Those I Met Along The Way 3. Joel

I met Joel at the school we were both teaching at in SantiagoChile.  He was waiting for me by the computers.  I remember thinking he looked a little too straight laced to be someone I would actually hang out with, but I supposed he’d be a fine roommate.  We walked the short distance to my apartment so he could see if he wanted to move into the spare room or not. We didn’t have standards back than, we rarely do now, so I think we both knew the viewing was just a pretense. We liked to think we had somewhat of a choice, even though we knew we would take the maid’s quarters off the kitchen and ask to have the bed thrown in to sweeten the deal.

 We went for our first beer together after he moved in, which consisted of lugging two overstuffed suitcases up one flight of stairs. At the bar, he assured me that his stuffy demeanor was simply a result of the dress code at work. He then proceeded to tell me all of the many ways in which he was the opposite of square.  The fact that we were on our third beer at the time helped.

 Over those beers we learned that we were from the same state and went to the same university during the same time. Even now we joke about how we had to travel thousands of miles away from where we were to finally meet one another.  We wondered how many times we may have passed each other on campus, if we’d ever been at the same party or bumped into each other in a crowded bar.

 I think it is rare that we might remember the first beers we share with someone. Never knowing how important that person might become to you makes it easy to take those first encounters for granted. I am forever grateful I have concrete memories of them with Joel.   The image of him waiting for me by the computers, button down shirt half tucked in, khaki pants a bit wrinkly, ginger hair a week or two into needing to be cut.  Our first beers at Sepia knowing quickly that I would be glad I walked the ginger to my apartment, yet not quite knowing exactly who he would become to me.

 A year passed quickly as we shared the magic of living abroad together, and I was heading south, zigzagging my way down through Chileand Argentina.  Joel was making his way back up to Santiagoafter traveling all the way south to Ushuaia, Argentina.   Before he left, we made plans to meet in Bariloche Argentina, no small feat considering our only mode of communication was email, which was spotty at best.  Neither of us knew exactly when we’d be in Barlioche, but we assured each other we’d make every effort to get there.

 On the day we were meant to meet, I made my way to the plaza, our designated rendezvous. I sat on some steps near a fountain and watched all the tourist getting their pictures taken with the many Saint Bernard’s that roamed the plaza. Each Saint Bernard equipped with its own barrel around their neck.  I was told, instead of vodka, it contained Fernet, Argentina’s version of black licorice liquor. Joel and I had tried it once at a payday party we threw, having ran out of all Pisco and other liquor, we succumbed to Fernet brought back from a traveling couple staying in our apartment for a time.

 I was anxious and nervous as I waited on the steps thinking about that party.  My eyes searched the crowded plaza for any sign of him.  I began to doubt that I’d see him at all.  And I knew if I didn’t, I would simply come back again the next day, and the next. That was our plan.

 And then I saw him across the plaza, pack on his back, his hair a little longer than I remembered, a little more ginger. I stood up quickly and began making my way toward him. He’d yet to see me.  My pace quickened as I neared him, and I am sure I received more than a few stares as the crazy gringa began shouting his name across the plaza. Finally he heard me and made his way toward me.  It was not quite your standard airport reunion.

 We hugged awkwardly around his pack, laughed a bit at how the few months since we’d seen each other had changed us physically, and began furiously exchanging road stories; any doubt either of us had about this reunion happening erased by the sight of one another in the plaza.

 We spent four or five days together in Bariloche.  We searched for a hidden bar we never found, we hiked along the many trails, we swam in a lake we’d only seen in National Geographic, we joked about a reunion in the states were we ever to return, we laughed.  We parted ways, me heading south, the way he’d come, and him heading back ‘home’ to Santiago.

 It’s been ten years since our time together in Chileand Argentina. The pact we made never to return to the states as long as a certain someone was president was upheld, me moving to Honduras, Joel going first to Mexicoand then Ukraine.  We met a few times in the states at Christmas and summer holidays.  It seemed stranger to meet in the states, more unlikely than it ever did to meet in Bariloche.

