Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 346

An Afternoon in Sibiu, Romania

The main square of Sibiu was my favorite destination on walks through the old city.  It was cobblestoned, with small streets and alleys branching out of it.  A fountain in the middle was the main attraction for children escaping the heat while their parents sat in surrounding cafes, each establishment out-advertising the other with huge banners announcing World Cup matches. 

On my last day, I sat on a bench from where I could see three clock towers at once. Each one was showing a slightly different time.  With a snicker of endearment, I settled in for my favorite pastime: people-watching.  As the day went on, I reminisced on the time I’d spent there.  A man in a green wool sweater sat next to me and I played over the best entries to the ballet competition my family had traveled there for.  The man lit a cigarette and left, replaced by a pregnant woman and someone I assumed to be her mother.  I thought of the friends I’d made: dancers from Japan, Russia, Moldova, and France, just to name a few. 

Next, I was joined by a group of students, talking and laughing loudly.  They looked so happy and comfortable that a thought occurred to me: a place exotic to one is can be seen as banal and every-day to another.  This was my second time in Romania and I didn’t know if I’d ever return.  I savored every moment and marveled at how lucky I was to go to such a place.  But for the guys smoking and laughing next to me, this was home, and places that are familiar to me would seem novel and unusual to them.  The world is huge, and places are wildly different, but the people (and I’m trying hard not to be too sappy here) are basically the same. 

The man in the sweater, the pregnant woman, the careless students all have their routines and familiarities.  Their eyes would turn wide at the sight of an American supermarket, while to one from there, it is the pinnacle of the mundane.  Corn dogs and fried chicken they would consider delicacies, while an American wouldn’t know how to approach Romanian staples like mămăligă and ciorbă de burtă.  The only way to balance it out is to travel, see it all, and tell everyone you know about it, like a sort of international prophet.  Sounds excessive, but that’s how I felt sitting alone on a bench in Transylvania: inspirational melodies were playing themselves in my head, and I felt the immensity and the power of the world in my very bones.  If life were a musical, I would have started singing.  But then, I had to leave.  Maybe one day, I’ll come back.

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

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Walking Rome, Italy Alone

Walking Rome Alone

 

For me, Rome began with rain and tears. I arrived at the airport in the morning, and wanted to take public transport to my hostel to save money. A bus to Termini station, a train to the Colosseum, and a 40 minute walk left to go. It was cold and raining. I didn’t have an umbrella, but I did have a 28 kg suitcase and an 8 kg carry-on. All the things I owned cut into my palms and shoulders with each step. I regretted carrying anything at all. It made it so much harder to be alone. After about half an hour, I began to cry. I looked around and watched the Colosseum sitting at the end of Via de Fori Imperiali. I couldn’t believe I was right there and it was so beautiful. Rome would always be like that, beautiful and indifferent to my misery. I thought to myself, nothing bad has happened. Just push through.

The day that I visited Vatican City is very memorable to me. Each morning, I started walking outside, and took any direction that felt right. I walked and walked, and suddenly I turned and saw the great Vatican City Dome on the horizon. I wanted to hop and grab onto someone’s arm and gasp ‘Wow, wouldja look at that.’ But no one else was there, so I did the little hop on my own, drew my scarf around my mouth, and went to Vatican City.

I walked around the Vatican museum like I usually do in museums—slowly and carefully, hoping that some of its importance would soak in, because I really understood none of it. Then I got to Raphael’s rooms. I can’t even say what is different about Raphael’s paintings. But I got it, when I saw The School of Athens. I looked up—and at that point, the painting wasn’t iconic or recognizable to me—and thought, hey, that’s a good one. It was an open square in Athens where Plato, Socrates, Ptolemy, Pythagoras and the like had come together. Lounging about, debating, teaching, testing out various instruments. I thought, that’s such a good idea. I kept repeating it over and over in my head: That’s such a good idea! After about the fourth or fifth repetition, I started tearing up. Because it was such a good idea.

