11/19/11
“Where’s Jan? Jan’s gone.” I was nearly screaming in the crowded café. I looked from the chair in which she had just been sitting to all the faces now staring at me, wondering what it was I was screaming about. How do you say ‘missing’ in Spanish? How do you say ‘thief’?
“Calm down. Where’d you see her last?” John asked calm, and annoyingly collected as he walked to the table. He wasn’t missing Jan. He’d only recently been introduced to her.
“What do you mean where’d I see her last? She was sitting right there… I got up to get some sugar and came back and she was gone. Someone took her. Ladrons! Ladrons!” the word for thief suddenly came to me. People were looking at me because now they knew what I was screaming about.
The manager or owner or whoever it is whose job it is to quiet the crazy gringa came over. I explained to him in my broken Spanish what had happened.
“Mi mochilla esta desparacido. No esta aqui. Alquien saca mi mochilla. Tiene todos de mis cosas, mi camera, mis libros… todo!” I was in tears now, inventorying everything that was gone; everything in my backpack that I would never get back.
I imagined Jan’s new life with some young Hondruano. Riding to school with him on an over crowed bus with chickens and other poultry. I saw it falling off his shoulder as he bounced up and down during the bumpy ride. I envisioned each of my precious memories falling from Jan in the crowded bus. First my camera that held the last photo ever taken of the man I thought I’d marry. A picture of us from the last party we threw together. It was the fourth of July. Could it really already be December now? I saw the journal I wrote in every day tumble to the ground; its pages dirtied and torn as they were stepped on by exiting passengers, till eventually they would become unrecognizable. I gasped audibly at this vision.
“What?” John asked.
“My journal. My journal was in there,” I said.
“Ya, ok. So you’ll get a new one when we get you a new bag. No worries,” John said, so god damn calm. No worries? There was a lot to worry about. Did he not get that a journal was not just a book full of empty pages. It was full of my words and my memories. What would become of them now that I had lost them? What happens to things we can never replace? I imagined the young boy finding my journal in the bag. What would he do with it? It’s not like he could read it. Not just because it was in English, but also because my penmanship was so awful. It was written only for me to read. To look back at my life in words and remember things I had long since forgotten.
“It’s full of my thoughts and ideas. All my memories,” I responded, not nearly as calm as he.
“You’ll make new ones,” He said almost cheerfully. I didn’t care that a stranger might be reading my words. What I cared about was that my words and my memories were riding around on a bus somewhere and I would never read them again. And if I never read them again, I feared I would never remember things quite the same, not the way they really took place. Would I remember them at all?
“What about my old memories? What happens to them?” I asked him.
“They’re still there. Everything still happened,” He replied.
“Well, I know that… but. You don’t get it,” I said frustrated by his ignorance.
“I get it, but you can’t let them disappear just because what you wrote about them did. You still did it all, you’re still who you are because of it. Writing it down doesn’t make it any less real. What you remember up here is what you keep forever anyway,” He said pointing to his head. Should I try to re-write them, I wondered briefly? Maybe John was right. That wasn’t really the point was it… capture everything as it’s happening… not afterwards, days, weeks later. I couldn’t help but think it wouldn’t be as true now. Somehow the realness of it would be gone. Somehow writing it all down made everything have more meaning.
“I know I’ll remember it. But maybe I’ll remember it differently. I’ll remember it less clearly,” I said.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” He said.
Perhaps John knew me better than I thought. I thought about what I had reveled to him in the short time I had known him. He must have been paying very close attention to have gained this insight into me even I was not aware of.
So the words were written down, I would just never read them. Where does the meaning go now? Maybe the meaning was never in the words, but in the actual days that passed. Maybe they could disappear, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. It could be the first step to letting go, moving forward. Adelante. I would keep all the words in my head the way I wanted to remember them.
I didn’t even know John. I mean, I met the guy three days ago at a hostel in Tela.
“What are you running from?” He asked me. I was lying in the common area of the hostel on a hammock, reading a book, minding my own business. I have always thought that there are many types of travelers. There are those who think the only reason you travel is because you’re running from something, in which case they are, and there are those who are running towards something. I realized for the first time that I fit into the former. I was running from the memory of him. Where I was, everything reminded me of him. The glimpse of what I thought might be his truck, even if it never was. The possibility of it was enough to bring me to tears. The thought of running into his friends, who were no longer mine, was enough to keep me home at nights. Finding his sock in the laundry room weeks after he’d moved out, kept me in bed for a week. Hearing the recording of the concert at Red Rocks we’d attended, remembering exactly how we were dancing, him behind me, arms around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder, the two of us swaying to the music like it was meant for only us, made me cancel my Sirius subscription and turn the radio off for days.
I’d always liked the idea of running to something, rather than from something, but this time I was most certainly running from everything I eagerly left behind when I boarded my flight. I realized too, that there are those who travel to forget and those who travel to remember. I again realized I fit into the former. I was trying to erase the damage of a relationship where love faded with the time it took to become close enough to one another to know the patterns of their days. The rise and fall of his chest as he slept next to me, the quiet nods to communicate without words, the gentle touch of his hand on my back to signal it was time to go. But that comfort of knowing someone so deeply became commonplace to him, rather than cherished for the act of love it truly was. Losing my bag was the beginning of my forgetting.
John was that guy…first time around, discovering the world, eyes wide open, mind still pretty closed, young dumb and full of cum as my brother used to say. John was what I called the newbie traveler; innocent, naïve, never been out of his home country. He was the kind that would do this once and say he was a traveler.
“What are you reading?” he asked when I didn’t answer his first question. I showed him the cover of my book and went back to reading. I was reading a Tom Robbins book I’d picked up in the last hostel I was in. It was good. I wanted to keep reading.
“Any good?” He asked. Jesus Christ. What is it with some people? Can’t they take a hint? I sat up in my hammock, giving him my full attention; useless to fight it any more.
“It’s quite good,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m John, from Canada.” Oh great a Canadian. I quickly glanced around to see where his flag was proudly displayed, differentiating himself from us yanks. There it was smack dab in the middle of his day pack resting at his feet.
“Hi, John from Canada.”
*****
“Why do you call your backpack Jan?” John asked as we left the café. I had now determined not to let this ruin what was left of my time here. I was moving on and this was a step forward I never would have taken on my own. I hate it when people say everything happens for a reason, especially because they only say it when something really terrible has happened, but maybe it’s true. Maybe Jan getting taken was the new beginning I was looking for when I got on the plane to Honduras.
“It’s a Jansport,” I replied curtly. We were headed to a pulperia to get a new backpack, a disposable camera and something suitable in which to write.
I picked up the pace in a feeble effort to lose him in the crowded streets. He chuckled a bit at my response.
“Oh, I get it,” he said smiling, “a Jansport. Maybe I should call mine North?”
I thought about Jan sitting just inside the door of the three room shack the young boy called home. She looked new and proud resting among the dirt and grim of the dim home. I wanted to feel new and proud. How easy it was for Jan. All she had to do was be taken from her seat in a crowded café to find a new place from which to start.
I see Jan filled with books and toys and notebooks, slung on one shoulder of the little boy as he walks home from the bus stop. She doesn’t miss her previous contents. They were heavy, burdensome things she easily let go. She doesn’t know where they are now and she doesn’t care. She gladly replaced them with the toys and notebooks that now fill her.
Maybe Jan was my burden. Jan who held the memories of things I’d rather forget. Pictures I couldn’t erase because they were the last ones of him, words I didn’t want to let go of because they were all that remained to tell me it was real. The young boy took them away for me and Jan and I were both just beginning. Perhaps now I would fill my next bag with new memories, new pictures of John and me on various beaches and in different bars. The new journal would contain a new story, one with a much better ending.
At the pulperia I searched for a day pack. It was a cheap knockoff version of a Jansport, a Jensport. John was waiting for me outside smoking a cigarette.