 There is an ease while traveling, one that does not, cannot, occur in the normal world of everyday life, where reunions happen in tiny hippie mountain towns in Argentina, where lifelong friendships are solidified over a skipped bill at a bar that is not Escondido, where memories are made while swimming in Lago Nahuel Huapi with a rain coat as a swimsuit. It is an ease formed out of necessity, out of wonder and it is simply for the wanderer. 

 Joel has been my roommate two more times since our return to the states. We now live minutes away from each other in the college town we never met in. I couldn’t have told you then, over those beers in Sepia, who he would become to me, only simply that I knew our meeting was more than fleeting.

Those I Met Along The Way 3. Joel

I met Joel at the school we were both teaching at in Santiago Chile.  He was waiting for me by the computers.  I remember thinking he looked a little too straight laced to be someone I would actually hang out with, but I supposed he’d be a fine roommate.  We walked the short distance to my apartment so he could see if he wanted to move into the spare room or not. We didn’t have standards back than, we rarely do now, so I think we both knew the viewing was just a pretense. We liked to think we had somewhat of a choice, even though we knew we would take the maid’s quarters off the kitchen and ask to have the bed thrown in to sweeten the deal.

 We went for our first beer together after he moved in, which consisted of lugging two overstuffed suitcases up one flight of stairs. At the bar, he assured me that his stuffy demeanor was simply a result of the dress code at work. He then proceeded to tell me all of the many ways in which he was the opposite of square.  The fact that we were on our third beer at the time helped.

 Over those beers we learned that we were from the same state and went to the same university during the same time. Even now we joke about how we had to travel thousands of miles away from where we were to finally meet one another.  We wondered how many times we may have passed each other on campus, if we’d ever been at the same party or bumped into each other in a crowded bar.

 I think it is rare that we might remember the first beers we share with someone. Never knowing how important that person might become to you makes it easy to take those first encounters for granted. I am forever grateful I have concrete memories of them with Joel.   The image of him waiting for me by the computers, button down shirt half tucked in, khaki pants a bit wrinkly, ginger hair a week or two into needing to be cut.  Our first beers at Sepia knowing quickly that I would be glad I walked the ginger to my apartment, yet not quite knowing exactly who he would become to me.

 A year passed quickly as we shared the magic of living abroad together, and I was heading south, zigzagging my way down through Chile and Argentina.  Joel was making his way back up to Santiago after traveling all the way south to Ushuaia, Argentina.   Before he left, we made plans to meet in Bariloche Argentina, no small feat considering our only mode of communication was email, which was spotty at best.  Neither of us knew exactly when we’d be in Barlioche, but we assured each other we’d make every effort to get there.

 On the day we were meant to meet, I made my way to the plaza, our designated rendezvous. I sat on some steps near a fountain and watched all the tourist getting their pictures taken with the many Saint Bernard’s that roamed the plaza. Each Saint Bernard equipped with its own barrel around their neck.  I was told, instead of vodka, it contained Fernet, Argentina’s version of black licorice liquor. Joel and I had tried it once at a payday party we threw, having ran out of all Pisco and other liquor, we succumbed to Fernet brought back from a traveling couple staying in our apartment for a time.

 I was anxious and nervous as I waited on the steps thinking about that party.  My eyes searched the crowded plaza for any sign of him.  I began to doubt that I’d see him at all.  And I knew if I didn’t, I would simply come back again the next day, and the next. That was our plan.

 And then I saw him across the plaza, pack on his back, his hair a little longer than I remembered, a little more ginger. I stood up quickly and began making my way toward him. He’d yet to see me.  My pace quickened as I neared him, and I am sure I received more than a few stares as the crazy gringa began shouting his name across the plaza. Finally he heard me and made his way toward me.  It was not quite your standard airport reunion.

 We hugged awkwardly around his pack, laughed a bit at how the few months since we’d seen each other had changed us physically, and began furiously exchanging road stories; any doubt either of us had about this reunion happening erased by the sight of one another in the plaza.