After spending half the day in the Vatican City museum, I bought a huge gelato, and sat in the middle of Piazza del Risorgimento outside the city gates. I was planning to go straight ahead into St Peter’s Basilica. But as I was passing the square, I noticed that all the people sitting in the square were on their own. Some were waiting for the bus, but most were just sitting around, staring pensively ahead, eating, using their smartphones, or reading. It made me wonder what they were all up to, but I knew that asking would really ruin the point. If they felt as I did, that they just wanted to enjoy being on their own. I pulled out my copy of The Town and the City and started reading, and eating my giant gelato. It was a very beautiful place to be, in this wide-open square before Vatican City as the sun was setting, with a bunch of lonesome strangers. I was thinking about how far I was from home, from people I knew, none of them knew what I was doing, how incredible it is that I made all this way on my own, all that stuff.

Then it started to rain very heavily. I ducked into a cafe. It had plastic blinds at the entrance. The cafe bar ran along the room’s edges, and the middle of it was all empty—no tables or chairs or anything. I got a cup of espresso and stood watching the rain fall outside. About seven other people were in there, doing the same thing. We had all run in, hair wet and shivering from the cold, so forsaken by Rome, and nursing little cups of espresso. The espresso was incredible. Holding the cup close to warm my face, that was when I loved Rome the most. Rome’s indifference made it so much more beautiful.

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

 

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The Long Road Towards the Inevitable in Turkey

The Long Road Towards the Inevitable

Tomorrow you’ll wake up realising that all your hopes and promises of happiness are not there. The comfort of a house, a pair of loving arms and the job are gone. As well as the emotional balance and self-esteem. Everything vanished a month ago when your now ex-husband shut the apartment door on the last day of your life in common. You know that all those things have been slowly disappearing along the last 10 years but now you have the perfect person to blame.

Then the weight of emptiness takes in. You feel it in your shoulders as if you were carrying a backpack full of rocks. You want to run away. Maybe quit. But go where? Quit from what? You start regretting every choice you’ve made in life. Because all of them led you to the unbearable being you are now.

You regret the 11 year-old you dreaming about becoming a famous writer. You were the shy little girl who valued the company of written words. While your colleagues made fun of your loneliness, you felt relief in words. They wouldn’t disappoint you.

Until the day you had the courage to show your writings to an adult. A friend who’s opinion you valued. After a quick reading, she gave her sentence: shallow, amateurish. You were devastated. You don’t regret you showed her your work. You regret having believed her to the point of quitting writing for several years.

As you regret when you realise that this was only the first of many times you putted your writing aside just because someone made you believe that what you do isn’t of much value. “Being a writer is not a profession” has been the repeated mantra from people around you. You heard it so many times that you believed in it. Now you know that your insecureness is what you regret the most.

An insecureness that empowered others opinions over your will. You start letting go of your dreams believing that happiness could be in a place where you cannot be judged.You also end up quitting travel after someone telling you that this kind of life doesn’t fit the normal patterns of society. You choose normality. A job. A career. The harder you try to fit in the less normal you feel.

Believing that something might be wrong with you, you quit your job. You start your own business. It doesn’t take long to realise that nothing really changed. Now you have even more hard and unfulfilling work. You regret being your own boss and have the extra responsibility towards the people working for you. You regret compromising your freedom even more.

Travel and writing become a vague memory and it scares you. You start suspecting that life is shorter than it seems and you regret wasting most of it. You quit again.

You start a journey of self discovery. You study many different subjects. Chinese Medicine, Meditation, Chi Kung. You change your perspective, you shake your beliefs, you challenge your comfort zone. Then the husband comes.

He brings his beliefs into your life. You mistake love with something else. You know that writing and travel means uncertainty. And you let yourself be convinced that uncertainty doesn’t go well with marriage. You opt once more to put your dreams aside and help him being successful supported by the romantic idea: “if you’re happy, I’m happy”

When regret arrives again you understand you were wrong. Romantic love is not a good excuse to avoid taking full responsibility to make your dreams come true.