“John, I’d like you meet Jen,” I said as I walked out into the late afternoon sun.
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Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Beginnings
11/19/11
“Where’s Jan? Jan’s gone.” I was nearly screaming in the crowded café. I looked from the chair in which she had just been sitting to all the faces now staring at me, wondering what it was I was screaming about. How do you say ‘missing’ in Spanish? How do you say ‘thief’?
“Calm down. Where’d you see her last?” John asked calm, and annoyingly collected as he walked to the table. He wasn’t missing Jan. He’d only recently been introduced to her.
“What do you mean where’d I see her last? She was sitting right there… I got up to get some sugar and came back and she was gone. Someone took her. Ladrons! Ladrons!” the word for thief suddenly came to me. People were looking at me because now they knew what I was screaming about.
The manager or owner or whoever it is whose job it is to quiet the crazy gringa came over. I explained to him in my broken Spanish what had happened.
“Mi mochilla esta desparacido. No esta aqui. Alquien saca mi mochilla. Tiene todos de mis cosas, mi camera, mis libros… todo!” I was in tears now, inventorying everything that was gone; everything in my backpack that I would never get back.
I imagined Jan’s new life with some young Hondruano. Riding to school with him on an over crowed bus with chickens and other poultry. I saw it falling off his shoulder as he bounced up and down during the bumpy ride. I envisioned each of my precious memories falling from Jan in the crowded bus. First my camera that held the last photo ever taken of the man I thought I’d marry. A picture of us from the last party we threw together. It was the fourth of July. Could it really already be December now? I saw the journal I wrote in every day tumble to the ground; its pages dirtied and torn as they were stepped on by exiting passengers, till eventually they would become unrecognizable. I gasped audibly at this vision.
“What?” John asked.
“My journal. My journal was in there,” I said.
“Ya, ok. So you’ll get a new one when we get you a new bag. No worries,” John said, so god damn calm. No worries? There was a lot to worry about. Did he not get that a journal was not just a book full of empty pages. It was full of my words and my memories. What would become of them now that I had lost them? What happens to things we can never replace? I imagined the young boy finding my journal in the bag. What would he do with it? It’s not like he could read it. Not just because it was in English, but also because my penmanship was so awful. It was written only for me to read. To look back at my life in words and remember things I had long since forgotten.
“It’s full of my thoughts and ideas. All my memories,” I responded, not nearly as calm as he.
“You’ll make new ones,” He said almost cheerfully. I didn’t care that a stranger might be reading my words. What I cared about was that my words and my memories were riding around on a bus somewhere and I would never read them again. And if I never read them again, I feared I would never remember things quite the same, not the way they really took place. Would I remember them at all?
“What about my old memories? What happens to them?” I asked him.
“They’re still there. Everything still happened,” He replied.
“Well, I know that… but. You don’t get it,” I said frustrated by his ignorance.
“I get it, but you can’t let them disappear just because what you wrote about them did. You still did it all, you’re still who you are because of it. Writing it down doesn’t make it any less real. What you remember up here is what you keep forever anyway,” He said pointing to his head. Should I try to re-write them, I wondered briefly? Maybe John was right. That wasn’t really the point was it… capture everything as it’s happening… not afterwards, days, weeks later. I couldn’t help but think it wouldn’t be as true now. Somehow the realness of it would be gone. Somehow writing it all down made everything have more meaning.
“I know I’ll remember it. But maybe I’ll remember it differently. I’ll remember it less clearly,” I said.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” He said.
Perhaps John knew me better than I thought. I thought about what I had reveled to him in the short time I had known him. He must have been paying very close attention to have gained this insight into me even I was not aware of.
So the words were written down, I would just never read them. Where does the meaning go now? Maybe the meaning was never in the words, but in the actual days that passed. Maybe they could disappear, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. It could be the first step to letting go, moving forward. Adelante. I would keep all the words in my head the way I wanted to remember them.
I didn’t even know John. I mean, I met the guy three days ago at a hostel in Tela.
“What are you running from?” He asked me. I was lying in the common area of the hostel on a hammock, reading a book, minding my own business. I have always thought that there are many types of travelers. There are those who think the only reason you travel is because you’re running from something, in which case they are, and there are those who are running towards something. I realized for the first time that I fit into the former. I was running from the memory of him. Where I was, everything reminded me of him. The glimpse of what I thought might be his truck, even if it never was. The possibility of it was enough to bring me to tears. The thought of running into his friends, who were no longer mine, was enough to keep me home at nights. Finding his sock in the laundry room weeks after he’d moved out, kept me in bed for a week. Hearing the recording of the concert at Red Rocks we’d attended, remembering exactly how we were dancing, him behind me, arms around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder, the two of us swaying to the music like it was meant for only us, made me cancel my Sirius subscription and turn the radio off for days.
I’d always liked the idea of running to something, rather than from something, but this time I was most certainly running from everything I eagerly left behind when I boarded my flight. I realized too, that there are those who travel to forget and those who travel to remember. I again realized I fit into the former. I was trying to erase the damage of a relationship where love faded with the time it took to become close enough to one another to know the patterns of their days. The rise and fall of his chest as he slept next to me, the quiet nods to communicate without words, the gentle touch of his hand on my back to signal it was time to go. But that comfort of knowing someone so deeply became commonplace to him, rather than cherished for the act of love it truly was. Losing my bag was the beginning of my forgetting.
John was that guy…first time around, discovering the world, eyes wide open, mind still pretty closed, young dumb and full of cum as my brother used to say. John was what I called the newbie traveler; innocent, naïve, never been out of his home country. He was the kind that would do this once and say he was a traveler.
“What are you reading?” he asked when I didn’t answer his first question. I showed him the cover of my book and went back to reading. I was reading a Tom Robbins book I’d picked up in the last hostel I was in. It was good. I wanted to keep reading.
“Any good?” He asked. Jesus Christ. What is it with some people? Can’t they take a hint? I sat up in my hammock, giving him my full attention; useless to fight it any more.
“It’s quite good,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m John, from Canada.” Oh great a Canadian. I quickly glanced around to see where his flag was proudly displayed, differentiating himself from us yanks. There it was smack dab in the middle of his day pack resting at his feet.
“Hi, John from Canada.”
*****
“Why do you call your backpack Jan?” John asked as we left the café. I had now determined not to let this ruin what was left of my time here. I was moving on and this was a step forward I never would have taken on my own. I hate it when people say everything happens for a reason, especially because they only say it when something really terrible has happened, but maybe it’s true. Maybe Jan getting taken was the new beginning I was looking for when I got on the plane to Honduras.
“It’s a Jansport,” I replied curtly. We were headed to a pulperia to get a new backpack, a disposable camera and something suitable in which to write.
I picked up the pace in a feeble effort to lose him in the crowded streets. He chuckled a bit at my response.
“Oh, I get it,” he said smiling, “a Jansport. Maybe I should call mine North?”
I thought about Jan sitting just inside the door of the three room shack the young boy called home. She looked new and proud resting among the dirt and grim of the dim home. I wanted to feel new and proud. How easy it was for Jan. All she had to do was be taken from her seat in a crowded café to find a new place from which to start.
I see Jan filled with books and toys and notebooks, slung on one shoulder of the little boy as he walks home from the bus stop. She doesn’t miss her previous contents. They were heavy, burdensome things she easily let go. She doesn’t know where they are now and she doesn’t care. She gladly replaced them with the toys and notebooks that now fill her.
Maybe Jan was my burden. Jan who held the memories of things I’d rather forget. Pictures I couldn’t erase because they were the last ones of him, words I didn’t want to let go of because they were all that remained to tell me it was real. The young boy took them away for me and Jan and I were both just beginning. Perhaps now I would fill my next bag with new memories, new pictures of John and me on various beaches and in different bars. The new journal would contain a new story, one with a much better ending.
At the pulperia I searched for a day pack. It was a cheap knockoff version of a Jansport, a Jensport. John was waiting for me outside smoking a cigarette.