 We spent four or five days together in Bariloche.  We searched for a hidden bar we never found, we hiked along the many trails, we swam in a lake we’d only seen in National Geographic, we joked about a reunion in the states were we ever to return, we laughed.  We parted ways, me heading south, the way he’d come, and him heading back ‘home’ to Santiago.

 It’s been ten years since our time together in Chile and Argentina. The pact we made never to return to the states as long as a certain someone was president was upheld, me moving to Honduras, Joel going first to Mexico and then Ukraine.  We met a few times in the states at Christmas and summer holidays.  It seemed stranger to meet in the states, more unlikely than it ever did to meet in Bariloche.

 There is an ease while traveling, one that does not, cannot, occur in the normal world of everyday life, where reunions happen in tiny hippie mountain towns in Argentina, where lifelong friendships are solidified over a skipped bill at a bar that is not Escondido, where memories are made while swimming in Lago Nahuel Huapi with a rain coat as a swimsuit. It is an ease formed out of necessity, out of wonder and it is simply for the wanderer. 

 Joel has been my roommate two more times since our return to the states. We now live minutes away from each other in the college town we never met in. I couldn’t have told you then, over those beers in Sepia, who he would become to me, only simply that I knew our meeting was more than fleeting.

Those I Met Along the Way- 2. Georgia

I didn’t like Georgia. She embodied everything I’d come to loath about American travelers. Every stereotype I worked to undo, she did back up again tenfold. It didn’t help that she was probably 10 years younger than me, and I could see parts of that younger me in her, parts I’d worked hard to leave behind.

Georgiahad been following me since Honduras. You see, in Central and South America there really is a gringo trail; you’re either going down or making your way back up. There is little room to deviate. Georgia and I happened to be on the same timetable and I couldn’t seem to shake her no matter what I did. I’d leave a few days early or stay a few days later and still somehow, the next hostel I roamed into, there she was, laughing too loudly, or lazily reading Shantaram in a hammock. (I highly doubted she actually read it, rather, she just wanted to be seen reading it.  In the three months she followed me around, the book never changed, while I was on my fourth.)

It appeared to be her first big trip, probably entirely funded by mommy and daddy and probably something she would go back and tell all her friends at college about how life changing it all was.  Though, I could attest, nothing about her life seemed to change in those three months we danced along each others path. 

I’d see her on the beach for a BBQ the hostel was hosting. She’d think, because we were both Americans that we had something in common; I assured her we did not.  We’d end up in the same tours, a rum tasting here, a hike up a volcano there and each time I’d show up, excited and ready for the day and there she’d be. It seemed no matter what I did; there she was, trying to make small talk with me, while I tried to elude her.  Her seeing the only bond we had as the most important there is.

There is a certain disdain more experienced travelers inevitably feel towards newbie travelers.  It usually happens at night when, even though your earplugs are in you can still hear her obnoxious laugh coming from the common room at 1 am outside the thin door of your bunkroom. Or while out in the street one day you catch a glimpse of locals staring at her in contempt, wonder what she did, but not stick around long enough to find out.

I wanted desperately not to be associated with Georgia. If I could be like the Canadian travelers I saw everywhere and wear some sort of flag patch on my bag, ‘not with Georgia, don’t blame me,’ I would have.  In the same way those Canadians didn’t want to be mistaken for ugly Americans, I didn’t want anything to do with Georgia because I knew that being affiliated with her, would surely caste those stereotypes on me.

I believed I was nothing like her. This was not my first rodeo, I knew the ropes. I knew my role and my responsibilities and I accepted them dutifully.  Be the good American traveler, show those I met how different Americans are from what they see on the TV, or from who they had previously encountered (assuming Georgiawas one step ahead of me), damage control, assure them that I did not, in fact, vote for Bush.

It wasn’t till I reached Panamaand eventually made my way back up to Hondurasthat I lost her. I imagine she continued onto Colombia, but I didn’t give it much thought. The relief I felt from being free of her brought with it time to reflect on what really bothered me about her.