You tell him you need to change. That you are suffocating your true nature. You need to write, to travel. You’re not a housewife. A few month later he tells you “I can’t be with a woman who travels. Not knowing when you are home or for how long you will be absent creates too much instability in my life”.

He leaves and you feel again like the devastated 11 year old who believed a bad review. You regret letting yourself guide by other people’s opinions. You will regret it for a whole month. You’ll cry, you’ll be angry and you’ll pity yourself. Everyday.

But tonight I promise you it will be different. It will be the first day you haven’t cry in a month. And just before going to bed, you’ll realise that the cause of your regret is your tendency to overvalue what the world thinks of you.

Hang in there, my dear me, it is almost over. Tonight right after buying a ticket to Istanbul you’ll finally make an important decision. Maybe the most important in your whole life: You choose writing. You choose travelling. And you are grateful to every one in your past that led you here.

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

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A Letter of Thanks to Halong Bay, Vietnam

Dear Halong Bay,

I don’t know if its appropriate to ‘thank’ a place. But to me, like many of my loved ones, you hold a special place in my heart and your memories make me a better person.  I met you a year ago, when I was lost and hurting from a relationship gone terribly, horrifically sour. I had traveled from Sydney to Vietnam to escape my demons and attempt to repair my soul.

It was initially hard to shake my looming pessimism. The dock at Halong Bay doesn’t reveal much about the archipelago paradise that lies no more than an hour boat ride away. Somewhat scrappy, tarnished Junk Boats bob at the moor, waiting to pick up hundreds of eager passengers, waiting beside their luggage sporting excited perspiration in the stifling northern Vietnamese humidity. I’d seen the postcards and friend’s photographs of Halong Bay but never really taken much notice. Photographs, as much as they open our eyes to unknown places, only provide a droplet of a view, an atmosphere and an experience.

An hour later, I found myself situated in a bright red junk boat, in the middle of the calmest, tranquil blanket of sapphire ocean, archipelagos of various sizes dotted all around me, witnessing a sunset that was cascading a million sparkles on the water.  I was transfixed in awe by the overwhelming beauty that surrounded me from every angle. I stood at the front of the junk boat, the setting sky illuminating slowly transitioning shades of yellows, oranges and pale pinks. I marvelled as the heavens opened up to perform nature’s greatest pantomime, it felt like it was just for me.

It turns out that travel doesn’t repair your soul. Only you can do that. Your thoughts and attitudes are 100% your own. But positioning yourself somewhere you can find peace and beauty, whether around the corner from your home or half way across the world, you will feel the little pieces of your soul slowly tessellate back into place. It took 30 000 kilometers of travel and a whole lot of hard earned money to learn that, but the beauty bestowed upon me that day made me appreciate the beauty in aspects of ever other day I have lived in since… and that is worth more than anything in the world.

The tremendous magic of Halong Bay restored joy to my heart once more, and from then on, every sunset I see, every boat bobbing on the ocean, even something as simple as a crisp droplet of rain tumbling down a leaf, no matter where I am, I feel another piece of my soul come back to me, and I grasp it fiercely with joyful might.

 

Thank you Halong Bay, I am surrounded by beauty. I am forever grateful.

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

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Mt. Bromo, The Jewel of East Java

It was a very tired office week. I felt that I have no energy left to face another day. Out of the sudden, a friend from my college called and asked me to go to Mt. Bromo with him and another friend. I instantly agreed because of one reason.  I’d never been to Bromo, period. In addition to make a perfect excuse, It was just the right time to escape for a while from work activity. “It’s now or never, let’s do it!” I said to myself to overcome my doubt, since I learned from several reviews that the track is difficult. We decided to go there the next week after.

