Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 393

Barcelona, Spain – The View From Above

My best friend and college roommate, Debebe Theodros, was well on his way back to the states. He had an exam the next day, so the minute he stepped onto the plane, I’m sure he pulled out his Anatomy textbook to read about gastroenterology. The rote memorization tasks of medical school made me sick to my stomach, and a thought of gratefulness hit me. I could have easily been in his position at this vey second, but in my sophomore year of college, something within me echoed the voice of the written word, so I followed this curiosity, giving me the gift of words and travel. More than anything, I was able to wield the freedom of my time, allowing me today to take a flight to Paris, instead of back home to New York City or Baltimore.

Now, it was just the two of us. Bhavik and I had created the thought of this boys-trip with exploring three international cities. Barcelona had imprinted some endearing memories into the mental scrapbook of our trip. My oversized smart phone, which doubled as a tablet getting pick-pocketed from a rowdy group of locals who were skilled in misdirection, sleight of hand and verbal trickery. The night club, Apollo, beaming green lasers through the air, slicing the darkness and searching for the wasted ones to spill them into a trance of kangaroo hopping, head-banging and arm flailing (electronic music). The tapas, delightful. The meals, underwhelming in portion and overwhelming in currency. The people, genuinely nice, but also genuinely clever. And the language, familiar because of our Florida roots.

It was time to move quickly to Paris for four days and then finally take a cross-country express train to Amsterdam to round out our European excursion.

I know that Paris will be quietly beautiful in it’s own right, and I cannot wait to visit the apartment where Ernest Hemingway wrote the everlasting words of one of my favorite books, The Sun Also Rises. But I feel a sense of unease that the first part of the trip, in it’s own novelty of three friends traveling to discover themselves, has slightly come to an abrupt end. Five days in Barcelona and my first roommate, my best friend, was on his way home to the states. Nothing would be as jovial from this point on. Lush seafood dinners full of dish after dish, tapas after tapas, and a full stomach before exploring an uncharted part of Spain’s party city was now clearly history. The two remaining were onward to another leg of the trip now.

I press my forehead up against the manufactured internal shell of the airplane and set my gaze at the double pleated plastic-glass surface of a window. I can see the tiny storm of moving electrons in the plexiglass shield separating me from nothing but free-fall.

I look back now and I say goodbye to the coastline. The beauty of the warm, wavy sand beckons my spirit. It tells me that I’ll be back to Barcelona because I did not visit the beach dunes and cresting surf at all.

I write then look back out into the wondrous yonder and a completely different scene has painted itself in the plastic-sealed outlet. I can’t look away.

Write, record, but do not miss the landscape, I think to myself. I tilt my head down to get an exceptional bird’s eye angle, and I see we are flying over what look like collective pools of melted rock, weirdly resembling the work of Guadi. Ahead on the horizon, I spot snow-capped, in fact, base-to-peak snow covered, mountains.

Small villages are scattered throughout the region like little topographic hotspots. The little huts are positioned the same as solar panels laying out under the sun. I stare until I can’t see them in my view anymore, so then I wonder, what sort of wildlife roams these mountainous regions.

Newly in my view, beneath the right wingtip, the land is covered and perforated almost like it’s got the texture of sheet paper. From up here, the earth can tend to look like the materials in a stationery set. It just depends how your imagination works, I guess.

We’re far up, and I’m enjoying the scenery from this all-encompassing view. I imagine a snow leopard pounce on a baby gazelle. In reality, I don’t think that animal face-off is possible in this region, but the thought makes me yearn for a Discovery channel documentary. I drift off into sleep, but before I commit to dreams, goodbye Barcelona — muchos besos from above.

About the Author: Suhail Mandani graduated from The University of Florida, where he studied Anthropology and English and conducted social experiments in entrepreneurship to help solve problems for students around campus. Three weeks after graduating, he moved to New York City on a whim in the hopes of finding a job and soaking up inspiration to write. He currently works on the client leadership team at a growing startup and writes any chance he gets, mostly in coffee shops, on the subway and in Manhattan’s Bryant Park. He’s also promised himself to make at least two international trips a year. He’s travelled within every region of the US extensively as well as India, Canada, Mexico, Jamaica, Spain, France, and the Netherlands. His upcoming trip this Spring will include Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Barcelona, Spain – The View From Above appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

The Queen whose name I did not know in El Salvador

I met her in the small village of San Jacinto, El Salvador. My heart aches when I think of her because I only see her face. I failed to learn her name. Her eyes revealed her identity as surely as her fingerprints: one-of-kind, cherished, beautiful. The gaze emitted from her piercing brown eyes, big and full of wonder, was petrifying. There was a group of eight of us, yet when I looked down at her face, she stared directly at me.

