after that, when I wanted to suggest taking my new sister to see the dragon, I was met with a dirty look and a hasty objection.

I would like to imagine that, if I ever find myself in Guangzhou again, I would find strength in the dragon once more.  If that were to happen, though, there would probably be no touching or climbing.  I can’t afford to end up in a Chinese prison.

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

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A Rocky Journey through Canada

I am not usually one to consult psychics—I would rather leave my future a mystery. In this case, however, a rune stone reading sounds like fun. It will be part of the enjoyment of visiting Norstead, a Viking re-enactment village on the island of Newfoundland. During the informative tour, I listened to tales about the voyages of the ship, Snorri, learned how iron pieces were smelted from locally harvested bog iron and wondered at the appeal of Christianity to the Vikings when I saw how awfully uncomfortable the church’s pews looked. I was grasping a sense of a brief time in Canada’s long ago past. Why not sneak a glimpse into my own future?

I had found my authentic self when I started writing a few years ago. Unfamiliar surroundings, especially natural, free my creative soul; yet, I struggle to secure the means to reach them. I am blessed to finally realize my dream of seeing Newfoundland—a land quite different from my southern Ontario home. The distinctive island offers plenty of inspiration.

Joy already fills me from all the scenic sensations I have experienced so far, such as the rust-colored Tabletop Mountains in Gros Morne National Park and the isolated outport communities with their colorful homes staggered across hilly, rocky terrain. The spectacular ocean keeps me company on much this trip and is otherwise never far away, like a faithful friend.

Then the rune stone reading reveals a bright, but challenging future—the “bright” part of it makes the “challenging” worthwhile. The reading also reflects certain details of my life perfectly. I feel validated that it is heading in the right direction.

After my reading, I wander away from the village and meander along the shoreline of dark, jagged outcropping. I head towards a hill I had been eyeing during my tour as it steadily revealed itself out of dissipating fog. Gradually leaving the past behind, tranquility takes over the land making it seem like time has stopped.

I follow a worn footpath up the slope carpeted with sparse spongy vegetation barely covering a rocky base. Sharp-edged outcropping thrusts out of exposed patches where the vegetation does not quite succeed in conquering the stark environment. Tiny offshore islands fade in and out of lingering fog, like ghosts trying to remain in our reality.

As I reach the hilltop, my happiness peaks, too. I observe the past where the villagers continue their daily duties and entertain visitors of the faraway present. In the other direction, seagulls, oblivious to time, sweep by on a light breeze over the sea with its gentle waves. I feel a sense of peace and belonging.

With the appreciation of the surrounding raw beauty and such a promising outlook, euphoria seeps deep into my soul to replace the uncertainty living there. I am reminded that life is a journey just like this trip I am on—full of amazing, rugged wonder. I linger until I realize time has caught up to me and is moving on. I guess it is including me in its progress. An intriguing future calls me home.

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

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“Have You Eaten Yet?” Malaysia Hospitality

I was only in Georgetown for a day, but I knew I needed to complete my research for my article on Malaysian food. I kept getting lost in Penang— the winding streets reminiscent of an ancient walled city, where the one thing you could count on is that, map in hand, you would still end up walking around in loops, like the character with literally two left feet in “Waiting for Guffman.”

My quest for Malaysian food started long ago when my lips first tasted roti canai. At first, I thought it had been with my ex-boyfriend Gene, a Malaysian native— but then I realized that it’d been before that, well before, when I picked up and moved to Manhattan. It was a strange time; I had just returned from a couple of years in Japan where I found all things foreign to be amazing, and I was absolutely convinced that there was no better place than Japan to lose yourself in crazy food culture.

Then, I met Kevin.

Truth be told, Kevin, a Singapore-native, was the most clean and conscientious roommate I have ever had. I would trudge back home in three feet of snow, wind-blown from the tunnels between buildings and frozen to the pinky (who in their right mind moves to Manhattan in January anyway?) from my maitre’d at an upscale sushi restaurant on Park Avenue wondering what I was doing with my life. Several times a week, I was going to “cattle calls,” auditions with two to three hundred people minimum, and I couldn’t even go to the calls half the time due to my schedule at the restaurant. These thoughts weighing me down, I would trudge up four flights of stairs and the door to our apartment would open even before I reached the doorknob. Kevin would be standing there, looking half glad that I arrived back alive and half concerned at the blue hue to my skin, take my coat brushing off the snow, and ask if I’d eaten yet. I never had; somehow I managed to always miss the staff meal. In a flash, Kevin would dash off to get takeout. As a side note, the only person who knew how to cook among the four of us roommates was me, but the only groceries I could afford were peanut butter and jelly. A sad state of affairs— thus the kitchen in our apartment was never used except as a laundry facility for our roommate Monica’s underthings.