The journey was never been easy. We had a lot of disagreement almost in everything, like who will be the driver for the night shift, where to stop to buy meal, which way was the shortest way, and some other ridiculous things. Despite of that, I felt that the different characters among us complete each others along the journey. One thing that still unites us until now is the passion to share the experience and togetherness. After 12 hours overland trip from Jakarta, we finally arrived at Ngadisari village, the nearest village to Mt. Bromo. We got a best deal to book nice and cozy backpacker hostel at the slope of the mountain, which was only Rp 75.000 per room for one night (USD 7 per night). We also had an arrangement for the jeep tour at reasonable price. The local villagers were very friendly and communicative. Nice cold weather combined with the villagers’ friendliness made us very enthusiast with our journey.

On the next day, we woke at 3 AM and rode a 6 passenger four-wheel drive jeep to catch the sunrise. It was about 45 minutes to reach Mount Penanjakan, the first stop that was the perfect spot to see the sunrise. It was very bumpy and winding track, but it worth every inch as we reached the destination.  It was magnificence and breathtaking. At that time, a lot of food stalls was already in service. They offered boiled noodle, steamed corn, fried banana and hot drinks. Local people also make money from selling or renting jacket since it was very cold and the wind was so breezy. In about 5 degrees Celsius, we all drowned in silence while watching the first ray of light appeared from behind of the mountain. Camera was the most wanted gadget and nobody wanted to miss their pose in that dramatic moment.

As the day turned into a bright morning, our tour guide who also our jeep driver once again told us to ride the jeep heading to Mt. Bromo’s crater. However, the jeep only brought us to a spacious parking area right below the crater. From there, we still have to walk about 30 minutes to reach the first step of the crater’s stair. We saw a lot of horses with passenger on its back; it had been a favorite choice for tourists who don’t want to get tired of walking. Still, everyone had to walk along a hundred of stairs with 60 degrees angle to reach the top of the crater. As we got there, we never stop gasped and amazed by the scenery. The layer of clear blue sky, white cotton mist and grey gigantic volcano rock was spread perfectly in front of us. God made this beautiful view as a reminder for human being to appreciate His creation, to keep grateful with His gifts; the soul we live and the air we breathe. It made me realize that lately I never thank enough to God, I always complaint in most of my time. The source of the negative attitude was because I have married for 4 years but have no children yet. The moment after, I called my wife on the phone and said that she is the most precious gift that God had sent to me and told her that everything will be alright as long as we have each other. My wife, clueless, only answered:”I love you too”. My friends told me I was so sentimental, but aren’t we all?

It was a journey that we would never forget.  It might not be served with luxury facility, but we got all we need, we got the views and a reminder to keep positive in live, so it’s priceless. I wish I could visit Mt. Bromo again with my wife so we can share and embrace that amazing moment together.

About the author: Albert Budi is a financial advisor who loves to travel and explore new culture. He and his beloved wife travel actively to new destination in Indonesia or other country. They pursue their passion to have their own travel blog and agency.

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

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Grateful for the journey in Australia

Grateful for the Journey

It started with a dream in June 2012, shortly after my cat Hamish, the last of my animals, died. In that alternate landscape, I was climbing polished wooden stairs as large bay windows revealed the dark night sky on either side of the staircase. I tried to make out the stars but they were eclipsed by the moonless sky. Suddenly from nowhere, an almighty bang and a streak of lightning so brilliant in its metallic energy,  broke through the blackness completely revealing  the landscape in every detail.

When I awoke I knew what I had to do. The clarity of the lightning bolt had galvanised me to change my life completely. I would sell everything and move.

Two years year later, constant movement is a big part of my life. Through synchronicity, that wonderful connection between desire and manifestation, a friend Elizabeth had suggested I try house sitting. She knew my love of animals and my new found fear of being stuck in an environment which might be beautiful like the previous one,but did not feed my soul. House sitting seemed to fit the criteria I was after in a lifestyle; freedom to learn and grow, animal companionship and travel. Suddenly fear emerged in the form of “Ifs” and “buts”. I recalibrated my attitude asking  “What have I got to lose?”  and decided to take the plunge. I remembered the Tarot card of the Fool, a youth with all his possessions wrapped in a cloth at the end of a stick which he carried over his shoulder while he smelt a white rose. A small dog accompanied him, while with one foot on the ground and one in the air above a cliff, his face had that joyful look of optimism that everything would be provided for on his new journey into the as yet unformed land. He became my role model.