Through a gate made of two, three, maybe four-time recycled barbed wire and dead tree branches, up the steep foot-paved path, and under a makeshift clothesline, we stood at the “doorstep.” The ratio of children to people in our group was a perfect one-to-one ratio, yet there were no parents in sight. Walter, our San Jacinto native and translator, explained to us that the children’s single mother was gone. Each day, twice a day, she would walk anywhere from three to five miles in order to get some almost-clean water. While she was gone, all eight of her children were left only to be chaperoned by their tatter-haired dog and their half-dozen chickens.

The quaint little house was built by our team from the previous year. From the doorstep, I watched as everybody else played with the kids, named the chickens, and ran from the scrappy little dog. Though I saw with my eyes all of the things going on around me, it seemed as if my world had stopped. Everything grew silent. The air was a bit thicker than before, my neck a bit sweatier, and my heart heavier than I had ever felt it. I stepped inside. That’s when I saw her.

You could see it on her face. I can still see it today. She was not healthy, an illness or a disorder perhaps. All I could do was look at her as she sat there, curiously looking back at me. Smiles. Her throne was made of periwinkle plastic, ornate and royal in nature, at least for her it was. As I stood steadfast, the rest of the group entered the concrete mansion and took their places next to me. Almost like osmosis, each person stood with eyes glued to this girl, this beautiful little girl. Thickening air, sweaty necks, and heavy hearts. Every part of me wanted to run and flee from this moment, but I knew with utter certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I knew that this was one of those moments, the kind that people write books about and movies are inspired from, and that made me happy because I got to spend it with her.

Shattering the silence, I heard through Walter’s thick accent, “It’s time to go.” And so we did.

Through the gate of three, four, maybe five-time recycled barbed wire and dead tree branches, up the steep foot-paved path, and under an empty, makeshift clothesline. The air was just as dry as I remember, the sun just as unforgiving. Almost exactly a year later, I found myself here again.

I stood on the doorstep. This time there were no kids to play with, no chickens to be called by name, and no scrappy little dog to run from. It was lifeless and it was barren. Everything felt gray. The air got thicker and I swallowed my heart back into my chest as I stepped inside.

My eyes confirmed what my heart refused to believe: she was gone.

In the land between wakefulness and dreams, in the land of cappuccinos and coffee beans, and in all the lands that fall in between, I find her there. In times of blissful happiness, I find her there. In times of deep sorrow and anguish, I too find her there. Anywhere I go, she is there.

I yearn for a day where I may sit, pen and parchment firmly in hand, in the little Salvadoran town of San Jacinto, appropriately equipped with a chair for me and a periwinkle plastic throne for her. I cry out for the chance to relive that moment, if only to whisper, “¿Cómo se llama?”

I may never get the opportunity to meet her again yet I regret nothing; I put my hope in the boys and girls all around the world. The righteous tears, the innocent philosophies, the eyes overflowing with wonder.

Khalil Gibran once said, “Keep me away from the wisdom that does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh, and the greatness which does not bow before children.”

I met the queen whose name I was unworthy of knowing in the small village of San Jacinto, El Salvador. It was here I learned that beauty knows no borders.

And neither does love.

—

About the Author: My name is Ari Grubner and I am just a normal 19 year-old guy trying to use normal words to leave the world I live in a little better than when I entered it. I am a student, an aspiring-aspiring writer, a speaker, and I am the luckiest guy I’ve ever met.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Midwest Bones in the USA

Most of my life felt like I wanted to crack the door and let it all escape, like visiting a pet store and having an urge to free the puppies. A split second image comes to mind of prisoners running free while standing in slow motion satiated. I needed out. It started with a broken heart…as most things do. Weeks of planning and everything that could go wrong did. It was a wedding day horror story. I even had a fractured meta something while setting out to run a half marathon. Stoic and steady through every shake-the-head-in-disbelief moment I held on like a child white knuckled to a balloon knowing I’d finally be leaving my cage. It’s as cliché as it gets, small town suburbia girl who barely left her Midwestern state except a few times on an airplane. Then living yet another cliché, I finally pulled away at 8:00 pm alone on a rainy night only knowing I was headed left. The rushing thought landed in my mind just as the appeasement rolled out of my mouth, I was free as a bird. It was supposed to take five days tops to get to California. It took twelve.

