Expired Condoms

 

In Colombia, I met a Scot. We bonded over Mojitos as we watched the sun set in the ocean just beyond our little table in the thatch roofed bar.  We got to talking about travel as travelers often do, and the conversation turned to how one prepares for a big trip.  I said the planning is all part of the fun for me, and the anticipation of the trip is nearly as great as the trip itself. I liked imagining what it all would be like, who I would meet, what I would see, how my plans would change to go in this or that direction once I got to talking to locals and travelers.  It is as though before the trip happens, it can be anything you want it to be, and is.

She agreed, but she took the planning, and especially the packing, a bit further as I noted when she showed me an Excel spreadsheet documenting everything, and I mean everything, she was taking on her one month trip to Colombia.  There was a color to show that she had packed it and a different color to show that it still needed to be packed

As I looked through the list I laughed a little at how ridiculously detailed it was. She counted out the amount of tampons she was bringing- 27. A number she admitted was much too high for a trip that would only involve one menstrual cycle, and who can count on that when one is traveling anyway. A few spaces below, I noticed another equally humorous addition to the list of things to pack. Condoms- 14. At least she’d need the tampons.

I asked about the condoms. Oh yeah, she laughed. I didn’t have to actually pack those, they were in there from the last trip to Thailand I took. All 14 of them. We both laughed, and then I had to admit, mine were too. And perhaps not even left over from the last trip, but from the last two or three trips I’d taken, all however many of them were in there to begin with.

I had to check and see if they were expired. I don’t know how long they’ve been in my bag, she continued. Me either, I agreed and made a mental note to check mine when I returned to my hostel later that night.

They were not, in fact, expired, but nearing the date nonetheless. And I made another mental note to stock back up on condoms upon my return to be prepared for the next trip I take.

All of the talk about condoms, expired or not, got me thinking about hope. Isn’t that why we packed them, ever so faithfully, each time we left the country? In the great hope that that fantasy we planned in our head in the weeks leading up to our departure, would this time work out.  We might meet the man of our dreams, the man we may one day marry and have an incredible story to tell about how we met in such and such far away place. Or, at the very least, we might have one magical night with an exotic foreigner we met in a bar and made love to on the beach under a full moon.  Bragging rights to those we left back home. And even if it was only that one night, the condom came in handy. And my friend the Scot would have to add one more condom to her toiletries to get her number back up to 14 and satisfy her spread sheet.

I haven’t yet bought the condoms. I’ve been back in the states nearly a month now. It makes me wonder if hope has an expiration date too.  Maybe not buying the condoms means I’m giving up.  Is it possible to use up all your hope and be left with none when you need it most?  

I do not think there is a store we can run into, heads bowed in embarrassment as we reach the counter to pay. It’s just me, buying more hope.

Maybe I’ll buy the condoms.

 

Expired Condoms

 

In Colombia, I met a Scot. We bonded over Mojitos as we watched the sun set in the ocean just beyond our little table in the thatch roofed bar.  We got to talking about travel as travelers often do, and the conversation turned to how one prepares for a big trip.  I said the planning is all part of the fun for me, and the anticipation of the trip is nearly as great as the trip itself. I liked imagining what it all would be like, who I would meet, what I would see, how my plans would change to go in this or that direction once I got to talking to locals and travelers.  It is as though before the trip happens, it can be anything you want it to be, and is.

She agreed, but she took the planning, and especially the packing, a bit further as I noted when she showed me an Excel spreadsheet documenting everything, and I mean everything, she was taking on her one month trip to Colombia.  There was a color to show that she had packed it and a different color to show that it still needed to be packed

As I looked through the list I laughed a little at how ridiculously detailed it was. She counted out the amount of tampons she was bringing- 27. A number she admitted was much too high for a trip that would only involve one menstrual cycle, and who can count on that when one is traveling anyway. A few spaces below, I noticed another equally humorous addition to the list of things to pack. Condoms- 14. At least she’d need the tampons.

I asked about the condoms. Oh yeah, she laughed. I didn’t have to actually pack those, they were in there from the last trip to Thailand I took. All 14 of them. We both laughed, and then I had to admit, mine were too. And perhaps not even left over from the last trip, but from the last two or three trips I’d taken, all however many of them were in there to begin with.