“John, I’d like you meet Jen,” I said as I walked out into the late afternoon sun.
“Where’s Jan? Jan’s gone.” I was nearly screaming in the crowded café. I looked from the chair in which she had just been sitting to all the faces now staring at me, wondering what it was I was screaming about. How do you say ‘missing’ in Spanish? How do you say ‘thief’?
“Calm down. Where’d you see her last?” John asked calm, and annoyingly collected as he walked to the table. He wasn’t missing Jan. He’d only recently been introduced to her.
“What do you mean where’d I see her last? She was sitting right there… I got up to get some sugar and came back and she was gone. Someone took her. Ladrons! Ladrons!” the word for thief suddenly came to me. People were looking at me because now they knew what I was screaming about.
The manager or owner or whoever it is whose job it is to quiet the crazy gringa came over. I explained to him in my broken Spanish what had happened.
“Mi mochilla esta desparacido. No esta aqui. Alquien saca mi mochilla. Tiene todos de mis cosas, mi camera, mis libros… todo!” I was in tears now, inventorying everything that was gone; everything in my backpack that I would never get back.
I imagined Jan’s new life with some young Hondruano. Riding to school with him on an over crowed bus with chickens and other poultry. I saw it falling off his shoulder as he bounced up and down during the bumpy ride. I envisioned each of my precious memories falling from Jan in the crowded bus. First my camera that held the last photo ever taken of the man I thought I’d marry. A picture of us from the last party we threw together. It was the fourth of July. Could it really already be December now? I saw the journal I wrote in every day tumble to the ground; its pages dirtied and torn as they were stepped on by exiting passengers, till eventually they would become unrecognizable. I gasped audibly at this vision.
“What?” John asked.
“My journal. My journal was in there,” I said.
“Ya, ok. So you’ll get a new one when we get you a new bag. No worries,” John said, so god damn calm. No worries? There was a lot to worry about. Did he not get that a journal was not just a book full of empty pages. It was full of my words and my memories. What would become of them now that I had lost them? What happens to things we can never replace? I imagined the young boy finding my journal in the bag. What would he do with it? It’s not like he could read it. Not just because it was in English, but also because my penmanship was so awful. It was written only for me to read. To look back at my life in words and remember things I had long since forgotten.
“It’s full of my thoughts and ideas. All my memories,” I responded, not nearly as calm as he.
“You’ll make new ones,” He said almost cheerfully. I didn’t care that a stranger might be reading my words. What I cared about was that my words and my memories were riding around on a bus somewhere and I would never read them again. And if I never read them again, I feared I would never remember things quite the same, not the way they really took place. Would I remember them at all?
“What about my old memories? What happens to them?” I asked him.
“They’re still there. Everything still happened,” He replied.
“Well, I know that… but. You don’t get it,” I said frustrated by his ignorance.
“I get it, but you can’t let them disappear just because what you wrote about them did. You still did it all, you’re still who you are because of it. Writing it down doesn’t make it any less real. What you remember up here is what you keep forever anyway,” He said pointing to his head. Should I try to re-write them, I wondered briefly? Maybe John was right. That wasn’t really the point was it… capture everything as it’s happening… not afterwards, days, weeks later. I couldn’t help but think it wouldn’t be as true now. Somehow the realness of it would be gone. Somehow writing it all down made everything have more meaning.
“I know I’ll remember it. But maybe I’ll remember it differently. I’ll remember it less clearly,” I said.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” He said.
Perhaps John knew me better than I thought. I thought about what I had reveled to him in the short time I had known him. He must have been paying very close attention to have gained this insight into me even I was not aware of.
So the words were written down, I would just never read them. Where does the meaning go now? Maybe the meaning was never in the words, but in the actual days that passed. Maybe they could disappear, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. It could be the first step to letting go, moving forward. Adelante. I would keep all the words in my head the way I wanted to remember them.
I didn’t even know John. I mean, I met the guy three days ago at a hostel in Tela.
“What are you running from?” He asked me. I was lying in the common area of the hostel on a hammock, reading a book, minding my own business. I have always thought that there are many types of travelers. There are those who think the only reason you travel is because you’re running from something, in which case they are, and there are those who are running towards something. I realized for the first time that I fit into the former. I was running from the memory of him. Where I was, everything reminded me of him. The glimpse of what I thought might be his truck, even if it never was. The possibility of it was enough to bring me to tears. The thought of running into his friends, who were no longer mine, was enough to keep me home at nights. Finding his sock in the laundry room weeks after he’d moved out, kept me in bed for a week. Hearing the recording of the concert at Red Rocks we’d attended, remembering exactly how we were dancing, him behind me, arms around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder, the two of us swaying to the music like it was meant for only us, made me cancel my Sirius subscription and turn the radio off for days.
I’d always liked the idea of running to something, rather than from something, but this time I was most certainly running from everything I eagerly left behind when I boarded my flight. I realized too, that there are those who travel to forget and those who travel to remember. I again realized I fit into the former. I was trying to erase the damage of a relationship where love faded with the time it took to become close enough to one another to know the patterns of their days. The rise and fall of his chest as he slept next to me, the quiet nods to communicate without words, the gentle touch of his hand on my back to signal it was time to go. But that comfort of knowing someone so deeply became commonplace to him, rather than cherished for the act of love it truly was. Losing my bag was the beginning of my forgetting.
John was that guy…first time around, discovering the world, eyes wide open, mind still pretty closed, young dumb and full of cum as my brother used to say. John was what I called the newbie traveler; innocent, naïve, never been out of his home country. He was the kind that would do this once and say he was a traveler.
“What are you reading?” he asked when I didn’t answer his first question. I showed him the cover of my book and went back to reading. I was reading a Tom Robbins book I’d picked up in the last hostel I was in. It was good. I wanted to keep reading.
“Any good?” He asked. Jesus Christ. What is it with some people? Can’t they take a hint? I sat up in my hammock, giving him my full attention; useless to fight it any more.
“It’s quite good,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m John, from Canada.” Oh great a Canadian. I quickly glanced around to see where his flag was proudly displayed, differentiating himself from us yanks. There it was smack dab in the middle of his day pack resting at his feet.
“Hi, John from Canada.”
*****
“Why do you call your backpack Jan?” John asked as we left the café. I had now determined not to let this ruin what was left of my time here. I was moving on and this was a step forward I never would have taken on my own. I hate it when people say everything happens for a reason, especially because they only say it when something really terrible has happened, but maybe it’s true. Maybe Jan getting taken was the new beginning I was looking for when I got on the plane to Honduras.
“It’s a Jansport,” I replied curtly. We were headed to a pulperia to get a new backpack, a disposable camera and something suitable in which to write.
I picked up the pace in a feeble effort to lose him in the crowded streets. He chuckled a bit at my response.
“Oh, I get it,” he said smiling, “a Jansport. Maybe I should call mine North?”
I thought about Jan sitting just inside the door of the three room shack the young boy called home. She looked new and proud resting among the dirt and grim of the dim home. I wanted to feel new and proud. How easy it was for Jan. All she had to do was be taken from her seat in a crowded café to find a new place from which to start.
I see Jan filled with books and toys and notebooks, slung on one shoulder of the little boy as he walks home from the bus stop. She doesn’t miss her previous contents. They were heavy, burdensome things she easily let go. She doesn’t know where they are now and she doesn’t care. She gladly replaced them with the toys and notebooks that now fill her.
Maybe Jan was my burden. Jan who held the memories of things I’d rather forget. Pictures I couldn’t erase because they were the last ones of him, words I didn’t want to let go of because they were all that remained to tell me it was real. The young boy took them away for me and Jan and I were both just beginning. Perhaps now I would fill my next bag with new memories, new pictures of John and me on various beaches and in different bars. The new journal would contain a new story, one with a much better ending.