I set out alone for six weeks simply to go to a place I’ve never been to do something I never have. I was told to bring a gun, not to trust and not to talk to strangers. But soon after leaving I realized everyone had it all wrong. Karma carried me on it’s back in the form of a gray haired lady in the red sand at sunset to show me the way out. It came in a man who back packed across Alaska who’d be happy to tie my bike rack on in the pouring rain and a couple from the south who talk over each other and insist on buying me a drink in a mountain town. I learned that being alone was never what I was and if you let your guard down enough to let people in then you get to grow. I learned if you cant find the farmers market people on the streets eating carrots will point you in the right direction. And maps are useless. It turns out the best things to find are the ones you didn’t know you were looking for, just turn a corner and art on the streets will be a welcome surprise. I have learned that Kansas has the best sky, huge bands of pink and orange and blue that are left between the clouds hang as though it’s on ropes. It could only be stage hands holding them up with might and dropping them down as I moved through. I’d never know it wasn’t real, it was all for my benefit. Altitude is sticky, it’s not easy to leave behind. Colorado has the best air. It’s different in a way each breath is sudden and too good to be true. I was constantly aware I was alive and it is always a beautiful circumstance to be in. Seeing the Pacific ocean for the first time is so astonishing it hurts to turn your back to it. You only can when the last drop of the sun sinks into it. I have learned that over packing is under rated, a girl should always have a pair of heels, and you should always drive into a city of lights in the night. Hotels that seem haunted while checking in at 2:00 am are alive by the time coffee can be delivered. Your college age bellhop will always know the best place to have breakfast. If someone tells you to go to a town, go, they know something you don’t. Always keep cash and always keep valet tickets. If for nothing else but parking meters and the homeless. I have learned that while what man has built will make you smile, what the gods have built will bring you to tears. I know that broken bones and broken hearts only make you stronger. Inevitably somewhere in the middle of running away from something you start running toward something else. You don’t need miles to count or banners that declare finish after all. You just have to line up.

I came back to my small suburbia life to more everything that could go wrong. A car stuck in Reno, a business that nearly crumbled, a dissolved relationship. I was asked if I have any regrets. The memories of those six weeks reel through my mind like an old black and white movie distant and nostalgic… the time I was free as a bird and the answer clearly is no.

About The Author: Candice Krim is a small town girl planning her next great big adventure.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Midwest Bones in the USA appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Batanes, Philippines: Never Saw Blue

It was the green that caught my eye, the first time I saw photos of Batanes in a book as a teenager. I knew where the Batanes Islands were, of course, we had studied it in school: the northernmost province of the Philippine archipelago, nearer to Taiwan than to Luzon. This point was always emphasized by my teachers and now I knew why—it seemed liked a different country altogether. Scotland was my immediate comparison, from what I had seen from other books. Or Ireland. My parents were from Ilocos and Cagayan Valley, also in the north, and the rolling hills, moor-like coastline, and limestone huts portrayed in the book showed no similarity to the slate cliffs and volcanic rock, the plowed fields and groves of fruit trees, and Spanish-inspired homes that were the scenery of my childhood summers. I was captivated, and immediately resolved that one day I would see that green for myself. I’ve long since forgotten the title of that book but the green that leapt out from its pages never left my mind’s eye.

The years passed. Making my way to Batanes proved to be more complicated than I had anticipated. Batanes was not among the destinations regularly offered by travel agencies. Until recently, the only way to reach Batanes was by sea travel, and strong winds and constant storms for most of the year meant a very small window of opportunity. The lack of telecommunication facilities made communicating and coordinating with the few guides and operating inns nearly impossible. Public transportation was near non-existent, conveniences such as fast-food joints and 24-hour stores were unheard of, and even basic electricity was unreliable. Balking at these difficulties, I found other places to visit—other towns in the Philippines and in ‘popular’ Asian destinations in Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, and Hong Kong, all very beautiful and exciting in their own way. However, the image of Batanes and the urge to see it for myself remained vivid. Each time anyone asked my bucket-list travel destination, my answer would always be the same: Batanes.

Just go, I finally told myself. Just go.

Finally landing in Basco Airport, it became clear that that Batanes was evocative not only of another place, but of another time altogether. Basco Airport was a picturesque wood and stone edifice, more like a country cottage, rather than the grey sterile buildings so common for airports. Driving to the quaint bed and breakfast I would call home during my stay, it was clear that though time had not left Batanes untouched, it moved here at a different pace. Here, the signs of modernity—the new hotels, the restaurants and convenience stores, the electricity and cellular towers, and the motorcycles, among others —seemed charming, exciting in the way a child takes its first steps.

Over the next few days, I devoured as many of the province’s offerings as I could. I feasted on fresh seafood and local delicacies in local cafes. I toured, among others, Racuh a Payaman (nicknamed Marlboro Hills) in Mahatao, where carabaos (now a very rare sight), cows, and other grazing animals ranged freely over miles of stunning pastureland overlooking the sea; the ruins of Songsong, steadfast survivors of a massive tsunami in the 1950s; the ancient Savidug Idjang settlements and the stone houses and weaver association in Barrio Chavayan; the famous Stone Arch of Morong Beach, with its crystal clear waters and white sand beach littered with beautiful stones, shells, and fossils; San Jose de Obrero Church and the Spanish Bridge in the Ivana; and Honesty Café, an unattended store trusting in the honesty of customers to pay for their purchases. I came to Batanes lured by the color green, and everywhere I went, I was surrounded by green. That would have been more than enough. But surprisingly, Batanes assailed my senses with another color, one that I was unprepared for: blue.