Was it that little hint of me I saw in her?  Could I really have been that jejune, that naïve? Does every traveler have their first time traveling? Of course they do. Can we really expect them to know how to handle themselves abroad when they are giddy and excited to be out in the world for the first time?
 
My first big trip was to Europe. It was your stereotypical American college student dream. Backpack around Europe for a few months; see all you can, as fast as you can. I went with my best friend. Our packs were bigger than us, and I recall a time or two on trains or subways where total strangers had to help us on with them.  I’m sure I drank too much and laughed too loudly. For a long time I was quite certain I was single handedly to blame for the French’s scorn of Americans. I’m still not quite sure I’m not.

So, of course Georgiawas just being the only thing that she could be.  And yes, what irritated me about her were the similarities I saw between us and the years it took me to understand.  She would soon learn that travelers, especially American travelers, have a responsibility to behave in a way that bolsters the opinion of Americans abroad rather than hurts it.

Of course, I have doubts that she would ever venture out again. For most, traveling is simply a novelty, once you go one place, you don’t need to go anywhere else. You have traveled and you are done.  The box can be ticked. Like my father asked me when I was applying to Semester at Sea, “you’ve already been so many places, why do you need to see any more?” It seemed like the most absurd question. The fact that I had seen so many places wasthe reason I needed to see more. I was addicted. Wouldn’t anyone be?

I hope Georgiahas continued to travel. Perhaps one day our paths with cross again. This time I might not recognize her.  We might share a seat on a bus, roll our eyes at one another as we listen to the newbies across the aisle talking loudly about their crazy time on the beach the night before, wondering what the next town has in store for them. Next time we would surely have more of a connection than simply being America’s, we would be travelers sharing the same road for a brief moment of our journey.

Those I Met Along the Way- 2. Georgia

I didn’t like Georgia. She embodied everything I’d come to loath about American travelers. Every stereotype I worked to undo, she did back up again tenfold. It didn’t help that she was probably 10 years younger than me, and I could see parts of that younger me in her, parts I’d worked hard to leave behind.

Georgia had been following me since Honduras. You see, in Central and South America there really is a gringo trail; you’re either going down or making your way back up. There is little room to deviate. Georgia and I happened to be on the same timetable and I couldn’t seem to shake her no matter what I did. I’d leave a few days early or stay a few days later and still somehow, the next hostel I roamed into, there she was, laughing too loudly, or lazily reading Shantaram in a hammock. (I highly doubted she actually read it, rather, she just wanted to be seen reading it.  In the three months she followed me around, the book never changed, while I was on my fourth.)

It appeared to be her first big trip, probably entirely funded by mommy and daddy and probably something she would go back and tell all her friends at college about how life changing it all was.  Though, I could attest, nothing about her life seemed to change in those three months we danced along each others path. 

I’d see her on the beach for a BBQ the hostel was hosting. She’d think, because we were both Americans that we had something in common; I assured her we did not.  We’d end up in the same tours, a rum tasting here, a hike up a volcano there and each time I’d show up, excited and ready for the day and there she’d be. It seemed no matter what I did; there she was, trying to make small talk with me, while I tried to elude her.  Her seeing the only bond we had as the most important there is.

There is a certain disdain more experienced travelers inevitably feel towards newbie travelers.  It usually happens at night when, even though your earplugs are in you can still hear her obnoxious laugh coming from the common room at 1 am outside the thin door of your bunkroom. Or while out in the street one day you catch a glimpse of locals staring at her in contempt, wonder what she did, but not stick around long enough to find out.

I wanted desperately not to be associated with Georgia. If I could be like the Canadian travelers I saw everywhere and wear some sort of flag patch on my bag, ‘not with Georgia, don’t blame me,’ I would have.  In the same way those Canadians didn’t want to be mistaken for ugly Americans, I didn’t want anything to do with Georgia because I knew that being affiliated with her, would surely caste those stereotypes on me.