At the pulperia I searched for a day pack. It was a cheap knockoff version of a Jansport, a Jensport. John was waiting for me outside smoking a cigarette.
“John, I’d like you meet Jen,” I said as I walked out into the late afternoon sun.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Moments in Santiago
I've been spending a long weekend in Ward Colorado. My boyfriend is doing some work on a friend's house and I am using the time to write. Inspiration abounds in the mountains. The first day I found myself going through all my old writing, dating back to 1998, when I was a creative writing student at Colorado State University. Those have been interesting, if not funny to look at now. I stumbled upon what is to follow in a notebook. The first four moments were written on January 25, 2004, while I was still living in Santiago. The rest were written yesterday.
Moments in Santiago
1. Dan and I walk down Lota and see a motorized bicycle riding down El Bosque. We both look at each other and laugh. Dan comments on the speed in which in travels. I say I've never seen that before.
2. While walking from one ministry to the next trying to get the paperwork for my boletas, I see on a wall a message stamped in black repeating itself every ten inches or so. “Bush es el terroista,” it said over and over again. I point this out to Rene and he says, “well, he is, isn't he?” I am reminded that I am an ex-patriot living in a country that sees things very differently than my own.
3. Yesterday, while sitting on the bus waiting at a red light, Esteban and I are entertained by a man on a unicycle juggling fire. It is the middle of the day, in the middle of the street. I think, “only in Chile.”
4. On the metro today I sat across from a little black boy whose laugh was absolutely contagious. He was maybe five years old and he had me, his dad and the man next to him smiling and laughing along with him.
5. Joel and I playing Frisbee in Las Lillas the first time. The father and son who stopped to stare, the jogger who slowed his pace to see what we were doing, the dog that ran in to catch it. Joel and I sitting on our airplane blanket after. They've got to play Frisbee in Chile.... right?
6.Karaoke in Geo pub. A consequence of Never-neverland. I'd never do that in the states. Or perhaps in was the office.
7. The walk to Bridge Linguatec from my apartment. The vibrant pink of the bougainvilleas, thick and lush on every gate and wall. The men sweeping their sidewalks with a broom. The other men waiting to park a car for a few monedas. The lady asking me for directions. The day I knew I lived in Santiago. And me able to answer her.
8. Chess in the plaza with Joel. Our tiny travel set magnetic pieces on the giant table sized boards. Los viejos gathering around us, staring at one another, and slowly chuckling, nudging their partners to take a look at the crazy gringos.
Moments in Fort Collins
1. The morning of the first big snow of the year. Marty and I bundled up, making snow angels in the backyard, throwing snowballs for the neighbor's dog to chase. Walking through the streets of our neighborhood. Quiet. Snow melting as it reached my nose.
2. Sitting on our back porch, 10 or 11 at night. The lightening show just for us. The thunder that didn't end. Our hands held across the chairs. He leans in and kisses me.
3. Sitting on the couch. Pisco tears by. Marty says, “have fun.” I think, be back by midnight. The closest we may come to kids.
4. The drive back from the show. Laying flat in the truck bed. Watching the stars and streetlights speed by. Dropped off at the fire station, the walk home making everything new. We pause to stare up at the giant weeping willow, we, every other day, would take for granted.
5. Breakfast at Lucille's. Bloody Mary's that serve as appetizers. Seats on the deck. Cutie-pie our server again.
Moments in Santiago
1. Dan and I walk down Lota and see a motorized bicycle riding down El Bosque. We both look at each other and laugh. Dan comments on the speed in which in travels. I say I've never seen that before.
2. While walking from one ministry to the next trying to get the paperwork for my boletas, I see on a wall a message stamped in black repeating itself every ten inches or so. “Bush es el terroista,” it said over and over again. I point this out to Rene and he says, “well, he is, isn't he?” I am reminded that I am an ex-patriot living in a country that sees things very differently than my own.
3. Yesterday, while sitting on the bus waiting at a red light, Esteban and I are entertained by a man on a unicycle juggling fire. It is the middle of the day, in the middle of the street. I think, “only in Chile.”
4. On the metro today I sat across from a little black boy whose laugh was absolutely contagious. He was maybe five years old and he had me, his dad and the man next to him smiling and laughing along with him.
5. Joel and I playing Frisbee in Las Lillas the first time. The father and son who stopped to stare, the jogger who slowed his pace to see what we were doing, the dog that ran in to catch it. Joel and I sitting on our airplane blanket after. They've got to play Frisbee in Chile.... right?
6.Karaoke in Geo pub. A consequence of Never-neverland. I'd never do that in the states. Or perhaps in was the office.
7. The walk to Bridge Linguatec from my apartment. The vibrant pink of the bougainvilleas, thick and lush on every gate and wall. The men sweeping their sidewalks with a broom. The other men waiting to park a car for a few monedas. The lady asking me for directions. The day I knew I lived in Santiago. And me able to answer her.
8. Chess in the plaza with Joel. Our tiny travel set magnetic pieces on the giant table sized boards. Los viejos gathering around us, staring at one another, and slowly chuckling, nudging their partners to take a look at the crazy gringos.
Moments in Fort Collins
1. The morning of the first big snow of the year. Marty and I bundled up, making snow angels in the backyard, throwing snowballs for the neighbor's dog to chase. Walking through the streets of our neighborhood. Quiet. Snow melting as it reached my nose.
2. Sitting on our back porch, 10 or 11 at night. The lightening show just for us. The thunder that didn't end. Our hands held across the chairs. He leans in and kisses me.
3. Sitting on the couch. Pisco tears by. Marty says, “have fun.” I think, be back by midnight. The closest we may come to kids.
4. The drive back from the show. Laying flat in the truck bed. Watching the stars and streetlights speed by. Dropped off at the fire station, the walk home making everything new. We pause to stare up at the giant weeping willow, we, every other day, would take for granted.
5. Breakfast at Lucille's. Bloody Mary's that serve as appetizers. Seats on the deck. Cutie-pie our server again.
Moments in Santiago
I've been spending a long weekend in Ward Colorado. My boyfriend is doing some work on a friend's house and I am using the time to write. Inspiration abounds in the mountains. The first day I found myself going through all my old writing, dating back to 1998, when I was a creative writing student at Colorado State University. Those have been interesting, if not funny to look at now. I stumbled upon what is to follow in a notebook. The first four moments were written on January 25, 2004, while I was still living in Santiago. The rest were written yesterday.
Moments in Santiago
1. Dan and I walk down Lota and see a motorized bicycle riding down El Bosque. We both look at each other and laugh. Dan comments on the speed in which in travels. I say I've never seen that before.
2. While walking from one ministry to the next trying to get the paperwork for my boletas, I see on a wall a message stamped in black repeating itself every ten inches or so. “Bush es el terroista,” it said over and over again. I point this out to Rene and he says, “well, he is, isn't he?” I am reminded that I am an ex-patriot living in a country that sees things very differently than my own.
3. Yesterday, while sitting on the bus waiting at a red light, Esteban and I are entertained by a man on a unicycle juggling fire. It is the middle of the day, in the middle of the street. I think, “only in Chile.”
4. On the metro today I sat across from a little black boy whose laugh was absolutely contagious. He was maybe five years old and he had me, his dad and the man next to him smiling and laughing along with him.
5. Joel and I playing Frisbee in Las Lillas the first time. The father and son who stopped to stare, the jogger who slowed his pace to see what we were doing, the dog that ran in to catch it. Joel and I sitting on our airplane blanket after. They've got to play Frisbee in Chile.... right?
6.Karaoke in Geo pub. A consequence of Never-neverland. I'd never do that in the states. Or perhaps in was the office.
7. The walk to Bridge Linguatec from my apartment. The vibrant pink of the bougainvilleas, thick and lush on every gate and wall. The men sweeping their sidewalks with a broom. The other men waiting to park a car for a few monedas. The lady asking me for directions. The day I knew I lived in Santiago. And me able to answer her.
