Solo

The first time I traveled solo was in Europe.  I was 21 years old.  It was my third time in Italy, and I figured having traveled there twice before might make it easier for me to go it alone. Our ship docked in Civitavecchia, a tiny port town less than an hour by train to Rome. 

 Traveling on my own was scary and exhilarating and exciting and frustrating, but it was something I had wanted to do for a long time. By this time I knew travel was going to be an important part of my life, and so I thought I might as well find out what I was made of now.  Italywas one of our last stops on our around the world voyage, and I was eager for the challenge after already putting eight countries under my belt. I wouldn’t say I was confident, but I was certain.

 I took the train to Rome, not necessarily alone.  No one from the ship was staying in Civitavecchia, we were all headed elsewhere, on the same train.  I found a hostel and dropped my bag. I took to the streets and was bombarded by sights and sounds I had forgotten from my two previous visits there. I found a pizza shop I was certain I’d eaten in before.  A gelato I had devoured in the past.  It’s a funny thing the things you remember when you think you will never return. 

 I’d run into fellow passengers along the cobbled streets; not an unusual occurrence when 600 students are set loose in a port.  And in this sense I was not completely on my own. I recommended a hostel to two guys from the ship and received a discount when they showed up for a room. I was particularly proud of this. Somehow, to me, it meant I was at ease alone in a place I wasn’t sure I should be.  That moment, more than any other in the five days I spent on my own in Rome, proved to me that I could do this.
 

Since then, nearly everywhere I’ve ever traveled, I’ve traveled alone, including two months traveling in the south of Chileand Argentina, two weeks traveling to Antarctica, and two months in Central America.  When I tell friends or strangers that I am going to Puerto Rico or Colombiathe first question out of their mouths is, “with who?” They are shocked and surprised when I say, “no one,” or “myself.” I suppose I’ve not found a very good answer to that question.  Not one suitable to the person asking anyway.  They are not sure how to react to this bit of information.  They’d never do that. Aren’t I scared? Worried? Nervous? Won’t I get lonely?

 The truth is, each time I go, I am a little nervous in the days leading up to the trip.  I worry that I’ll get lost, or the language barrier will be too much, or maybe I will get lonely.  I chalk this up simply to the anticipation of the trip.  But pretty much, by the time I get to whatever hostel I find, I’m good. I got this. The excitement of exploring a new city, a new culture overwhelms any fear I might have had.

 Instead of being lonely, I welcome the solitude. I read whole books in days, I write for hours, I sit on the beach and enjoy the sound of the waves as they crash at my feet. I spend entire afternoons on outdoor patios sipping beer and watching people pass by.  I eat amazing food I can’t name and perhaps suffer the consequences later. And while I’m doing all of that, I reflect on my life and where I’ve come. I have time to be grateful and appreciate where I am.

 And while traveling on my own has other benefits that you might imagine- being on nobody else’s schedule but mine, and therefore not needing to have a schedule at all, falling in love with a place and deciding to stay longer, lingering at a waterfall that perhaps a companion would rush me from, drinking till 4 am at an Independence day celebration and sleeping till 12 with no complaints from a too gung ho pal- I am discovering with each trip I take, (and the progression in years has not escaped me here either), that I may want a friend with me to share the beauty of that waterfall, or to walk me back to the hostel after a long night at that bar by the beach. 

 I know I will continue to travel alone.  Finding someone to go on month or longer trips is not easy.  Not everyone has a great job like mine which allows me extended time off to go away. I’m also not sure many people would really want to travel the way I do.  But I also know, the more I continue going and growing, the more I want someone to share it all with. To finish the stories I return to tell. To confirm the sunset over the ocean, the wolf that crossed my path, the rum in that strange drink. To hold my hand when words are worthless.

Solo

The first time I traveled solo was in Europe.  I was 21 years old.  It was my third time in Italy, and I figured having traveled there twice before might make it easier for me to go it alone. Our ship docked in Civitavecchia, a tiny port town less than an hour by train to Rome. 

 Traveling on my own was scary and exhilarating and exciting and frustrating, but it was something I had wanted to do for a long time. By this time I knew travel was going to be an important part of my life, and so I thought I might as well find out what I was made of now.  Italy was one of our last stops on our around the world voyage, and I was eager for the challenge after already putting eight countries under my belt. I wouldn’t say I was confident, but I was certain.

 I took the train to Rome, not necessarily alone.  No one from the ship was staying in Civitavecchia, we were all headed elsewhere, on the same train.  I found a hostel and dropped my bag. I took to the streets and was bombarded by sights and sounds I had forgotten from my two previous visits there. I found a pizza shop I was certain I’d eaten in before.  A gelato I had devoured in the past.  It’s a funny thing the things you remember when you think you will never return. 