I was fortunate to start off well and will always be grateful to my first home-owners, Lorna and John, who welcomed me to their beautiful home in Jan Juc on the coast of Victoria.Such a positive initial experience gave me the confidence to continue. If you have ever seen the film “Puss in Boots” then you will know what Archie, their cat looks like! and Della, his sister also bears a striking resemblance to Kitty soft paws from the same movie. How lovely it was to have animal companionship again and the opportunity to explore one of the most beautiful parts of the Australian coastline.

In meditation, a daily journey into inner landscapes, I had another epiphany, I could use house sitting as my magic carpet to travel around Australia, visiting places, the many places, to which I had never  previously travelled. So in December 2012, on my first interstate house sit, I travelled to the Adelaide hills to care for three dogs while their owners went on holiday. Since then I have perfected the skills of adaptation and flexibility which are the core requirements of the lifestyle and make the most of each house sit. Like the Fool, I travel lightly with one suitcase, a handbag containing my tablet,  borrowed cat, dog or horse, and absolute trust in the journey.

Australia is a huge country and to traverse it from coast to coast, or Pacific to Indian Ocean if you prefer, is a similar distance as between Moscow and Paris. The land itself shifts and changes as you fly across the country, from the viridian hinterland of the East coast, across the browning dust of outback Queensland and New South Wales, over the leached silver of the dried up lakes of outback South Australia and finally to the pristine turquoise waters of Esperance and Albany in South Western Australia. The first time I took this flight I clutched my heart and fell in love with the land. Since then when reprising the same flight across the ancient continent, it feels like reconnecting with an old beloved. I can never tire of flying over this land.

As I travel around the country , meeting new friends, human and animal, and reconnecting with old ones, I feel grateful to be at this stage of my life where my sense of adventure is restored and I have the confidence and trust in myself and the Universe to lead me into new territories. I also give thanks for that lightning bolt.

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

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Hidden Treasure: Ambialet, France

In the heart of France’s Midi-Pyrenees lies a secret gem, a tiny town, a fairy tale. Ambialet. Here, on a September evening, the sunlight’s rays are Midas’ fingers, transforming the mountainside into a tiara that puts the Crown Jewels to shame. Leaves of emerald, topaz, and ruby adorn gilded branches; at the mountain’s summit, an eleventh-century stone church and ancient monastery, glowing with golden-hour light, complete the diadem. Below, the Tarn River encircles the presqu’île, a peninsula by virtue of a strip of ground narrower than the river itself. And on a cliff above, held captive by the sunshine’s spell, sits a speck of a human being.  Me.

I doubt you will find mention of Ambialet in Frommer’s or the Michelin Guides, and I’d be more than a little surprised to see it featured on the Travel Channel. The community boasts only a few dozen residents. Its restaurants can be numbered on one hand; its recreational facilities on the other. Yet the unique setting of this place and its natural and historical richness have made it a destination for French tourists and even a handful of international visitors, who climb or drive their way to the top of the mountain for views of the rugged terrain and a glimpse of the ancient architecture. No monks live here now; rather, the monastery’s courtyard echoes with the laughter of American students. They hail from Saint Francis University in the equally obscure town of Loretto, Pennsylvania—and for them, this mountaintop perch has become an unforgettable second home.

I arrive here for my semester in France with very little in the way of expectations. I studied abroad in Italy the year before, making beautiful memories and forging bonds that shattered the barriers of language and culture. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could top the power of that experience. Ambialet might be good, but it won’t be Parma.

Yet, as the bus winds around the mountain and I catch my first glimpse of the majestic edifice that is to be my dorm, it takes my breath away.  Soon, one thing becomes overwhelmingly clear. I was right.  Ambialet isn’t t train rides and bikes and cobblestones. It isn’t dinnertime with my Italian host family or street musicians or gelato, or any of the things I loved about life in Italy.