“I never saw blue like that before,” goes the Shawn Colvin song, a song that was constantly in my head throughout my stay in Batanes. It was cloudy the day that I arrived, and although, from a distance the water looked misty gray, the waves that broke upon the rocks were a mesmerizing icy blue, a true aquamarine. I finally understood how wise men could consider sitting for years in one spot simply contemplating the world. The sun broke on the second day, and the aquamarine transformed into a rich cobalt blue, a color I would have thought impossible without Photoshop. In all my travels, all over the Philippines, Asia, and even the United States, I have never seen water so blue.

I still see it in my dreams.

About the Author: JC Albano writes, loves to travel, and is planning her next adventure.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Batanes, Philippines: Never Saw Blue appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Secrets of the Riviera Maya in Mexico

“This is the womb of the world,” he says, looking out at the sea which forms into waves so clear I can see the silver fish carried inside them.

Water churns around our shins in foamy currents, threatening to destabilize our footing.

“People are re-born here,” he continues, his gaze firmly on the sea.

Daniel is a short, stout, middle-aged man, strong in the legs and wide at the waist with that distinct Mayan nose, reminding me of the toucans living in the tangled jungle behind us.

His words tumble around in my mind, insistent as the waves.

The womb of the world.

People are re-born here.

It had taken me a while to warm to Playa del Carmen, the ever-expanding tourist town on the Caribbean sea. “Too developed,” I’d thought at first.

But it soon grew on me. When I discovered the spectacular stretch of coastline around it, known as the Riviera Maya, I decided to stay for a full year. Time now stretched out before me as wide as the expansive silvery horizon.

The sky, a hazy grey-blue, is invaded by thick clouds. A steady wind whips my hair around into such a mess I give up trying to tame it into a knot and let it trail behind me, facing into the wind to coax it from my eyes.

Xcacel beach, the most natural and beautiful of all the beaches in the Riviera Maya, is also the most rugged and unpredictable.

So much so that I’m not confident enough to tackle the waves like my friend Ariel. I watch as she dives diagonally underneath a rolling, cylindrical wave, her strong body carried like a twig in a stream. She invited me to Xcacel with along with Daniel, her Qigong teacher from the healing center she is staying at. We flew down the highway in his small, beat-up car after yoga class this morning.

We didn’t anticipate the wild weather, though I suppose there are worse ways to spend a blustery Caribbean day than shin-deep in water with a Qigong master.

The iguanas continue their slow, deliberate crawl along the sand, past empty green coconut shells, unperturbed by the imposing grey clouds looming overhead.

A group of twenty-somethings arrive in a flash of colorful bikinis and high-pitched squeals. They strip off and bound into the water, volunteering themselves to the strong waves which tumble them around like flimsy lingerie in a washing machine.

They emerge with twisted swimsuits contorted around them; their mouths full of hair, salt water and sand.

“You don’t want to go out?” Daniel teases me, his dark grey eyes shining with watery reflection.

“No thanks, it’s too rough for me,” I explain. I love to watch the waves crashing, tumbling, rising and falling, just not on me.

“It’s too rough for them also, no?” He asks, motioning to the group now collapsed on the sand like today’s catch, their stomachs heaving as their lungs reclaim lost oxygen.

He maintains a knowing smile as he turns to the sea again, extending his arms out wide as though taking in the water, the waves and the wind in an open embrace.

The rain hits. We flee from the beach, ducking pointlessly through the inescapable downpour. The three of us huddle under the open trunk of Daniel’s small hatchback and eat avocado sandwiches out of a cooler box, our arms and legs dripping with ocean and rain.

I eat hungrily and smile at the novelty of it all; sandwiches, new friends, Mexico.

After the rain clears we walk along a damp path through sand dunes covered in a blanket of verdant green. Rain pools in cup-shaped leaves of meaty tropical plants, containing the whole world for the tiny bugs who live on them.

The dunes give way to thick mangrove forest. A wall of vegetation rises on either side of the path as my flip-flops carry me along the slippery wooden planks through the jungle. We emerge at a natural pool known as a ‘cenote’, derived from the Mayan word ‘dzonot’, meaning ‘sinkhole’.

This isn’t just any cenote, though.

“It is a secret cenote,” says Daniel with a cheeky grin.