I had to check and see if they were expired. I don’t know how long they’ve been in my bag, she continued. Me either, I agreed and made a mental note to check mine when I returned to my hostel later that night.

They were not, in fact, expired, but nearing the date nonetheless. And I made another mental note to stock back up on condoms upon my return to be prepared for the next trip I take.

All of the talk about condoms, expired or not, got me thinking about hope. Isn’t that why we packed them, ever so faithfully, each time we left the country? In the great hope that that fantasy we planned in our head in the weeks leading up to our departure, would this time work out.  We might meet the man of our dreams, the man we may one day marry and have an incredible story to tell about how we met in such and such far away place. Or, at the very least, we might have one magical night with an exotic foreigner we met in a bar and made love to on the beach under a full moon.  Bragging rights to those we left back home. And even if it was only that one night, the condom came in handy. And my friend the Scot would have to add one more condom to her toiletries to get her number back up to 14 and satisfy her spread sheet.

I haven’t yet bought the condoms. I’ve been back in the states nearly a month now. It makes me wonder if hope has an expiration date too.  Maybe not buying the condoms means I’m giving up.  Is it possible to use up all your hope and be left with none when you need it most?  

I do not think there is a store we can run into, heads bowed in embarrassment as we reach the counter to pay. It’s just me, buying more hope.

Maybe I’ll buy the condoms.

 

You Never Regret a Swim

                                                       You Never Regret a Swim

 

The other day, driving home, for no reason other then the turn onto my street, the sudden realization that this is what I do every day, turn left here and skip the stop sign, push the garage door opener too soon only to have to push it again once I am nearer, pull up to the mail box before turning into the driveway and then make my way into the garage, for no other reason, I had a flash of the flash that will happen right before I die; The highlight reel of my life that’s supposed to play before me as a way to calm my fears. I sat in the car inside the garage and let it all flow before me. The Grateful Dead on the radio setting the soundtrack for this glimpse of what was great in my life.

It is simple really, not unlike what I suppose it would really be, pleasant even, how one would hope it would be.  It is moments of me in various bodies of water. In Antarctica running from the Antarctic sea into the welcoming volcanic hot springsdug in the sand.  Drinking the Russian vodka in the paper cups the crew passed around for us. Who knows how they secured Russian vodka in Ushuaia before we set sail?  Skinny dipping in Nice under a full moon. The first time I ever skinny dipped.  Feeling for the first time like I was an adult, capable of making my own decisions. Feeling foolish and brave at the same time. Jumping off the bridge by Mishawaka. Still the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Swimming in the super secret swimming hole that most unusual spring. My first dive in Puerto Viejo. The feeling of needing to surface. My most recent dive in Belize, calm beneath the ocean. The glacial lake in Tierra Del Fuego. I didn’t last long in. The blow up swimming pool in Karen’s backyard. It summed up an entire summer to me, yet was only three days. Going to the beach every weekend in Hawaii, passing the pineapple fields on the drive. My brother and I boogie boarding, eating sandwiches with sand in them as we dried in the sun.  The pool I swam the length of even though it was freezing, to gain access to the park in Panamain lieu of the entrance fee.  The hotel pool in Comayagua we went to every Sunday and called church. The waterfall I climbed in Malaysia.  The falls we hiked to in Costa Rica to swim underneath. Climbing in the cave behind the Pulhapanzak waterfall in Honduras. The second scariest thing I’ve even done. I choose then not to jump the ten feet down. Tubing down the Poudre with a beer can in my hand.  Jumping from the zodiac of the Navimag in the archipelagos of Chile, swimming so close to the ship.  The sprinkler I let spray in the early days of June to jump in and out of when the sun became unbearable only to return again to my spot on the lawn chair in the middle of my yard.

I sat in my car and remembered all these moments, felt all these moments and thought how extremely happy I was during all of them. And I hoped one day there might be a flash to see before I die that might include you.