Instead, Ambialet is tripping over three big slobbery dogs as I try to get in the gate. Ambialet is a winding medieval road of pink-tinted granite and blue-gray slate snaking down the mountainside, connecting our isolated roost to the village below. Ambialet is a community so aesthetically aware that its denizens built a chateau to house their hydroelectric plant. Ambialet is dancing and karaoke with the locals on a Friday night. It is the echoing of a single guitar in the simple chapel, a handful of French voices raised in praise on Sunday morning. It’s kayaking down the rushing river, then jumping in with all of my clothes on. It’s running with crazy confidence over the rocky crags because I know every crack and crevice.  It’s roaming the wilderness with my easel and paints, full of wonder and strength and freedom. It’s late nights in the art studio, hovering over a space heater to keep warm. It’s the sweet breath of lavender and rosemary on the morning breeze.  Pink, wispy clouds rising from the riverbed at dawn. A starlit sky clearer and more brilliant than any I’ve ever seen. Waves of wild heather. A garden swingset. Cats pouncing my rake as I dig up potatoes. Analyzing medieval churches and French pedagogical methods. Making my “r’s’ come from my throat and my “e’s” from my nose. It’s Nadine and Marie, Sophie and Tim, Eric, Bernard, Peter and Margaret. It’s two-hour-long dinners where a dozen former strangers make each other laugh so much that eating is hazardous. It’s slicing baguettes and flipping crepes and tasting fresh sheep cheese; it’s chasing mice and hiking hills and exploring long-abandoned castle ruins. It’s life unlike anything I’ve ever known—and for this, I am grateful.

In Ambialet, I have learned that the experiences of travel are as incomparable as proverbial apples and oranges; that each place, each unique moment, is a priceless gift.  And of all the discoveries I’ve made here, the most beautiful has been the elasticity of the human soul, the incredible ability of the spirit to hold, to love, beyond ration.  When people ask me if I like Ambialet or Parma better, I can only laugh. I love them both. And I will love wherever life takes me next.

 

I dangle my feet over the cliff. The sun slips behind the mountain, the golden color fades, the air cools. But my heart remains warm and aglow with gratitude, keenly conscious of the unfading treasures it holds within.

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

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To Delhi with Love

 

Just hours before I took my flight to India, a friend told me a story of a woman who’d been abducted in Delhi. She’d gone to use the bathroom in a restaurant, her friends had waited for her to return, but she never did. This was my friend’s way of warning me. I was a female traveling alone. To some this made me brave. To others, like my friend, it made me downright stupid. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told her. ‘Trust me’. Others gave me cautionary travel tips. ‘Make sure you bring a silk sleeping bag with you,’ one friend had said. When I asked why, he told me how when he was in India he’d asked a hostel worker for a clean set of sheets. The hostel worker simply sprayed his dirty sheets with a can of disinfectant and gave them back to him. Another friend told me to be careful of the currency. Foreigners are sometimes given fake rupees in exchange, he said. So when I found myself newly arrived in India in a currency converter shop, wanting to change my money, I was distrustful.

             I had stepped into the back of the shop and into the gaze of four men. The coolness of the shop had relieved me. It was 43c outside and pre-monsoon. One of the men was standing by the door. He said hello and gestured for me to sit on a plastic table the other three men were sitting behind. I told him I needed some water. I showed him my Australian dollars. He handed me some rupees.  I studied them. ‘Sure I can use these?’ I asked. The man smiled. ‘Don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘You are in India’. He flapped his arms, looked at me squarely. ‘Fly,’ he said ‘like a bird’. Then he pointed to a bar fridge behind me stacked with bottled water, offered me one. ‘Go on’ he said. ‘Take one. It’s free’.