Birds flit between branches as I take to the water, peering down into the submerged world through my mask. The cenote’s secrets are revealed to me like a lens coming into focus. Fish dart under huge algae-covered limestone rocks for shelter and food. Around the perimeter, small, dark fish huddle in the mangrove as though whispering to each other.

I revel in the prospect of more secrets being revealed to me over the coming year, wondering which of my own will be carried away by the wind and dissolved by the waves, swept along ancient underground river systems and lost among overgrown jungle.

About the Author:  Sarah Chamberlain is an Australian writer, traveler and dreamer, currently residing on the Caribbean coast of Mexico.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Secrets of the Riviera Maya in Mexico appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Abbey Road, Kentucky

It’s the winter of 2009 and I find myself eager to take a holiday, to abandon my work and leave the cell phone and computer behind, but mostly to have a Christmas (since the death of my parents) that doesn’t involve my being an orphan at someone else’s table.

It’s always a difficult decision, how and where to spend this time. I always feel that wherever I am, I might ought to be somewhere else. If/when I am with one sister—I feel badly that I am not with the other. If with friends, I feel humbled and loved, but also out of place and burdensome.

In truth I just need a place to be so that this year I don’t have to be somewhere else that isn’t home.

So I decide to drive the 70 miles to Trappist, Kentucky to spend a weekend at the Abbey of Gethsemane where Trappist monks have lived, prayed, and worked for over 150 years.

Hospitality is important in the living monastic tradition. As outlined in Saint Benedict’s Rule for Monasteries, the guest represents Christ and has a claim on the welcome and care of the community. The Abbey of Gethsemani has received guests from the first days of its foundation in 1848. People from all over the world are welcomed to come and stay.

Because it’s a silent retreat I can bear being their guest, not having to explain my orphan status or being asked about why I am alone during the holidays.

I look forward to the humble and sparse room that I’ll be staying in, the scheduled meal times, and having been raised in the faith of this sacred place; I take comfort in the masses with their familiar and reassuring rituals.

But what I don’t expect, and what turns out to be the long lasting effect of this place for me, is the west side of the property, totaling about 1200 acres on the side of the road opposite the church, that is available for extended walks and hikes. There are miles of trails through the knobs on this side of the road. It is said that even the monks have been known to get lost in this vast landscape.

The first order of business of my weekend retreat, I strike off on my own for a hike and I encounter more than just nature. As the sun sets, along a trail I’ve chosen to follow, in the footsteps of others, I begin to find things along the way that people have left behind: small statues, religious icons, propped next to a tree or hanging from a tree, there are these little “Easter eggs” every where– even large pieces of art just appear seemingly out of no where as I walk this path. Little pieces of grace along the way, pieces of art, pieces of people’s spiritual hearts, these guide me along the way.

After a while I come upon what I can only describe as a makeshift prayer shack. The most humble of all churches I’ve ever entered. As I step inside to investigate, I can see that this is a holy place where people have lined the walls with their handwritten prayers. I read these prayers and feel my heart changed somehow. I feel connected to these lost people. I feel not alone. I feel these people speaking to me, with their hearts, using the silence to reach me, their words time travelling. And somehow I understand each and every one of these profound and hallowed written/spoken prayers in a deep and inexplicable way.

I leave with a feeling of solace. I leave not feeling alone. I leave feeling I’ve had some of the most profound conversations one has ever had, without even speaking a word.

About the Author: Gail Lowery currently resides in Kentucky. She once had a mother, a father, and a beloved little dog named Becca. She loves to hike and has spent many weekends doing so at Raven’s Run nature sanctuary—time she definitely doesn’t regret.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Abbey Road, Kentucky appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Cherishing Time with Students From the Ivory Coast

Stepping off the plane into a warm African summer night, I inhale deeply and let the new air fill my lungs and expel my weariness. Despite the past 48 hours of near-continuous travel, I can feel the thrill of somewhere I’ve never been. We have arrived in Abidjan, the capital city of Ivory Coast, or Cote d’Ivoire, in West Africa. Our group navigates the quiet terminal, and we are greeted by several friendly Ivoirians and an enthusiastically beaming man named Craig. Craig will be leading our group of campus ministry students for the next 5 weeks, and his enthusiasm will never waver.

After our luggage is artfully jammed into two small vans, we all pile together with the windows down. As this pseudo-air-conditioning streams over us full of new sights, sounds, and smells, my excitement builds. Everything zooms by a dim blur in the darkness: low buildings, signs in French, unfamiliar foliage, a glimmer of the bay. It’s all a newness in ways I cannot yet fully comprehend. As we near our destination I’m looking forward to what the morning, and every day following, will bring.