Most of the time, Kevin would bring back noodle dishes, char kway teow or hor fun, and we would sit on the couch -the one place TO sit in the apartment- eat and talk about our days. We couldn’t have had possible led more different lives. Kevin was a tax lawyer at Baker & McKenzie with rows of identical suits which he brought to get dry cleaned every day, and me clad in leotard and tights. I’m sure he must have been under a lot of stress— the funny thing was, he never showed it. He had a quiet voice, and very slow, conscientious way of speaking which was very calming somehow. When I think back to our conversations, it almost seems like he was singing lullabies to me.

Over time, we got to know each other, mostly through our takeout talks. I also started having many a sleepless night where I would climb down from my loft bed and sit on the couch in the living room in the dark. One night, sitting there, I heard the water boiling — Kevin emerged with two mugs of some kind of beverage. That was when I discovered Milo— a popular chocolate malt developed by Nestle in Australia, but popular in Singapore and Malaysia, which from then on I began to associate with sleep. Over time, this middle of the night, chocolate drinking became a nightly ritual. Sometimes we wouldn’t even talk, just sit and sip, listening to the sounds of the hot water heater.It was comforting and I would start drifting off.

As our friendship deepened, Kevin started to tell me more about Singapore and his life before moving to New York, and I opened up to him about the reverse culture shock I experienced after coming back from Japan, my longings to move back there, and my feeling of being out of place. Inevitably, however, our conversations would always turn to food. I learned very quickly that the standard way to say “How are you?” in Malaysia and Singapore is “Sik Bao May?” Literally, “Have you eaten yet?”

And now here I was in in the foodie capital, Penang, with a purpose, writing an article about food and love.

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

 

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The Sandstorm in India

The sandstorm engulfs me like a swarm of angry wasps. Each gust fires a thousand grains of dust at my helmet and fills my ears with a noise like static, as I crouch by a drystone wall. My thirty-eight year-old Royal Enfield motorbike sits abandoned by the roadside. My hands sting as they cover my face. This is starting to feel like a mistake.

Several hours earlier, after weeks of nervous procrastination, I’d begun my Indian motorbike adventure at the Rajasthani town of Pushkar. My engine echoed through narrow streets of guano splattered, whitewashed buildings. Tourists, holy men, gypsies and cattle bustled about. Languars leapt from roof to roof, as cows poked their heads into sweet shops to lick the walls clean of grease. The scent of spices, rose gardens and rubbish filled the air.

My plan, to ride through the desert lands, up to the plains, then into the great Himalaya. I’d never ridden so far alone. I departed with a nervous cocktail of fear and excitement as I headed into an adventure way beyond anything I’d taken on alone before.

Relieved to leave the throng behind, I smiled as a green parakeet flew along side me while I put-put-putted along the black tarmac strip of the highway. The air was cool in the bright morning, and the road was quiet heading northbound toward the Great Thar Desert. Just occasional buses, 4x4s and brightly decorated trucks broke the spell of the road.

As the sun crept high, the temperature rose to a stifling peak. I stopped to seek shade under the dry knotted branches of a khejri tree. An old goat farmer lead his herd close by, their bells tinkling through the dry air. I saw the horizon ahead begin to darken with an ominous, low-lying haze. The goat herder hobbled along in his grubby white garments, paying no heed to the creeping darkness ahead.

I rode on and the haze grew closer, filling the sky as the wind picked up and the sands began to rise and swirl up from the desert floor.

This was a terrible idea, I think as I huddle by the roadside. I could be on a train, reading a book and making friends. But no. I’m alone.  In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by natural disaster, and relying on an antique motorbike that could fall apart at any moment. My romantic fantasy of cruising the Indian highways is becoming something much too real. But what do I do, give up? Go back? Or be strong, wait it out, then ride on towards the Himalayas. What drove me to do this? Some burning desire to leap headlong into a big adventure. I’ve never wanted to be a biker before. Until a year ago I didn’t even know how to ride a motorbike. But after months of traveling on busses and trains, not being able to stop when I want and having my life the hands of some crazy driver, the want to take control was too strong. I think of the old goat herder, hobbling into the storm with his herd in tow.

The mocking honk of a horn snaps me back to my senses as a truck passes through the dust. That’s it. Enough. There’s no going back now because this is happening. And nobody’s coming to save me.

So when the storm breaks and the sand settles down a little, I tighten the scarf around my face and wipe the dust from my sunglasses. Then I point my bike northwards, and ride.