8. Chess in the plaza with Joel. Our tiny travel set magnetic pieces on the giant table sized boards. Los viejos gathering around us, staring at one another, and slowly chuckling, nudging their partners to take a look at the crazy gringos.
Moments in Fort Collins
1. The morning of the first big snow of the year. Marty and I bundled up, making snow angels in the backyard, throwing snowballs for the neighbor's dog to chase. Walking through the streets of our neighborhood. Quiet. Snow melting as it reached my nose.
2. Sitting on our back porch, 10 or 11 at night. The lightening show just for us. The thunder that didn't end. Our hands held across the chairs. He leans in and kisses me.
3. Sitting on the couch. Pisco tears by. Marty says, “have fun.” I think, be back by midnight. The closest we may come to kids.
4. The drive back from the show. Laying flat in the truck bed. Watching the stars and streetlights speed by. Dropped off at the fire station, the walk home making everything new. We pause to stare up at the giant weeping willow, we, every other day, would take for granted.
5. Breakfast at Lucille's. Bloody Mary's that serve as appetizers. Seats on the deck. Cutie-pie our server again.
Moments in Santiago
1. Dan and I walk down Lota and see a motorized bicycle riding down El Bosque. We both look at each other and laugh. Dan comments on the speed in which in travels. I say I've never seen that before.
2. While walking from one ministry to the next trying to get the paperwork for my boletas, I see on a wall a message stamped in black repeating itself every ten inches or so. “Bush es el terroista,” it said over and over again. I point this out to Rene and he says, “well, he is, isn't he?” I am reminded that I am an ex-patriot living in a country that sees things very differently than my own.
3. Yesterday, while sitting on the bus waiting at a red light, Esteban and I are entertained by a man on a unicycle juggling fire. It is the middle of the day, in the middle of the street. I think, “only in Chile.”
4. On the metro today I sat across from a little black boy whose laugh was absolutely contagious. He was maybe five years old and he had me, his dad and the man next to him smiling and laughing along with him.
5. Joel and I playing Frisbee in Las Lillas the first time. The father and son who stopped to stare, the jogger who slowed his pace to see what we were doing, the dog that ran in to catch it. Joel and I sitting on our airplane blanket after. They've got to play Frisbee in Chile.... right?
6.Karaoke in Geo pub. A consequence of Never-neverland. I'd never do that in the states. Or perhaps in was the office.
7. The walk to Bridge Linguatec from my apartment. The vibrant pink of the bougainvilleas, thick and lush on every gate and wall. The men sweeping their sidewalks with a broom. The other men waiting to park a car for a few monedas. The lady asking me for directions. The day I knew I lived in Santiago. And me able to answer her.
8. Chess in the plaza with Joel. Our tiny travel set magnetic pieces on the giant table sized boards. Los viejos gathering around us, staring at one another, and slowly chuckling, nudging their partners to take a look at the crazy gringos.
Moments in Fort Collins
1. The morning of the first big snow of the year. Marty and I bundled up, making snow angels in the backyard, throwing snowballs for the neighbor's dog to chase. Walking through the streets of our neighborhood. Quiet. Snow melting as it reached my nose.
2. Sitting on our back porch, 10 or 11 at night. The lightening show just for us. The thunder that didn't end. Our hands held across the chairs. He leans in and kisses me.
3. Sitting on the couch. Pisco tears by. Marty says, “have fun.” I think, be back by midnight. The closest we may come to kids.
4. The drive back from the show. Laying flat in the truck bed. Watching the stars and streetlights speed by. Dropped off at the fire station, the walk home making everything new. We pause to stare up at the giant weeping willow, we, every other day, would take for granted.
5. Breakfast at Lucille's. Bloody Mary's that serve as appetizers. Seats on the deck. Cutie-pie our server again.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Never-neverland
There's a reason that people who live abroad, live abroad. Instead of living in whatever country it is, you are really living in a place more aptly named Never-Neverland. There is a sense while abroad in which you do not age, you do not suffer consequences and until you return to the aptly named “real world,” you can be whoever you want to be, because no one is around to know the difference.
I never really took advantage of the latter in either of my living abroad experiences. I always found it harder to be someone other than me. As Mark Twain once said, “If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything,” I guess I have a bad memory.
I did however reap the other benefits of Never-Neverland. Though I'm not sure reap is the right word. I turned 30 in Honduras. I remember thinking, before I was certain I was leaving, when I still thought I'd be stuck in the US of A, how horrible it would be to turn 30 in the states. Somehow, I had this feeling that it would be so much more significant, perhaps worthwhile, to grow older in another country. The idea of staying in one place was completely unappealing to me and my birthday seemed to amplify that notion.
At nearly 30 years old, I was the oldest in our endearingly named row of houses, The Compound, the fellow teachers and I lived. I took solace in the fact that the really old teachers lived by themselves and so I, was therefore, not the oldest of all the teachers, just those in the compound. I suppose it was little solace.
Perhaps it was their youth that I reveled in, perhaps it was simply being around those who did not know from where I came. If I wanted to, I could have very easily lied about my age, told everyone I was a ripe, young, 25 -year -old, exploring the world. I could have let my other two friends, only months my junior take my place in seniority. But simply being there was enough for me to be ok with turning 30. If one has to turn 30, they should surely do it in another country.
Lets talk about consequences. There are certain rules in the states that do not apply in most of the rest of the world.... yet. I used to tell people when they would ask me why on earth I was moving to Honduras, that I was moving so that I could smoke where ever the hell I damn well pleased. My departure date aligned with the start date of the no smoking ban in Colorado Springs. I had, before than, somehow avoided the law in the states. I continued this avoidance through my arrival back in the states in Chicago a year later, a welcome, welcome, till I arrived in Colorado the next day. A right I had managed to keep all my life, was finally taken from me. I found that reason enough to live abroad at the time.
When you're abroad it is easy to think of it as a very long vacation. We all know, on vacation we do things we might not normally do at home. It is, after all, supposed to be a break, is it not? It is hard to lose that mentality while living abroad. You have very little sense of permanency, especially in the first year or so, and so you live as though you are permanently on vacation. I must admit, not exactly a bad way to live.
Abroad, I smoked when I wanted to, drank too much and often, stayed out too late and ate whatever I wanted to, or could. Not having a car, and, therefore, having to walk nearly everywhere, made up for the latter. I was always amazed when I would put on a pair of jeans, and they still fit. I was even more amazed, whenever I might find a scale, to find that I had not gained any weight.
My other vices were more of a problem. The party aspect of living abroad was always appealing to me. I somehow found a way to rationalize all the things I could not have rationalized in the states. You can't get cancer in Chile right? You can't get fired, or piss off a best friend in a foreign country. Drinking too much isn't a problem when you've got no one holding you accountable. My jobs never suffered from my late night shenanigans because it was often me who treated them as more important than my employers. Another fact to add to the Never-neverland effect. Yes, I had a job, but no, it was not exactly a priority. My jobs were simply a means of getting me to the next country. And it seemed, most employers knew this. They'd take what they could get. Especially if the resume said I was good at what I do. And I was. I was good enough to do it half assed day in and day out and still impress the bosses.
In the states my job was career, in Honduras and Chile my jobs were a joke. My jobs were a way to a pay check, which I saved month to month so I could eventually quit and travel some more. And I did. In Chile I traveled south through Argentina and Chile, zig zagging my way to El Fin Del Mundo, Ushuaia Argentina and eventually making it all the way to Antarctica. I traveled north to Peru and east to Uruguay. In Honduras I traveled first north to Guatemala and then south, to El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. I knocked out all of Central America except for Belize. Another time I told myself.
I suppose this Never-neverland is what I still dream of now. Here in the states, where my job is a career, my boyfriend is the same guy I go to sleep with every night and my cats need feeding every day, it is easy to get comfortable. In fact I think I have, and this scares me a bit. Ok, a lot. I think there is nothing in this world more frightening than being complacent. So I dream, I find places to go and travel and see and I plan. And while I may not ever live abroad again, unless I can figure out a way to get my cats and my boyfriend there, I will most certainly continue to travel; and travel, even more so than living abroad, feels a lot like Never -neverland.