Much of our time is devoted to building relationships with the students at Cocody University in Abidjan. These young men and women make their country come alive for me in a way scenery alone cannot. They are eager to welcome strangers and to share their lives with us. Many are several years older than our own group of college students. This is because for several years Ivory Coast had been experiencing political upheaval leading to a civil war. The universities had been closed, and students had only recently been allowed to resume classes the previous fall. A wall at the back of the Cocody campus was covered in a mural depicting the sorrow students had felt, and reminded us of the recent tragedy despite the peace now surrounding us. It was easy to feel the students’ frustration at the time they had lost in the prime of their lives.

Frustration, but not bitterness. There is an acknowledgement that it happened and a sadness for the people and their country that had suffered, but mostly I could sense an eagerness to move forward. The students were focused on what they could now become. When asked about their education they speak of their goals of becoming translators, teachers, and businessmen and women. The past few years of their lives may not have been spent how they imagined, but that was no reason to let their dreams die. I wondered if I would have this much drive and positivity had our stories been reversed.

It was impossible to share so much of our time with these students without absorbing some of their energy. We would sit and chat on the tiled steps outside a classroom or eat a meal at the outdoor cafeteria as they laughed at how much we enjoyed a sweet dish of fried plantains called aloco. To beat the midday heat we would spread fabric under the shade of a large tree or gather in small groups as they attempted to teach us songs in French. Despite our unplanned presence in their lives, I never felt like we were an inconvenience. They made us feel welcome, and no one was too busy for a conversation. I couldn’t help but compare this to home. In our western world, everyone is so busy with schedules that allow for little spontaneity. The relaxed atmosphere I was experiencing with the Ivorian seemed to make it much easier to make and maintain friendships. I began to imagine how I could take this back with me. I should not feel guilty about grabbing coffee with a friend instead of studying for my classes. Time with those I care about is just as important as preparing for my future.

Living in Cote d’Ivoire I discovered a hopeful focus on the future without the compulsive forward drive I’ve felt at home. I fear this drive can cause us to miss out on the present, and a depth in relationships that is invaluable to true happiness. By living for both the present and future, the Ivorian students were enjoying a fuller range of what life has to offer — a combination of living in the now and dreaming of the someday. In a land where time is to be cherished, but not strangled, I gained a new perspective on how to best spend my own.

About the Author: Kelsey is a 20-something living in the heartland of the United States where she studies international business and Chinese. She has a passion for traveling and helping others. One day she hopes to work for the economic growth of developing nations, and publish stories on her experiences.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Cherishing Time with Students From the Ivory Coast appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Tanzania, My Spiritual Home

The blonde haired, blue eyed, fair skinned woman walking through the market in Arusha stands out from the crowds of spiral haired, brown eyed, chocolate skinned locals. She wanders through the tight rows of food stalls, all stacked to the sky with their rainbow produce, weaving between the hawkers selling their wares.

That blonde woman is me. My fair complexion, cautious approach, and eyes wide with wonder identify me as a foreigner; yet I have never felt so at home as I do in Tanzania.

I call Sydney, Australia home. My childhood home looks out to the towering skyscrapers of the city on one side, and the golden beaches and sparkling sea on the other. I live a privileged life – a kitchen full of food, a wardrobe full of clothes, and a life full of opportunities to study, travel, and shape my future.

The men, women and children of the villages of northern Tanzania live a much simpler life. Often whole extended families live in one mud and thatch hut the size of a single car garage, set back from the dusty corrugated road. There is little space, or money, for lavish personal items or non-essential food, and many villagers have never travelled beyond the next village. Yet their joyful smiles and inner peace express a contented acceptance of life.

Having no regrets is all about acceptance; acceptance of your circumstances and acceptance of your choices. Coming from the hustle and bustle of the city to the natural flow of life in northern Tanzania provides new perspective. Here people live in the moment and accept life for what it offers, making the most of the haves rather than wanting the have nots.

In Tanzania time beats at the perfect pace, and the people work with the natural flow of time. There is no racing from place to place, no wishing the weekend would arrive, or begging the clock to slow down before a deadline. Africa is the only place in the world that impassions me to get up when the sun rises and enjoy the day as nature intends it to unfold.

For me, the days spent journeying through the natural surroundings of northern Tanzania are the most fulfilling. Each national park welcomes its guests into a different environment, from the luscious leafy canopy of Lake Manyara Park to the endless dusty plains of the Serengeti. Sitting in a vehicle mere metres away from a pride of lionesses gentling tending their cubs, or halting the car as a herd of elephants wander trunk to tail across the path, are some of life’s most heart-warming experiences.

Every moment in this setting is a gift. The serenity of the landscape and its inhabitants affords the realisation that each of us is just one small dot in the big picture of life. It inspires me to care more about the environment and to return to my home committed to being a better global citizen.