I believed I was nothing like her. This was not my first rodeo, I knew the ropes. I knew my role and my responsibilities and I accepted them dutifully.  Be the good American traveler, show those I met how different Americans are from what they see on the TV, or from who they had previously encountered (assuming Georgia was one step ahead of me), damage control, assure them that I did not, in fact, vote for Bush.

It wasn’t till I reached Panama and eventually made my way back up to Honduras that I lost her. I imagine she continued onto Colombia, but I didn’t give it much thought. The relief I felt from being free of her brought with it time to reflect on what really bothered me about her.

Was it that little hint of me I saw in her?  Could I really have been that jejune, that naïve? Does every traveler have their first time traveling? Of course they do. Can we really expect them to know how to handle themselves abroad when they are giddy and excited to be out in the world for the first time?
 
My first big trip was to Europe. It was your stereotypical American college student dream. Backpack around Europe for a few months; see all you can, as fast as you can. I went with my best friend. Our packs were bigger than us, and I recall a time or two on trains or subways where total strangers had to help us on with them.  I’m sure I drank too much and laughed too loudly. For a long time I was quite certain I was single handedly to blame for the French’s scorn of Americans. I’m still not quite sure I’m not.

So, of course Georgia was just being the only thing that she could be.  And yes, what irritated me about her were the similarities I saw between us and the years it took me to understand.  She would soon learn that travelers, especially American travelers, have a responsibility to behave in a way that bolsters the opinion of Americans abroad rather than hurts it.

Of course, I have doubts that she would ever venture out again. For most, traveling is simply a novelty, once you go one place, you don’t need to go anywhere else. You have traveled and you are done.  The box can be ticked. Like my father asked me when I was applying to Semester at Sea, “you’ve already been so many places, why do you need to see any more?” It seemed like the most absurd question. The fact that I had seen so many places was the reason I needed to see more. I was addicted. Wouldn’t anyone be?

I hope Georgia has continued to travel. Perhaps one day our paths with cross again. This time I might not recognize her.  We might share a seat on a bus, roll our eyes at one another as we listen to the newbies across the aisle talking loudly about their crazy time on the beach the night before, wondering what the next town has in store for them. Next time we would surely have more of a connection than simply being America’s, we would be travelers sharing the same road for a brief moment of our journey.

Those I Met Along the Way- 1. James

 

 

(James is in my email address book as JamesCR.  He is the first of many I’ve met along the way. They are each in my address book with the initials of whatever town or country I met them in. I’ve not seen James again, but we have corresponded throughout the ten years since we met one night in Costa Rica.  He remains special to me for the friendship we’ve shared and the one night that started it all.)

 

 There was a bonfire on the beach near my hostel.  It was the night before I was to return to San Jose, to eventually return to the States. By this time, the States seemed more foreign to me than anywhere I’d ever been.

 I sat alone on a log near the fire, an Imperial in hand. Someone was playing a guitar. Someone else was playing bongos.  The tide kept better rhythm.  I watched as he left the bonfire and headed down a path through the woods.

 I followed him a few minutes later. I saw flashlights up ahead and for some reason felt like I should be more discreet, more hidden, like all of a sudden this was some undercover spy mission. I came upon him and some other traveler I had not seen at the bonfire.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.  Hands were shoved in pockets, flashlights turned off.

“Oh, an American,” He said.

“Ya, that’s right.” I said.

“Bloody hell,” He said. (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he said or not, but he is British and I’ve heard him say it loads of times since. I've also come to know this as a particularly common expression when a Brit hears an American accent.)

 I don’t know what made me so confident as to simply follow James into the woods to catch some illicit drug trade happening. Nor what made me so confident as to follow him back to the bonfire like we were old friends, but I did. And he let me.  And when we were back at the bonfire, to everyone else, we were the old friends we’d become in the length of the five minute walk back.

 We listened to more of the music, another drummer had joined. The keeper of the fire had given up, in a huff, demanding someone else do the tending. Someone reluctantly did. They always do. A joint was passed. James left to get us more Imperials.  When he returned, he took my hand and pulled me from the log.