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

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Travel through Print while home in Nigeria

 I am a contradiction. I became aware of this for the first time when I was asked at a job interview some years ago to describe myself. I am happy, I am sad; I am guarded and open all at once. I love change and look forward to it but I also hold on tight to my routines. My one big dream when I grow up is to travel and see the world. However, life is tough and in a third world economy like mine, travel is a luxury I cannot afford. So I came up with a cheaper way to live my dream; by reading books. Love stories, war stories, history, tales of conspiracy, life style, poetry, religion, fashion, tourism, true stories, adventure, fiction, all of it. For a moment I experience the world of diverse characters and scenarios so innately created by an author; worlds so different from mine and sometimes similar. Every time I pick up a book to read it’s a journey I make with the characters; no passports, no money to save up, no visas, no customs double checking. I just walk into these intriguing places; a whole new world to see; different foods to taste, different languages to speak, different cultures.

I am recently reading for the second time (because I love the story so much) Eat, Pray, Love1. A book described by Time magazine as “An engaging, intelligent, and highly entertaining memoir…..her account of her time in India is beautiful and honest and free of patchouli-scented obscurities”.2  An amazing, relatable, true life story about among other things, three of my favorite topics: food, spirituality and love. A story of an evolving woman on a self-finding journey because suddenly, her world seemed like someone else’s. For me, it’s a story about having a hunger for more in life and having the courage to recognize that hunger and do something about it. Well, it took two continents, three countries and a to-do list of eat, pray, love to find the real her. When I finished reading the book the first time, I found myself deep in thought for a few days. So many times I’ve felt a void in my life and I didn’t even know what to do with it or how to fill it. I learnt from this woman’s story first that anything is possible. Secondly that I am not alone in whatever I am going through and third, that the world is so big yet so small.

My world is a beehive of limitations which are a consequence of culture, gender, religion, and a bad economy. Reading books and journeying with the characters in them have broken these walls that limit me or define me. That I can experience a world full of love in one book then experience war in the next speaks a lot to my personality. While I look forward to seeing Venice and Paris physically someday, I am grateful for the gift of books and the beautiful places they have shown me and in them, I find my truest self.

1. Bestseller by Elizabeth Gilbert, 2006

2. Review by Time magazine on review page of Eat, Pray, Love.

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

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Reality Czech!

Reality Czech!

Prague, here I come I declared once I booked a studio apartment for three days and two nights in the city’s Old Town section. Next, I researched to see how much I could accomplish during my stay without being gluttonous. Usually, I cover quite a bit on my trips by being organized, through prioritizing, doing my research ahead of time and booking accommodations located conveniently. During my research, by chance, on one of the Travel Channel shows, I heard of a place called Kutna Hora near Prague and the Bone Church in the nearby Sedlec, a 14th century royal city and a one-time, silver mining town that minted much of Europe’s coinage. Kutna Hora was an hour southeast of Prague by train. Ideal I thought because this would allow me to return to Prague in the afternoon and see the castle. I could not resist my desire to visit this town and what I called, the reality-check church there. When I told my husband my plan, his reaction was: a bone church? That’s gross!

I came from a family where songs that proclaimed life’s impermanence were celebrated as a reminder to know one’s true purpose in life: attaining moksha, that is, liberation from life’s endless birth-death cycle. One of my own favorite poems is, Percy B. Shelley’s “Ozymandias” which again is a reminder of life’s ultimate reality.

I decided to take the 8 a.m. direct train from Praha hlavní nádraží, Prague’s main station. We chose to walk from our apartment. But it was raining, yet I was in no mood to wait for a tram or get into a cab that would have to follow numerous traffic regulations and thus take longer than my legs would. Wind-like, I took off in the direction of the nádraží and after I reached the station I realized my husband was nowhere in sight. How typical! I thought. I tried texting him but to no avail. The clock ticked away. But miraculously, seven minutes before 8, I spotted him, his back turned toward me and head bent down and fingers punching away on his phone. We reconnected, dashed to the ticket office, purchased our round trip, zipped through the station, spotted the right entry point, swiped through the turn style and got on the train. Whew!

Behind us was another couple. The four of us sat together, introduced ourselves, and chatted away the entire hour. Of Chinese origin, our new friends were from Singapore. We took turns photographing each other, then critiqued and admired the photos, laughed all the way and exchanged email ids. They too liked travel. When we parted company we joked  we would plan our next trip together. I learned a great deal about them and the people of Singapore. My travel focus is not just places but people, too–one reason, why we usually rent an apartment. This forces us to visit local markets, which in turn compels us to learn a few new words from the local language and mingle with the natives. We also seek out well-reviewed, quaint restaurants off the beaten track.