You Never Regret a Swim

                                                       You Never Regret a Swim

 

The other day, driving home, for no reason other then the turn onto my street, the sudden realization that this is what I do every day, turn left here and skip the stop sign, push the garage door opener too soon only to have to push it again once I am nearer, pull up to the mail box before turning into the driveway and then make my way into the garage, for no other reason, I had a flash of the flash that will happen right before I die; The highlight reel of my life that’s supposed to play before me as a way to calm my fears. I sat in the car inside the garage and let it all flow before me. The Grateful Dead on the radio setting the soundtrack for this glimpse of what was great in my life.

It is simple really, not unlike what I suppose it would really be, pleasant even, how one would hope it would be.  It is moments of me in various bodies of water. In Antarctica running from the Antarctic sea into the welcoming volcanic hot springs dug in the sand.  Drinking the Russian vodka in the paper cups the crew passed around for us. Who knows how they secured Russian vodka in Ushuaia before we set sail?  Skinny dipping in Nice under a full moon. The first time I ever skinny dipped.  Feeling for the first time like I was an adult, capable of making my own decisions. Feeling foolish and brave at the same time. Jumping off the bridge by Mishawaka. Still the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Swimming in the super secret swimming hole that most unusual spring. My first dive in Puerto Viejo. The feeling of needing to surface. My most recent dive in Belize, calm beneath the ocean. The glacial lake in Tierra Del Fuego. I didn’t last long in. The blow up swimming pool in Karen’s backyard. It summed up an entire summer to me, yet was only three days. Going to the beach every weekend in Hawaii, passing the pineapple fields on the drive. My brother and I boogie boarding, eating sandwiches with sand in them as we dried in the sun.  The pool I swam the length of even though it was freezing, to gain access to the park in Panama in lieu of the entrance fee.  The hotel pool in Comayagua we went to every Sunday and called church. The waterfall I climbed in Malaysia.  The falls we hiked to in Costa Rica to swim underneath. Climbing in the cave behind the Pulhapanzak waterfall in Honduras. The second scariest thing I’ve even done. I choose then not to jump the ten feet down. Tubing down the Poudre with a beer can in my hand.  Jumping from the zodiac of the Navimag in the archipelagos of Chile, swimming so close to the ship.  The sprinkler I let spray in the early days of June to jump in and out of when the sun became unbearable only to return again to my spot on the lawn chair in the middle of my yard.

I sat in my car and remembered all these moments, felt all these moments and thought how extremely happy I was during all of them. And I hoped one day there might be a flash to see before I die that might include you.

Moments From the Sky

 

1. Intipunku, the sun gate. The fourth and final day. Up at 4:30 to hike in the dark to this particular spot. Where gods once watched Machu Picchu awaken. Our group of travelers, once strangers, turned friends from days on the trail, stops suddenly.  We have arrived. Backpacks slip from shoulders, spots are staked, a quiet falls on the otherwise boisterous crowd.  I lean against my pack, ready.  The first flicker of light, then the next.  The city I’ve waited a lifetime to see appears before me as the sun climbs into the sky.  This is why you hike four days. Vale la pena.

 

 

2. Sitting on the dock of the bar, legs dangling over the water, surrounded by strangers I’ve never loved more, friends I’d never met till now. Music floating to me on the gentle waves disturbing the reflection of the harvest moon hanging so low above me. Breathtaking brightness in the Panama night. I sip my rum and coke and smile up. She sees me tonight.

 

 

3. On the ship just as the first drops of rain began to fall.  Gentle, soft, warm rain.  The kind of rain you dance in, and we did.  As the ship pulled away from the port, we said goodbye to Malaysia in a series and twists and turns to the music of the rain as if fell upon us in the hot, hot evening.

 

 

4. I said, these are sun setting chairs.  We turned them to face the ocean. Just in time to watch the sun dip her rays into the water, testing it.  A cold Toña beer in each of our hands.  I found an easiness in San Jaun Del Sur, I’d never found before or since.  As the sun slipped into the sea to rest for the night, I settled in. There are some places you cannot leave.

 

 

5. Each flash of lightning longer than the last.  I take the moment to stare at you and find your eyes on me. I blush, avert my eyes.  The raindrops come stronger, harder, but we are protected beneath the awning in a moment ours alone. Staring out into the dark of the storm, each burst of light, a chance to know you.