            I left that shop reminded that expectations can limit us. I wasn’t going to let the experiences of others define my own. I was in India. I was going to soar like the beautiful eagles I saw in the sky. And I did. I let go. In Vanarasi I sailed along the river ganges at Sunset. I saw life, I saw death and I contemplated and rejoiced in mine. In Calangute, I rode a moped. I played snooker. Relaxed pool side with locals. Had a stare down with a stray dog. In Jaipur I crashed a wedding party. There was a procession of drums, flags, trumpets, horses and fireworks and I danced among it, spun by bright, smiling faces. I was at the Golden Temple in Amritsar when I found my divinity. An older woman late fifties, gestured for me to sit with her. I sat on the mat next to her and crossed my legs into a half lotus position. Speakers sounded the chant of the Sikh holy book. Sikh pilgrims circulated the shrine and we sat silently, taking in the moment as if we weren’t even strangers.

         India was a coming home for me. It amazed and silenced me. Every day in Delhi felt like waking up on a Saturday back in Melbourne after the working week. I was comforted. Gregory David Roberts says in Shantaram that ‘The simple and astonishing truth about India and Indian people is that when you go there and deal with them, your heart always guides you more wisely than your head. There’s nowhere else in the world where that’s quite so true’. India is like no other. If I was going to give any advice for traveling there I’d tell people to let go. Set free all that you know or think you know and let your feelings guide you. If you do that, you will surely have no regrets.

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

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On my two feet at the foot of the mountain in the Philippines

I could still taste the scent of dewdrops coming alive with the early morning. I could still hear the

moonlight radiant in the young night sky. I could still smell the bliss of a seemingly carefree walk from

the rooms to the cafeteria through the growing grass and then the fresh gravel. I could still feel the

sound of the earth beneath my every footstep. I could still see the reflection of the warm orange

postlight within everyone’s eyes.

 

The clouds are lower, less out of reach, more real. The space between heaven and earth seemed smaller,

giving me the illusion—and hope—that my dreams, indeed, are not that far away. The soil is firmer, less

gray, more real. The space between me and the soil seemed smaller, giving me the impression—and

strength—that I, indeed, am a part of this world.

The hearty earth, the soulful sky, make up the being called the world. Fire, water, air, and the earth

compose the world. My heart and my soul make up a being called me, a person. I am a little world, too.

Fire, water, air and the earth compose me. My energy inside me is my fire, every teardrop I shed my

water, every breath I take my air, and every part of me, my own earth. I am my own

person. I am the world’s. Here, I, one little world, is one with the Earth. I feel strong. I feel hopeful. And

for all these, I feel grateful.

I feel strong when I feel like I can do anything. I feel hopeful when I feel like I can do more than anything.

And I feel grateful when I feel strong and hopeful.

As the world moves, I do too. I move the world. I could move the world. The world never stops moving. I

never do, too. I am relentless, rebellious. I am restless, unstoppable. I turn and I tilt. I shift and I am in

control. I am all that’s ever known and I am yet to be discovered. I am living. I have life, I am life. I am a

hero.

To feel like I’ve taken over the world, I’d want to move mountains of South America, climb the highest

peaks of the Himalayas, see the high and mighty pyramids of Egypt, rock Stone Henge, fall in love with

the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and balance myself over the Great Wall of China. But more than that, I want to

feel like the world’s taken over me, and I am part of it.

I want to move mountains. I want to conquer them, be at the top of each and every one. Never have I

imagined wanting to stay in one. All because I am a mover, a step-taker. But at the foot of Mt. Isarog, I

have found myself planting my two feet. And there and then, I have grown up and I have blossomed. I

have reaped the fruits of all that I have been and all that I have worked hard for. I have become a

sunflower looking up at the sun, and thus, I have become a little sun. I bring light and life because I am

light and life.

At the foot of Mt Isarog, where the grass is greener, the dewdrops are clearer, the flowers are brighter,

the butterflies and bees livelier, the rains are rainier, and the sun is sunnier,–where earth has found its

home—I have found mine.

At the foot of Mt. Isarog, I have learned how to fly high while keeping my foot on the ground. I have

learned to stand up for myself. I have learned to lift my feet off the ground and hope to the skies. At the

foot of Mt. Isarog, I have learned to soar high and stay down to earth at the same time.