 We went walking. Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica is a tiny little town.  There were few places to go, but we found them. A crowded dance club on the beach, where we lost each other a time or two, an empanada stand with the hottest chilera I’ve ever had, a spot on the beach where the waves couldn’t reach us.

 We were up all night, two strangers, a little less strange to one another. The relief of a night spent in the freedom that comes with knowing you will never see this person again. No pretense, no restraint.

When dawn came, we walked to the hostel to get my bags.  I wondered if I needed to pay for the night’s room.  He walked me back to the bus that would take me to San Jose and waited till it pulled away.

 It was more a ‘see you later’ than a ‘good bye.’  It was not tearful or long. We did not exchange addresses or numbers.  There was a simple smile shared between us. A wave from the window as the bus rolled out of sight.

 It dropped me near the hostel where I would be staying for my last night before returning to The United States.  I showered and napped and organized. I went to the common area to hang out and watch some American TV. I was lying on the floor, half on a bean bag when he tapped my shoulder.

 Another simple smile shared between us.  We had become numb to the various coincidences and run-ins that happen while traveling.  We had perhaps come to expect them, though I never anticipated seeing him again.

 Serendipity rarely strikes twice.  We recognized the moment and the anomaly of it. We exchanged addresses this time.  We sat in the common area a little unsure how to proceed.  It only took us a moment to realize there was no need for either of us to do anything. Things had clearly been set in motion.

Those I Met Along the Way- 1. James

 

 

(James is in my email address book as JamesCR.  He is the first of many I’ve met along the way. They are each in my address book with the initials of whatever town or country I met them in. I’ve not seen James again, but we have corresponded throughout the ten years since we met one night in Costa Rica.  He remains special to me for the friendship we’ve shared and the one night that started it all.)

 

 There was a bonfire on the beach near my hostel.  It was the night before I was to return to San Jose, to eventually return to the States. By this time, the States seemed more foreign to me than anywhere I’d ever been.

 I sat alone on a log near the fire, an Imperial in hand. Someone was playing a guitar. Someone else was playing bongos.  The tide kept better rhythm.  I watched as he left the bonfire and headed down a path through the woods.

 I followed him a few minutes later. I saw flashlights up ahead and for some reason felt like I should be more discreet, more hidden, like all of a sudden this was some undercover spy mission. I came upon him and some other traveler I had not seen at the bonfire.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.  Hands were shoved in pockets, flashlights turned off.

“Oh, an American,” He said.

“Ya, that’s right.” I said.

“Bloody hell,” He said. (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he said or not, but he is British and I’ve heard him say it loads of times since. I've also come to know this as a particularly common expression when a Brit hears an American accent.)

 I don’t know what made me so confident as to simply follow James into the woods to catch some illicit drug trade happening. Nor what made me so confident as to follow him back to the bonfire like we were old friends, but I did. And he let me.  And when we were back at the bonfire, to everyone else, we were the old friends we’d become in the length of the five minute walk back.

 We listened to more of the music, another drummer had joined. The keeper of the fire had given up, in a huff, demanding someone else do the tending. Someone reluctantly did. They always do. A joint was passed. James left to get us more Imperials.  When he returned, he took my hand and pulled me from the log.

 We went walking. Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica is a tiny little town.  There were few places to go, but we found them. A crowded dance club on the beach, where we lost each other a time or two, an empanada stand with the hottest chilera I’ve ever had, a spot on the beach where the waves couldn’t reach us.

 We were up all night, two strangers, a little less strange to one another. The relief of a night spent in the freedom that comes with knowing you will never see this person again. No pretense, no restraint.

When dawn came, we walked to the hostel to get my bags.  I wondered if I needed to pay for the night’s room.  He walked me back to the bus that would take me to San Jose and waited till it pulled away.

 It was more a ‘see you later’ than a ‘good bye.’  It was not tearful or long. We did not exchange addresses or numbers.  There was a simple smile shared between us. A wave from the window as the bus rolled out of sight.

 It dropped me near the hostel where I would be staying for my last night before returning to The United States.  I showered and napped and organized. I went to the common area to hang out and watch some American TV. I was lying on the floor, half on a bean bag when he tapped my shoulder.