Flying out of northern Tanzania after ten incredible days, I leave this region full of love for this country and joy for what I have experienced. More importantly, I take away an unexpected sense of calm and belonging; full of inspiration, a renewed perspective on life, and absolutely no regrets. I promise myself that I will return, and am silently excited that one day I will again be the blonde haired, blue eyed, fair skinned woman in the local marketplace.

About the Author: Danielle Fryday is a 30 year old Learning and Development professional from Sydney, Australia. I have been brought up travelling with my parents, and have recently married the love of my life who also shares a passion for travel. Our honeymoon to Africa has inspired me to explore travel writing opportunities to share our adventures with others.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post Tanzania, My Spiritual Home appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

The Island of Prince Edward, Canada

We were off! My five younger brothers, my sister, my parents and I were crammed into the car with all our luggage and enough food for the two day drive. We stopped every now and then to eat and stretch our legs. Sometimes the baby would scream for hours on end but we found that if we listened to a certain song he would go to sleep so we played that song over and over again.

After what seemed like eternity we arrived at our hotel. We climbed into our pajamas and settled into bed when all of a sudden the fire alarm went off. We grabbed armfuls of bags, shoes and toothbrushes and rushed out to the crowded parking lot where we stood shivering in the dark for an hour. The baby wasn’t happy. It was a false alarm but four huge fire trucks came anyway and we got to see them up close.

The next day’s drive was just as long and painful but we finally got there! Every summer we go to the most wonderful place in the world. The two day drive there and back is the price we pay but it is worth every bit of it and more!

We go to McInnis Cove, PEI Canada and stay with our grandparents for about a week every summer. Time stands still there. When we get to Prince Edward Island it is like we have been there all our lives and our other life with school and commitments and expectations is like a bothersome dream.

My brothers and I bounced out of the car and rushed to the cliffs to inspect the beach.

“No seaweed on the beach this year!”

“The Chapel Brook looks swell!”

“I hope the ocean is already warm.”

“Hurrah! Hurrah! It’s all so blue!”

We capered about from pure joy at being out of the car and entering this beautiful paradise. Then we raced back to the bunkhouse. Nana had made it all ready for us.

“Let’s climb in the rafters!”

“Not yet, wait till tonight!”

“Remember when Cousin Angus came and stayed up with Charlie all night long?”

“Is he coming this year?”

“Let’s stay up all night tonight!”

Then we scattered; we talked with Nana and Grampy, we jumped on the trampoline, we tried out the new hot tub and went searching for wild strawberries on the edge of the cliffs. Once the adults were ready we went down to the beach. We built sandcastles, went body surfing, walked down the beach to the second point, searched for beautiful pieces of sea glass, and took Grampy’s kayak out and played on it, flipping it over and over in the crisp blue waves. Harry and I swam out to the sandbar! We brought three crabs back to the beach and built them a habitat out of sand, seaweed and baby shrimp.

In the evening we strolled back up to the house to eat supper. Nana and Grampy fed us lots of delicious lobsters, potatoes and mussels. After we were full we went out to the garage with Grampy and hitched the canoes and the John Boat to his truck. We drove to North Lake Harbor and fished until the mosquitoes drove us home. Then we had a driftwood campfire and recited poetry. We all fall asleep immediately after crawling into bed.

The next day was Sunday so we walked to church. After mass my brother convinced the adults to let us hike to Mill’s Creek for an afternoon fish. Almost immediately all our lines got tangled in the trees except Harry’s. We watched him catch fish after fish while we got eaten alive by mosquitoes. Ian fell in when he was helping Harry with the net, Harry fell in when he slipped on the log and Andrew fell in because he is Andrew. We went home wet, itchy and insanely happy.

We got cleaned up and headed out for the Ceilidah. At the Ceilidah we ate the best biscuits and jam known to mankind and drank strong black tea known as Nor’sider Tea. We met up with friends from earlier vacations and listened to local musicians playing Scottish fiddle music.

Prince Edward Island is happiest place in the world and the first place where I would want to spend my time. The land is beautiful and the sea is always near. The people are friendly and kind, the food is delicious and there is always lots to do. Everything in McInnis Cove conjures up blissful memories for me. An hour there is worth more than a whole month in school. Time spent there is time I can relive forever, time I could tell stories to my children about, time wisely and joyfully spent.

About the Author: Abigail Santora is a homeschooled student who lives in Western New York with her rabbit named Dante. She enjoys reading, playing her violin, building puzzles, and hanging out with her many brothers.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

The post The Island of Prince Edward, Canada appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Germany: I Remember

“Al! You’re up early. And where’s your ‘shtick’?” I asked, using the word he substituted in place of ‘cane’. He opened the door for me before I put the key in the lock. “You shouldn’t walk around without it.”