I never really took advantage of the latter in either of my living abroad experiences. I always found it harder to be someone other than me. As Mark Twain once said, “If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything,” I guess I have a bad memory.
I did however reap the other benefits of Never-Neverland. Though I'm not sure reap is the right word. I turned 30 in Honduras. I remember thinking, before I was certain I was leaving, when I still thought I'd be stuck in the US of A, how horrible it would be to turn 30 in the states. Somehow, I had this feeling that it would be so much more significant, perhaps worthwhile, to grow older in another country. The idea of staying in one place was completely unappealing to me and my birthday seemed to amplify that notion.
At nearly 30 years old, I was the oldest in our endearingly named row of houses, The Compound, the fellow teachers and I lived. I took solace in the fact that the really old teachers lived by themselves and so I, was therefore, not the oldest of all the teachers, just those in the compound. I suppose it was little solace.
Perhaps it was their youth that I reveled in, perhaps it was simply being around those who did not know from where I came. If I wanted to, I could have very easily lied about my age, told everyone I was a ripe, young, 25 -year -old, exploring the world. I could have let my other two friends, only months my junior take my place in seniority. But simply being there was enough for me to be ok with turning 30. If one has to turn 30, they should surely do it in another country.
Lets talk about consequences. There are certain rules in the states that do not apply in most of the rest of the world.... yet. I used to tell people when they would ask me why on earth I was moving to Honduras, that I was moving so that I could smoke where ever the hell I damn well pleased. My departure date aligned with the start date of the no smoking ban in Colorado Springs. I had, before than, somehow avoided the law in the states. I continued this avoidance through my arrival back in the states in Chicago a year later, a welcome, welcome, till I arrived in Colorado the next day. A right I had managed to keep all my life, was finally taken from me. I found that reason enough to live abroad at the time.
When you're abroad it is easy to think of it as a very long vacation. We all know, on vacation we do things we might not normally do at home. It is, after all, supposed to be a break, is it not? It is hard to lose that mentality while living abroad. You have very little sense of permanency, especially in the first year or so, and so you live as though you are permanently on vacation. I must admit, not exactly a bad way to live.
Abroad, I smoked when I wanted to, drank too much and often, stayed out too late and ate whatever I wanted to, or could. Not having a car, and, therefore, having to walk nearly everywhere, made up for the latter. I was always amazed when I would put on a pair of jeans, and they still fit. I was even more amazed, whenever I might find a scale, to find that I had not gained any weight.
My other vices were more of a problem. The party aspect of living abroad was always appealing to me. I somehow found a way to rationalize all the things I could not have rationalized in the states. You can't get cancer in Chile right? You can't get fired, or piss off a best friend in a foreign country. Drinking too much isn't a problem when you've got no one holding you accountable. My jobs never suffered from my late night shenanigans because it was often me who treated them as more important than my employers. Another fact to add to the Never-neverland effect. Yes, I had a job, but no, it was not exactly a priority. My jobs were simply a means of getting me to the next country. And it seemed, most employers knew this. They'd take what they could get. Especially if the resume said I was good at what I do. And I was. I was good enough to do it half assed day in and day out and still impress the bosses.
In the states my job was career, in Honduras and Chile my jobs were a joke. My jobs were a way to a pay check, which I saved month to month so I could eventually quit and travel some more. And I did. In Chile I traveled south through Argentina and Chile, zig zagging my way to El Fin Del Mundo, Ushuaia Argentina and eventually making it all the way to Antarctica. I traveled north to Peru and east to Uruguay. In Honduras I traveled first north to Guatemala and then south, to El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. I knocked out all of Central America except for Belize. Another time I told myself.
I suppose this Never-neverland is what I still dream of now. Here in the states, where my job is a career, my boyfriend is the same guy I go to sleep with every night and my cats need feeding every day, it is easy to get comfortable. In fact I think I have, and this scares me a bit. Ok, a lot. I think there is nothing in this world more frightening than being complacent. So I dream, I find places to go and travel and see and I plan. And while I may not ever live abroad again, unless I can figure out a way to get my cats and my boyfriend there, I will most certainly continue to travel; and travel, even more so than living abroad, feels a lot like Never -neverland.
Never-neverland
There's a reason that people who live abroad, live abroad. Instead of living in whatever country it is, you are really living in a place more aptly named Never-Neverland. There is a sense while abroad in which you do not age, you do not suffer consequences and until you return to the aptly named “real world,” you can be whoever you want to be, because no one is around to know the difference.
I never really took advantage of the latter in either of my living abroad experiences. I always found it harder to be someone other than me. As Mark Twain once said, “If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything,” I guess I have a bad memory.
I did however reap the other benefits of Never-Neverland. Though I'm not sure reap is the right word. I turned 30 in Honduras. I remember thinking, before I was certain I was leaving, when I still thought I'd be stuck in the US of A, how horrible it would be to turn 30 in the states. Somehow, I had this feeling that it would be so much more significant, perhaps worthwhile, to grow older in another country. The idea of staying in one place was completely unappealing to me and my birthday seemed to amplify that notion.
At nearly 30 years old, I was the oldest in our endearingly named row of houses, The Compound, the fellow teachers and I lived. I took solace in the fact that the really old teachers lived by themselves and so I, was therefore, not the oldest of all the teachers, just those in the compound. I suppose it was little solace.
Perhaps it was their youth that I reveled in, perhaps it was simply being around those who did not know from where I came. If I wanted to, I could have very easily lied about my age, told everyone I was a ripe, young, 25 -year -old, exploring the world. I could have let my other two friends, only months my junior take my place in seniority. But simply being there was enough for me to be ok with turning 30. If one has to turn 30, they should surely do it in another country.
Lets talk about consequences. There are certain rules in the states that do not apply in most of the rest of the world.... yet. I used to tell people when they would ask me why on earth I was moving to Honduras, that I was moving so that I could smoke where ever the hell I damn well pleased. My departure date aligned with the start date of the no smoking ban in Colorado Springs. I had, before than, somehow avoided the law in the states. I continued this avoidance through my arrival back in the states in Chicago a year later, a welcome, welcome, till I arrived in Colorado the next day. A right I had managed to keep all my life, was finally taken from me. I found that reason enough to live abroad at the time.
When you're abroad it is easy to think of it as a very long vacation. We all know, on vacation we do things we might not normally do at home. It is, after all, supposed to be a break, is it not? It is hard to lose that mentality while living abroad. You have very little sense of permanency, especially in the first year or so, and so you live as though you are permanently on vacation. I must admit, not exactly a bad way to live.
Abroad, I smoked when I wanted to, drank too much and often, stayed out too late and ate whatever I wanted to, or could. Not having a car, and, therefore, having to walk nearly everywhere, made up for the latter. I was always amazed when I would put on a pair of jeans, and they still fit. I was even more amazed, whenever I might find a scale, to find that I had not gained any weight.
My other vices were more of a problem. The party aspect of living abroad was always appealing to me. I somehow found a way to rationalize all the things I could not have rationalized in the states. You can't get cancer in Chile right? You can't get fired, or piss off a best friend in a foreign country. Drinking too much isn't a problem when you've got no one holding you accountable. My jobs never suffered from my late night shenanigans because it was often me who treated them as more important than my employers. Another fact to add to the Never-neverland effect. Yes, I had a job, but no, it was not exactly a priority. My jobs were simply a means of getting me to the next country. And it seemed, most employers knew this. They'd take what they could get. Especially if the resume said I was good at what I do. And I was. I was good enough to do it half assed day in and day out and still impress the bosses.