 Another simple smile shared between us.  We had become numb to the various coincidences and run-ins that happen while traveling.  We had perhaps come to expect them, though I never anticipated seeing him again.

 Serendipity rarely strikes twice.  We recognized the moment and the anomaly of it. We exchanged addresses this time.  We sat in the common area a little unsure how to proceed.  It only took us a moment to realize there was no need for either of us to do anything. Things had clearly been set in motion.

Do Not Feel Free To Butter My Toast

I remember JL once buttered my bread.  We were at the dinner table and he simply took knife to butter to toast and then handed it to me. I thought this was very strange. How would he know how much butter I wanted on my toast?  More to the point, how would he know I do not, in fact, like butter on my toast? We’d only known each other a month or so at the time, a point made all the more apparent by the fact he did not know these tiny details about me.  And yet he still did it.  As though the easiness we’d developed somehow overflowed onto the dinning table. It did not.

 Traveling is like that piece of toast. Some like it buttered and others do not. JL had no idea whether I liked butter on my toast or not. It may have taken months or years to get to that level of familiarity.  They say you don’t really know a person until you travel with them. I wondered if that was what it would take for JL to know all those tiny details of my life.  Is that what it will take for anyone to know me fully?

 Like the amount of butter you prefer on your bread, traveling is personal.  I’ve never thought of it that way until I started thinking about having someone join me on my long trips.  Would they keep up? Would they question the methods to my madness? Would they know me differently after having traveled with me? Would they still want to know me when we returned?

 What I like about traveling so much is the chance to simply be me; to not have anyone to impress or worry about, to not have to keep up appearances or schedules.  Traveling is the chance to be the me I am when no one is looking. Abroad no one I know is looking. They are halfway around the world. Friends and family may be reading about my travels on my blog and keeping up with my goings on, but they do not know the every day traveling me.  I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.

 You see, anybody who knows I travel, might know where I’ve been and why I go. They may know a little about what I’ve done and seen, but the daily, routine of things is unknown to anyone, except perhaps those I meet along the way.  I like it this way.  It’s a guilty pleasure; a secret that I didn’t know I was hiding, one not hard to keep because there’s no one around to run into to discover my dirty laundry.

 Oh, it’s not that dirty, but I imagine it’s much different than most people who know me would imagine. I travel on a budget, usually a very tight budget.  This allows me to go and stay for longer. I get by on 1-2 meals a day, often eating half of one and saving the other half for later.  Normally a foodie, on the road I get by with whatever is cheapest, usually the plato del dia.  I bring snacks from home and often subsist on those alone for days.  Friends marvel at the fact that I go on ‘vacation’ and actually lose weight. I tell them it’s the budget diet, works every time.

 I stay in the cheapest accommodations I can tolerate, and I can tolerate a lot.  Shared bathrooms, snoring bunk mates and concrete rooms with no windows are not unusual. I don’t do laundry, rather I bring enough under clothing to make it through and am fine wearing a bikini as such as well.  If I do need to wash something, the sink and whatever bath soap I’ve brought will do.

 I take long overnight busses because it is cheaper than renting a room.  I hitch rides with strangers heading where I’ve just discovered I want to go.  I walk miles to beaches and restaurants to save money on taxis. I enjoy the view.

 I talk to strangers.  Everyone you meet traveling is a stranger. I really like the idea of that; a world full of strangers for me to meet. I take the opportunity to practice my Spanish. I offer a different representation of the American traveler. I share meals with families who notice me dining alone.  I spent whole days on a beach with only a book and a journal. I might go days without speaking to anyone.

 I try to imagine all of this with someone else tagging along with me.  Would they do it without complaining? Would they find it as exciting as I do?  Would they try to change the way I’ve done things for years? Would I let them?  The way I travel is never something I’ve had to explain. It is simply something I have developed through the years that works well for me. I’ve never had to think about someone else being with me.