“Forgot,” he shrugged, waving away my concerns with a brusque motion of his hand. His posture, though stooped, possessed a quiet authority. Thick white hair crowned his head. Slender his whole life, he wore the same clothes size (and the same clothes) as he did in his youth.

At 91 years old, Al had reluctantly allowed caregivers into his home.  The loss of his driver’s license was the first blow to his independence. Several falls and trips to the ER later, his guardian insisted on hiring a companion to ensure Al’s safety. That’s where I came in.

“I’ll get it for you.” The cane hung on the door handle in his room, undisturbed from the night before.

“Why are you up so early?” I asked again, after I helped settle him into his recliner.

He handed me a copy of that morning’s paper.

“I remember,” he said, pointing to an article on the front page. ‘Remembering Kristallnacht: For 3 Area Residents Who Escaped Germany As Teens, Visions of Nazi-Led Anti-Jewish Riots of 1938 Remain Vivid’ was the headline.

“November 9, 1938.” I calculated the years that passed. “Today is the 75th anniversary, Al.”

“I was there.” His brown eyes, a complement to the stern and implacable expression he’d worn for most of his life, softened.

“I was working as an apprentice in Frankfurt. I took the train every day. When my train came in, I was scared.

“I went home through the forest. I could smell the smoke. I could see the smoke. Then I saw it. The synagogue was burning. Terrible,” he shook his head from the madness of it.

“The windows to the houses on the street were smashed. When I got to my house, the windows were smashed.” His fist pounded on the armrest, punctuating the brutality of his memories.

“They arrested my father. They only let him go because he was a veteran of the first war.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said after a pause, searching for the right words, unable to find them.

He sat quietly, with a faraway look, as if he were reliving that terrible night.

“Did you escape from Germany soon after that?”

“Yes. It got worse. The Hitler Jugen paraded the streets at night…with candles. At school, when everybody gave the salute ‘Heil Hitler’, I refused,” he said defiantly. “I kept my hands at my sides and said nothing.”

“You could’ve gotten in trouble for that!”

“Damn right I could’ve.” He clenched the handle of his cane. “I went to England first. Then I went to America to join my brother.”

“And your parents?”

“No,” he replied, looking away. “I never saw them again after I left. When I was in the army, I was stationed in France. I went AWOL for a few days and hitchhiked to my town. All the men were gone. My parents were gone.”**

I reached over and put my arms around him, and lightly held him. He leaned into me, put his head on my shoulders. After so many years of stubbornly clinging to solitude, he grew to like my company and the hugs I gave him.

“Was that the last time you visited in Germany? Or did you return after the war?” I asked after a moment’s pause.

“Never went back after that.” His voice tightened.

“You know what, Al? I’d like to visit your town. Show me where I should visit.” I turned on my tablet and looked up his birthplace.

“The Taunus mountains are close. There is the castle where the Kaiser would visit in the summer. Also there are the springs where rich people would visit…”

We spent the rest of the morning discussing his childhood, the schools he attended, the fussiness his mother indulged when making his meals, the chocolate his father brought him just for him, the family dog. Though he shared many humorous stories, thoughts of Kristallnacht were never far from his mind, and he circled back to that memory often during our conversation.

Later that day, Al suffered from a fatal heart attack. He died a month later, on December 10, 2014.

I was fortunate to have received Al’s cane after he passed, courtesy of his guardian. It sits in the passenger seat of my car, as he did, when we drove to the mall or the park, and sang songs from the 40′s, arm in arm. For weeks afterwards, I cried, grieving for the loss of a man I knew only 2 years, yet touched me so deeply. I held the cane in my hands, longing for a connection to him. I prayed and meditated, asking for a way to honor his legacy.

Two months later, my prayers were answered. I received a plane ticket as a gift, and I promptly booked a flight to Germany.

This summer, I will be visiting Al’s birthplace, his school, and the Holocaust Memorial in Frankfurt. I will place a rock on the brick that bears his parent’s names, and thank them for the privilege of caring for their son. Al taught me the importance of living in the present; for there is no other time, he said. “Do it, M,” He smiled, kissing my hand. “Find a way.”

Thank you, Al. You will always live in my heart.

**With the help of an archivist, the records of “Al’s” parents were found. They perished at Theresienstadt Ghetto in Czechoslovakia, which had been turned into a concentration camp. “Al’s” name was changed for privacy reasons.**

About the Author: When she is not writing or reading, M. Fonseca works as a caregiver for the elderly. Her clients inspired her to let go of her fear and live authentically. It is for them that she dedicates her work.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter  our next Travel Writing competition  and tell your story.

 

The post Germany: I Remember appeared first on We Said Go Travel.