In the states my job was career, in Honduras and Chile my jobs were a joke. My jobs were a way to a pay check, which I saved month to month so I could eventually quit and travel some more. And I did. In Chile I traveled south through Argentina and Chile, zig zagging my way to El Fin Del Mundo, Ushuaia Argentina and eventually making it all the way to Antarctica. I traveled north to Peru and east to Uruguay. In Honduras I traveled first north to Guatemala and then south, to El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. I knocked out all of Central America except for Belize. Another time I told myself.
I suppose this Never-neverland is what I still dream of now. Here in the states, where my job is a career, my boyfriend is the same guy I go to sleep with every night and my cats need feeding every day, it is easy to get comfortable. In fact I think I have, and this scares me a bit. Ok, a lot. I think there is nothing in this world more frightening than being complacent. So I dream, I find places to go and travel and see and I plan. And while I may not ever live abroad again, unless I can figure out a way to get my cats and my boyfriend there, I will most certainly continue to travel; and travel, even more so than living abroad, feels a lot like Never -neverland.
I never really took advantage of the latter in either of my living abroad experiences. I always found it harder to be someone other than me. As Mark Twain once said, “If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything,” I guess I have a bad memory.
I did however reap the other benefits of Never-Neverland. Though I'm not sure reap is the right word. I turned 30 in Honduras. I remember thinking, before I was certain I was leaving, when I still thought I'd be stuck in the US of A, how horrible it would be to turn 30 in the states. Somehow, I had this feeling that it would be so much more significant, perhaps worthwhile, to grow older in another country. The idea of staying in one place was completely unappealing to me and my birthday seemed to amplify that notion.
At nearly 30 years old, I was the oldest in our endearingly named row of houses, The Compound, the fellow teachers and I lived. I took solace in the fact that the really old teachers lived by themselves and so I, was therefore, not the oldest of all the teachers, just those in the compound. I suppose it was little solace.
Perhaps it was their youth that I reveled in, perhaps it was simply being around those who did not know from where I came. If I wanted to, I could have very easily lied about my age, told everyone I was a ripe, young, 25 -year -old, exploring the world. I could have let my other two friends, only months my junior take my place in seniority. But simply being there was enough for me to be ok with turning 30. If one has to turn 30, they should surely do it in another country.
Lets talk about consequences. There are certain rules in the states that do not apply in most of the rest of the world.... yet. I used to tell people when they would ask me why on earth I was moving to Honduras, that I was moving so that I could smoke where ever the hell I damn well pleased. My departure date aligned with the start date of the no smoking ban in Colorado Springs. I had, before than, somehow avoided the law in the states. I continued this avoidance through my arrival back in the states in Chicago a year later, a welcome, welcome, till I arrived in Colorado the next day. A right I had managed to keep all my life, was finally taken from me. I found that reason enough to live abroad at the time.
When you're abroad it is easy to think of it as a very long vacation. We all know, on vacation we do things we might not normally do at home. It is, after all, supposed to be a break, is it not? It is hard to lose that mentality while living abroad. You have very little sense of permanency, especially in the first year or so, and so you live as though you are permanently on vacation. I must admit, not exactly a bad way to live.
Abroad, I smoked when I wanted to, drank too much and often, stayed out too late and ate whatever I wanted to, or could. Not having a car, and, therefore, having to walk nearly everywhere, made up for the latter. I was always amazed when I would put on a pair of jeans, and they still fit. I was even more amazed, whenever I might find a scale, to find that I had not gained any weight.
My other vices were more of a problem. The party aspect of living abroad was always appealing to me. I somehow found a way to rationalize all the things I could not have rationalized in the states. You can't get cancer in Chile right? You can't get fired, or piss off a best friend in a foreign country. Drinking too much isn't a problem when you've got no one holding you accountable. My jobs never suffered from my late night shenanigans because it was often me who treated them as more important than my employers. Another fact to add to the Never-neverland effect. Yes, I had a job, but no, it was not exactly a priority. My jobs were simply a means of getting me to the next country. And it seemed, most employers knew this. They'd take what they could get. Especially if the resume said I was good at what I do. And I was. I was good enough to do it half assed day in and day out and still impress the bosses.
In the states my job was career, in Honduras and Chile my jobs were a joke. My jobs were a way to a pay check, which I saved month to month so I could eventually quit and travel some more. And I did. In Chile I traveled south through Argentina and Chile, zig zagging my way to El Fin Del Mundo, Ushuaia Argentina and eventually making it all the way to Antarctica. I traveled north to Peru and east to Uruguay. In Honduras I traveled first north to Guatemala and then south, to El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. I knocked out all of Central America except for Belize. Another time I told myself.
I suppose this Never-neverland is what I still dream of now. Here in the states, where my job is a career, my boyfriend is the same guy I go to sleep with every night and my cats need feeding every day, it is easy to get comfortable. In fact I think I have, and this scares me a bit. Ok, a lot. I think there is nothing in this world more frightening than being complacent. So I dream, I find places to go and travel and see and I plan. And while I may not ever live abroad again, unless I can figure out a way to get my cats and my boyfriend there, I will most certainly continue to travel; and travel, even more so than living abroad, feels a lot like Never -neverland.
Friday, May 13, 2011
NOV. 4, 2009-May 13, 2011
What if she could? What if she had to?
She would run away. That’s what she’d do and she knew it, from the first day. If they broke up she would run away. She’d run back to the life she was leading before he came along. Back to the life which was hers, a life before love was found. It was as if that life was on hold. Like the pause button had been hit and was waiting to resume, right where she left off. She was too scared, or perhaps to aware, to give it up fully. To let it go completely.
So she held on to fragments of a life she once thought would be forever. A seashell from the beach in Puerto Viejo, a faded photo of a boy whose name she could no longer recall, a lapiz lazuli necklace no longer worn, but kept separately in its own special box, a postcard she never sent. These trinkets remained, while her life in the states moved forward.
That life she once led was not bad. In fact, it was all she knew until him. It was her trademark, this running and going. It wasn’t that she was running from something, like everyone would ask, but rather running to something. She was running to the newness, the adventure, the possibility. Though this time she would most certainly be running from him, and from this and from whatever horrible thing would have to happen in order for a break up to occur. She knew all this from the first day.
It wasn't such a bad thing to run from something she rationalized. At least one could run when things got to be too much. She looked it running as a type of resource, if all else failed, here was this option here, she could run. It was something she already knew she was good at. Too bad she couldn't put it on her resume, under skills perhaps.
But love happened, and loved seemed as good a reason as any to stay. She never counted on love. Not for a second really. In fact, she had pretty much adjusted to a life without love and was able to fill it with everything else good; like adventure and culture and the thrill of new places and things and people. This thrilled her; she did not need love to be thrilled, she had told herself, though she knew it was simple an excuse.
What she hadn’t known, because she could not know, was how different a thrill love was. Love knocked her off her feet. It made her stay in one place for the first time in her life. And most of the time she wanted to be there. So what if that will be the reason? So what if her passion for life and travel will be the cause of their demise?
Everything is temporary. If you really think about it, everything ends eventually, she thought. Nothing lasts. She had always had a very keen sense of the temporary-ness of things. Sometimes it is a blessing, other times a curse. When you live with this knowledge you begin to recognize the good times and enjoy them more, because, even if no one else knows, you know that this too will end. So she would enjoy it while she could.
“This too shall pass,” an adage that people give as advice when others are going through rough times, brings on a whole new meaning when you think of the temporary-ness of life. She knew to use it for the good and the bad. She didn’t get wrapped up in good times, because they too shall pass. She considered herself lucky to have come to this realization so young. The whole idea that, without hate there is no love, was prominent in her mind. The natural progression of that was to understand it in all situations. With the great times comes the bad times. We must not get too comfortable.
She adopted a cat. A week into their relationship, she adopted a cat. She had been planning it for a long while. She had searched on line at all the different shelters until she found the one. She showed up early at Petsmart and brought a friend. Good thing, otherwise her cat, the one she had picked out on line through pictures, would have been snatched right out of her hands whilst she was filling out paper work.