 How much butter you prefer or don’t prefer on your toast is personal. The way I travel is personal.  It’s not something I try to hide. It is simply something hidden because no one is around to see it.  It’s like the way I dance in Zumba when I know no one I know is watching me; a little freer, a little crazier, a little more me.  Would having a partner with me change everything?

Do Not Feel Free To Butter My Toast

I remember JL once buttered my bread.  We were at the dinner table and he simply took knife to butter to toast and then handed it to me. I thought this was very strange. How would he know how much butter I wanted on my toast?  More to the point, how would he know I do not, in fact, like butter on my toast? We’d only known each other a month or so at the time, a point made all the more apparent by the fact he did not know these tiny details about me.  And yet he still did it.  As though the easiness we’d developed somehow overflowed onto the dinning table. It did not.

 Traveling is like that piece of toast. Some like it buttered and others do not. JL had no idea whether I liked butter on my toast or not. It may have taken months or years to get to that level of familiarity.  They say you don’t really know a person until you travel with them. I wondered if that was what it would take for JL to know all those tiny details of my life.  Is that what it will take for anyone to know me fully?

 Like the amount of butter you prefer on your bread, traveling is personal.  I’ve never thought of it that way until I started thinking about having someone join me on my long trips.  Would they keep up? Would they question the methods to my madness? Would they know me differently after having traveled with me? Would they still want to know me when we returned?

 What I like about traveling so much is the chance to simply be me; to not have anyone to impress or worry about, to not have to keep up appearances or schedules.  Traveling is the chance to be the me I am when no one is looking. Abroad no one I know is looking. They are halfway around the world. Friends and family may be reading about my travels on my blog and keeping up with my goings on, but they do not know the every day traveling me.  I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.

 You see, anybody who knows I travel, might know where I’ve been and why I go. They may know a little about what I’ve done and seen, but the daily, routine of things is unknown to anyone, except perhaps those I meet along the way.  I like it this way.  It’s a guilty pleasure; a secret that I didn’t know I was hiding, one not hard to keep because there’s no one around to run into to discover my dirty laundry.

 Oh, it’s not that dirty, but I imagine it’s much different than most people who know me would imagine. I travel on a budget, usually a very tight budget.  This allows me to go and stay for longer. I get by on 1-2 meals a day, often eating half of one and saving the other half for later.  Normally a foodie, on the road I get by with whatever is cheapest, usually the plato del dia.  I bring snacks from home and often subsist on those alone for days.  Friends marvel at the fact that I go on ‘vacation’ and actually lose weight. I tell them it’s the budget diet, works every time.

 I stay in the cheapest accommodations I can tolerate, and I can tolerate a lot.  Shared bathrooms, snoring bunk mates and concrete rooms with no windows are not unusual. I don’t do laundry, rather I bring enough under clothing to make it through and am fine wearing a bikini as such as well.  If I do need to wash something, the sink and whatever bath soap I’ve brought will do.

 I take long overnight busses because it is cheaper than renting a room.  I hitch rides with strangers heading where I’ve just discovered I want to go.  I walk miles to beaches and restaurants to save money on taxis. I enjoy the view.

 I talk to strangers.  Everyone you meet traveling is a stranger. I really like the idea of that; a world full of strangers for me to meet. I take the opportunity to practice my Spanish. I offer a different representation of the American traveler. I share meals with families who notice me dining alone.  I spent whole days on a beach with only a book and a journal. I might go days without speaking to anyone.

 I try to imagine all of this with someone else tagging along with me.  Would they do it without complaining? Would they find it as exciting as I do?  Would they try to change the way I’ve done things for years? Would I let them?  The way I travel is never something I’ve had to explain. It is simply something I have developed through the years that works well for me. I’ve never had to think about someone else being with me.

 How much butter you prefer or don’t prefer on your toast is personal. The way I travel is personal.  It’s not something I try to hide. It is simply something hidden because no one is around to see it.  It’s like the way I dance in Zumba when I know no one I know is watching me; a little freer, a little crazier, a little more me.  Would having a partner with me change everything?