The church–actually a chapel nestled beneath the All Saints Cemetery Church built around year 1400, which, along with the close by Cathedral of our Lady at Sedlac (sporting Europe’s only Baroque-Gothic architecture)–is part of a 12th century Cistercian Monastery (closed in 1783 and now a part of it, a tobacco museum), a first of its kind in Bohemia. In medieval times, to be buried in the All Saints Cemetery was considered sacred. Thirty-thousand bodies from the 1380 plague found a home here.

One enters the chapel with the solemness reserved for a holy place. You descend a few steps into a womb-like structure and what awaits you is breathtaking and surreal. True to its name, nothing but skulls and bones. The chandeliers and the columns, the walls and the nave, the niches and the arches, the chalice and the candelabra, the monstrance and wall hangings and the pyramids inside four corner iron cages are skulls (some bullet hole-ridden) and bones from 40, 000 human skeletons–30, 000 from the plague and 10, 000 soldiers’ from the Hussite wars (1419-circa 1434). A 1511 ossuary turned an 1870 architectural wonder.

Apparently,  the choice of “building material” for this church was to “impress upon the public the shortness of life and how important it is to live in harmony.”

The town itself, with its friendly people, hilly, crooked cobble-stoned streets and other UNESCO heritage sites like the 14th century St. Barbara’s Cathedra beckons a visitor to return again and again and even buy a second home here if you have the dough. No matter. I still feel grateful to have had the opportunity to visit Sedlec, a place filled with both profound questions and profound answers.

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

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Bravery: Not Being Afraid of Yourself

In Chris Brogan‘s, It’s Not About the Tights: An Owners Manual on Bravery, he states his definition of bravery, which is “not being afraid of yourself.” In early 2014, I left my husband in Thailand and returned to America alone. Many people told me I was brave. I really was not sure courage had anything to do with it.

Brogan 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.”

As 2015 begins, I am opening the seventh We Said Go Travel Writing Contest. The Winter contest has always had a theme of inspiration. When I came up with the idea in December 2012 at the Sand Art Festival in Konark, India, I had no idea if anyone would participate. I hoped to have at least ten people enter. There were 60.

By the fourth contest one year later, there were 500. At this point over 1600 writers from over 75 countries have shared stories of inspiration, independence and gratitude. Sometimes you have to move forward even if you are not sure what will happen next.

Brogan believes Bravery is about “discovery…Bravery is about moving forward, because we can never go back.” You get to choose where you live, work and travel. “What makes your choice brave is whether it’s the choice you know to be the right one.”

Many people make New Year’s Resolutions that they do not keep, what do you want to change? It doesn’t matter what day it is but like Brogan says: “You can just start. You can say, “Today is day one.”

I hope you will find the resolve to make a decision that helps you discover more about yourself. Perhaps you will share your journey with us in the seventh WSGT Writing Contest or somewhere else or with a friend.

Lisa Niver at Sofitel Los Angeles for the Premier Travel Magazine Award Ceremony Dec. 4, 2014

Many people are not sure what to do or where to go and then they worry. But as Brogan says, “wasting time on worry and fear is a waste of your life. You can do so much more after you deal with whatever it is you’re putting off in all and any parts of your life.” I did spend a good deal of 2014 worrying about my decisions. For 2015, I am ready to move forward. I like what Brogan says:

Bravery is about accepting where you are, and then deciding if that’s where you want to be.

Take Action:  “Write down in your Book of Bravery the following:

*I accept that I am here: ______________

* I intend to be here: _________________

* Today (not tomorrow), I’ll take  this action to _________________”

Many people give up on their resolutions or promises to themselves as they become mired in should and regrets. I like what Brogan says about regret: “Regret wastes time. ‘I should never have started smoking’ is about as useful as saying, ‘I should have been born with wings.’ You can do nothing about either…Regret is a losing battle. You can never go backwards, and as regret never happens in the present or the future, you’re already doomed…Accept where you are. Realize where you intend to be. Build a bridge.”

If you get inspired to build a bridge to yourself and your future in 2015, please share it so you can inspire others. Remember:

“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.”

I want to thank everyone who has been part of my journey but especially all those I leaned on so hard in 2014. I could not have made it without you. There were many times where I just cried and felt like a failure but today I am going to remember this from Seth Godin‘s blog on January 1, 2015:

“Used to be,” is not necessarily a mark of failure or even obsolescence. It’s more often a sign of bravery and progress.
If you were brave enough to leap, who would you choose to ‘used to be’?

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