If he had known her better then, he would have understood what this truly meant. He would have known that though she was the biggest animal lover anyone had ever met, she never had any of her own. She was ok with simply loving the various cats and dogs and rabbits that came along with the roommates whose lives she came in and out of. Not having animals meant being able to leave when she wanted to. She would never leave an animal behind. Never take on the responsibility only to let it go when she needed to leave. So, even though she longed to have a companion of her own, she gave up the most important thing to her, to have the next: the freedom to come and go.
If he’d known her better then, he would have understood that adopting her cat meant more than life with hairballs and meows. That really, it meant she was finally going to stay in one place for a bit. Because now, in her leaving fantasy,she had to some how figure out what she was going to do with her cat. And leaving her was never an option, nor was putting her on a plane and risking the mistreatment she might incur.
What gave her satisfaction, was knowing that this decision to adopt, and thus stay in the United States, was made before he came along. She had been planning it since she had first returned to the country. She was making decisions for herself and they included not leaving for the first time. They included staying and making a life and putting down roots, something her mother had wanted for her all along. And, for the first time, she truly believed she did not need, nor want, to leave. Of course part of this decision had to do with the fact that she actually did want to find love. She knew that the more she kept leaving, the less likely she was to find it. And she turned out to be right.
He was beginning to change the way she saw the world. And she had seen much of the world. She was beginning to get wrapped up in the good times. There seemed to be so many of them with him. But she knew that with the good times, comes the bad times. And though they were minimal the idea of them happening, which surely they would, terrified her. So she held onto the mementos of her past life and would take them out of their hiding places any time things began to get to be too much or too small. She'd sit with her cat on her lap and tell her stories of a life not so long ago. Remembering every detail she could as she sorted through the keepsakes.
She had found that people soon tire of hearing stories of the glory days, but her cat never did. She had stories no human had ever heard, though she longed to share them with him. She knew they were a burden to those she shared them with, a reminder of a life not chosen, stories to make you wish you were there and then regret every decision that led you to this life and not that one. Regret is such a funny thing she thought. She was happy she had none.
No one ever understands the difficulty of staying when they've never left. Staying for them is a relief, not a burden. She was finding it harder and harder to remain. Not because things were bad but because things were ceasing to be new. Many people are comfortable with the same 'ol same 'ol, but a traveler can never be. Perhaps it is the curse of the wanderer; feeling at home everywhere, except where you should.
So she holds on, she remains, she dreams and she wonders. And things are just good enough to every so often forget that this too shall pass.
What if she could? What if she had to?
She would run away. That’s what she’d do and she knew it, from the first day. If they broke up she would run away. She’d run back to the life she was leading before he came along. Back to the life which was hers, a life before love was found. It was as if that life was on hold. Like the pause button had been hit and was waiting to resume, right where she left off. She was too scared, or perhaps to aware, to give it up fully. To let it go completely.
So she held on to fragments of a life she once thought would be forever. A seashell from the beach in Puerto Viejo, a faded photo of a boy whose name she could no longer recall, a lapiz lazuli necklace no longer worn, but kept separately in its own special box, a postcard she never sent. These trinkets remained, while her life in the states moved forward.
That life she once led was not bad. In fact, it was all she knew until him. It was her trademark, this running and going. It wasn’t that she was running from something, like everyone would ask, but rather running to something. She was running to the newness, the adventure, the possibility. Though this time she would most certainly be running from him, and from this and from whatever horrible thing would have to happen in order for a break up to occur. She knew all this from the first day.
It wasn't such a bad thing to run from something she rationalized. At least one could run when things got to be too much. She looked it running as a type of resource, if all else failed, here was this option here, she could run. It was something she already knew she was good at. Too bad she couldn't put it on her resume, under skills perhaps.
But love happened, and loved seemed as good a reason as any to stay. She never counted on love. Not for a second really. In fact, she had pretty much adjusted to a life without love and was able to fill it with everything else good; like adventure and culture and the thrill of new places and things and people. This thrilled her; she did not need love to be thrilled, she had told herself, though she knew it was simple an excuse.
What she hadn’t known, because she could not know, was how different a thrill love was. Love knocked her off her feet. It made her stay in one place for the first time in her life. And most of the time she wanted to be there. So what if that will be the reason? So what if her passion for life and travel will be the cause of their demise?
Everything is temporary. If you really think about it, everything ends eventually, she thought. Nothing lasts. She had always had a very keen sense of the temporary-ness of things. Sometimes it is a blessing, other times a curse. When you live with this knowledge you begin to recognize the good times and enjoy them more, because, even if no one else knows, you know that this too will end. So she would enjoy it while she could.
“This too shall pass,” an adage that people give as advice when others are going through rough times, brings on a whole new meaning when you think of the temporary-ness of life. She knew to use it for the good and the bad. She didn’t get wrapped up in good times, because they too shall pass. She considered herself lucky to have come to this realization so young. The whole idea that, without hate there is no love, was prominent in her mind. The natural progression of that was to understand it in all situations. With the great times comes the bad times. We must not get too comfortable.
She adopted a cat. A week into their relationship, she adopted a cat. She had been planning it for a long while. She had searched on line at all the different shelters until she found the one. She showed up early at Petsmart and brought a friend. Good thing, otherwise her cat, the one she had picked out on line through pictures, would have been snatched right out of her hands whilst she was filling out paper work.
If he had known her better then, he would have understood what this truly meant. He would have known that though she was the biggest animal lover anyone had ever met, she never had any of her own. She was ok with simply loving the various cats and dogs and rabbits that came along with the roommates whose lives she came in and out of. Not having animals meant being able to leave when she wanted to. She would never leave an animal behind. Never take on the responsibility only to let it go when she needed to leave. So, even though she longed to have a companion of her own, she gave up the most important thing to her, to have the next: the freedom to come and go.
If he’d known her better then, he would have understood that adopting her cat meant more than life with hairballs and meows. That really, it meant she was finally going to stay in one place for a bit. Because now, in her leaving fantasy,she had to some how figure out what she was going to do with her cat. And leaving her was never an option, nor was putting her on a plane and risking the mistreatment she might incur.
What gave her satisfaction, was knowing that this decision to adopt, and thus stay in the United States, was made before he came along. She had been planning it since she had first returned to the country. She was making decisions for herself and they included not leaving for the first time. They included staying and making a life and putting down roots, something her mother had wanted for her all along. And, for the first time, she truly believed she did not need, nor want, to leave. Of course part of this decision had to do with the fact that she actually did want to find love. She knew that the more she kept leaving, the less likely she was to find it. And she turned out to be right.
He was beginning to change the way she saw the world. And she had seen much of the world. She was beginning to get wrapped up in the good times. There seemed to be so many of them with him. But she knew that with the good times, comes the bad times. And though they were minimal the idea of them happening, which surely they would, terrified her. So she held onto the mementos of her past life and would take them out of their hiding places any time things began to get to be too much or too small. She'd sit with her cat on her lap and tell her stories of a life not so long ago. Remembering every detail she could as she sorted through the keepsakes.
She had found that people soon tire of hearing stories of the glory days, but her cat never did. She had stories no human had ever heard, though she longed to share them with him. She knew they were a burden to those she shared them with, a reminder of a life not chosen, stories to make you wish you were there and then regret every decision that led you to this life and not that one. Regret is such a funny thing she thought. She was happy she had none.
No one ever understands the difficulty of staying when they've never left. Staying for them is a relief, not a burden. She was finding it harder and harder to remain. Not because things were bad but because things were ceasing to be new. Many people are comfortable with the same 'ol same 'ol, but a traveler can never be. Perhaps it is the curse of the wanderer; feeling at home everywhere, except where you should.
So she holds on, she remains, she dreams and she wonders. And things are just good enough to every so often forget that this too shall pass.
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