Moments From the Sky

 

1. Intipunku, the sun gate. The fourth and final day. Up at 4:30 to hike in the dark to this particular spot. Where gods once watched Machu Picchu awaken. Our group of travelers, once strangers, turned friends from days on the trail, stops suddenly.  We have arrived. Backpacks slip from shoulders, spots are staked, a quiet falls on the otherwise boisterous crowd.  I lean against my pack, ready.  The first flicker of light, then the next.  The city I’ve waited a lifetime to see appears before me as the sun climbs into the sky.  This is why you hike four days. Vale la pena.

 

 

2. Sitting on the dock of the bar, legs dangling over the water, surrounded by strangers I’ve never loved more, friends I’d never met till now. Music floating to me on the gentle waves disturbing the reflection of the harvest moon hanging so low above me. Breathtaking brightness in the Panama night. I sip my rum and coke and smile up. She sees me tonight.

 

 

3. On the ship just as the first drops of rain began to fall.  Gentle, soft, warm rain.  The kind of rain you dance in, and we did.  As the ship pulled away from the port, we said goodbye to Malaysia in a series and twists and turns to the music of the rain as if fell upon us in the hot, hot evening.

 

 

4. I said, these are sun setting chairs.  We turned them to face the ocean. Just in time to watch the sun dip her rays into the water, testing it.  A cold Toña beer in each of our hands.  I found an easiness in San Jaun Del Sur, I’d never found before or since.  As the sun slipped into the sea to rest for the night, I settled in. There are some places you cannot leave.

 

 

5. Each flash of lightning longer than the last.  I take the moment to stare at you and find your eyes on me. I blush, avert my eyes.  The raindrops come stronger, harder, but we are protected beneath the awning in a moment ours alone. Staring out into the dark of the storm, each burst of light, a chance to know you.

Moments in Nature

1. Joel and I hiking in Santiago. At the top, we sit, just the two of us, on rocks. Stare out at the sky. A bird in the distance. Circling closer. We turn to one another. “That’s a condor.” It is. A magical silence as we stand and watch in awe.

2. One week in Ushuaia before my ship leaves for Antarctica. A week pass purchased for the trails in Tierra Del Fuego. A path along the water that crosses the border between Chile and Argentina. Pesos of each country left at the marker. An animal coming toward me. My gait slows as he approaches. We greet each other tentatively, him circling me, sniffing, me, mouth agape, not fear, wonder. The grey wolf looks me in the eyes once before carrying on. I turn and watch as he disappears. The reason I prefer to hike alone.

3. The third day out in the zodiacs. The ship silhouetted in the sky behind us. A tour of the icebergs. We watch chinstrap penguins slide into the water, skuas fly overhead, a Weddell seal pass beneath the boat. But we are patient. Then, just in front of us, a blue whale surfaces. The ocean splashes in. It glides along with us, close enough to touch. Silence.

4. Early morning weeding in my backyard. The kitty’s lounge in the already warm grass. Footsteps rustle the leaves on the ground. A deer jumps over the fence. Nudges the fallen apples with her nose. She has been here before.

Moments in Nature

1. Joel and I hiking in Santiago. At the top, we sit, just the two of us, on rocks. Stare out at the sky. A bird in the distance. Circling closer. We turn to one another. “That’s a condor.” It is. A magical silence as we stand and watch in awe.

2. One week in Ushuaia before my ship leaves for Antarctica. A week pass purchased for the trails in Tierra Del Fuego. A path along the water that crosses the border between Chile and Argentina. Pesos of each country left at the marker. An animal coming toward me. My gait slows as he approaches. We greet each other tentatively, him circling me, sniffing, me, mouth agape, not fear, wonder. The grey wolf looks me in the eyes once before carrying on. I turn and watch as he disappears. The reason I prefer to hike alone.

3. The third day out in the zodiacs. The ship silhouetted in the sky behind us. A tour of the icebergs. We watch chinstrap penguins slide into the water, skuas fly overhead, a Weddell seal pass beneath the boat. But we are patient. Then, just in front of us, a blue whale surfaces. The ocean splashes in. It glides along with us, close enough to touch. Silence.

4. Early morning weeding in my backyard. The kitty’s lounge in the already warm grass. Footsteps rustle the leaves on the ground. A deer jumps over the fence. Nudges the fallen apples with her nose. She has been here before.