Green leaves turn to orange. That drop in the ocean turns to a drop in the rain. Everything turns to

something else. As leaves now fall from the corners of the world as the rain continues to fall in the

center, I hope things fall into place. I pray that I may have the strength through my falls and my springs.

As I leave the mountain I am most grateful for and go to places that may or may not be its paradox, may

I bring it with me.

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

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Meal in Heaven at Saburo’s, Oregon

An automatic smile highlights my face every time I’m at Saburo’s Sushi in Portland, Oregon. Going to the restaurant used to be a treat only for birthdays, and maybe once every few years, since there’s almost always a line at the door. In more recent times, I’ve been going there quite frequently and have established myself as a regular patron. If they were open on major holidays like Thanksgiving Day, I’d be there waiting in line just to celebrate.

 

One of the greatest memories at Saburo’s is that one birthday dinner with my immediate family. I will always be forever grateful for the amount of support they’ve given me, as well as the ongoing encouragement to strive and thrive for a happier lifestory. Additionally, treating me to sushi of gigantic proportions is quite the bonus.

 

For my family business, I’d go from the Northeast (NE) to the Southeast (SE) to treat a potential employee candidate to a “Saburo’s Sushi” dinner interview. On a good day, it takes about a half an hour to drive south, then at least a half an hour wait, then finally, another half hour of feasting. What better way to know a person by sharing a meal with the individual?

 

 

The local secret hole-in-the-wall place has a line at least a half an hour before it opens, but sometimes when I’m by myself in line, I am able to move quicker on the list. Of course, I don’t mind having company while waiting. I usually hope that the potential candidate would be on the same page as me and see the beauty in the business we’re patronizing.

 

When I am waiting in line by myself, I either read or work on some project I am able to travel lightly with. If I am lucky, I get a table entirely to myself. For the majority of my solo trips, they usually seat me at the sushi bar, where sometimes I strike up a conversation with other table-for-one individuals.

 

There was a “help wanted” sign up at the restaurant one day. I submitted my application. Received an interview. I remember it well because the owner told me that she’s heard nice things about me through her staff, but due to my lack of experience other than those five months at another sushi restaurant many years ago, I would be on-call.

 

I worked at Saburo’s for a day. Perhaps it was my long-overdue vacation afterward that prevented me from working there again, or maybe I had gotten too busy with my day job as a manager of a small shop on Alberta St. Or maybe it was a baffling idea that I live in three cities and the residence on my driver’s license was confusing for the owner. I don’t regret telling her the truth, my residence is an hour south of Portland and I run a small business in the NE.

 

The drive to Saburo’s is never long, the SE area of Portland is a little different than the NE, but the rain doesn’t discriminate. It is only waiting in line for dinner while in the rain that makes me a little bit more hardcore, a truly devoted fan of the local establishment.

 

My starting point doesn’t matter, I always end up at Saburo’s. I hardly ever mind the distance, be it on my way or out of my way and I go there for some sort of security comfort, grateful that I am able to afford  such a heavenly place, for the time being. Sometimes, my travels are in vain because they are closed, either by unforeseen events or by simply closing time and I just get there late.

 

Due to the lack of work at the shop where I work, I have cut back on my dinners significantly. I still frequent there at least once a month, and I am an unforgettable face there. They are unforgettable to me too. Just because business isn’t going so well, doesn’t mean I have to cut my meal in heaven quota completely. Saburo’s has mouths to feed too.

 

I can’t choose who I fall in love with, nor can I choose what draws to me to a certain place. I just know that my automatic smile will help me get through even the unnecessary ugliness of my residence back home.

About the Author:

I was born and raised an hour south of Portland, Oregon (according to the way my parents drive). Graduated college from the University of Oregon, double majoring in Chinese and Asian Studies, double minoring in Religious Studies and Political Science. Bilingually speaks Vietnamese and English, with neither one being better than the other.

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

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