 I’d run into fellow passengers along the cobbled streets; not an unusual occurrence when 600 students are set loose in a port.  And in this sense I was not completely on my own. I recommended a hostel to two guys from the ship and received a discount when they showed up for a room. I was particularly proud of this. Somehow, to me, it meant I was at ease alone in a place I wasn’t sure I should be.  That moment, more than any other in the five days I spent on my own in Rome, proved to me that I could do this.
 

Since then, nearly everywhere I’ve ever traveled, I’ve traveled alone, including two months traveling in the south of Chile and Argentina, two weeks traveling to Antarctica, and two months in Central America.  When I tell friends or strangers that I am going to Puerto Rico or Colombia the first question out of their mouths is, “with who?” They are shocked and surprised when I say, “no one,” or “myself.” I suppose I’ve not found a very good answer to that question.  Not one suitable to the person asking anyway.  They are not sure how to react to this bit of information.  They’d never do that. Aren’t I scared? Worried? Nervous? Won’t I get lonely?

 The truth is, each time I go, I am a little nervous in the days leading up to the trip.  I worry that I’ll get lost, or the language barrier will be too much, or maybe I will get lonely.  I chalk this up simply to the anticipation of the trip.  But pretty much, by the time I get to whatever hostel I find, I’m good. I got this. The excitement of exploring a new city, a new culture overwhelms any fear I might have had.

 Instead of being lonely, I welcome the solitude. I read whole books in days, I write for hours, I sit on the beach and enjoy the sound of the waves as they crash at my feet. I spend entire afternoons on outdoor patios sipping beer and watching people pass by.  I eat amazing food I can’t name and perhaps suffer the consequences later. And while I’m doing all of that, I reflect on my life and where I’ve come. I have time to be grateful and appreciate where I am.

 And while traveling on my own has other benefits that you might imagine- being on nobody else’s schedule but mine, and therefore not needing to have a schedule at all, falling in love with a place and deciding to stay longer, lingering at a waterfall that perhaps a companion would rush me from, drinking till 4 am at an Independence day celebration and sleeping till 12 with no complaints from a too gung ho pal- I am discovering with each trip I take, (and the progression in years has not escaped me here either), that I may want a friend with me to share the beauty of that waterfall, or to walk me back to the hostel after a long night at that bar by the beach. 

 I know I will continue to travel alone.  Finding someone to go on month or longer trips is not easy.  Not everyone has a great job like mine which allows me extended time off to go away. I’m also not sure many people would really want to travel the way I do.  But I also know, the more I continue going and growing, the more I want someone to share it all with. To finish the stories I return to tell. To confirm the sunset over the ocean, the wolf that crossed my path, the rum in that strange drink. To hold my hand when words are worthless.

Semester at Sea

Ours was the Millennium voyage, the Mr. MOB voyage, the CNN voyage, or otherwise known as the voyage that changed my life.   We were going around the world, literally. A fact we reminded ourselves of in every port as we posed for pictures in front of the Great Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, with our arms above our heads in a circle; clearly the universal sign for ‘going around the world.’ 

 I knew it was a significant time of my live, I’m sure I had an inkling that it could be life changing, but I was 21 years old.  There was no way to know how truly significant it would be then. I’m not sure, even now, I fully understand the impact taking that voyage has had on me. If I had known, would I have done anything differently?

  I’m not sure how many countries I had visited when I stepped foot onto the ship, but I know I added 10 more in those three months and gained a desire and zest for travel that cannot be quenched. I am now at 43 countries and all seven continents. My ultimate goal is to travel to every country in the world.  It’s lofty I know, but so was my goal of going on Semester at Sea, and that happened.

 After Semester at Sea, I moved to Chicagofor a few years after graduating college. Then I took a TEFL course and moved to Santiago, Chile, where I taught for a year and a half. I returned to the states to get my master’s in education and then was off again; this time to Comayagua, Honduras for a year to teach high school.  I never wanted to teach before, but after Semester at Sea I knew I wanted to travel, and teaching became the way I could do that. I continue to teach ESLas CSU and remain in an international community while residing in the States, something I didn’t know was possible.   All of this, I am certain, is not a path I would have chosen were it not for one particular voyage.

 And so, when a good friend from the ship, Ron, recently posted a video of our semester around the world, a compilation of our time on the ship, which we affectionately called The Great White Mother, and our time around the various 10 countries we visited, I was in tears remembering the incredible times we had. I became so nostalgic it hurt.

 On the ship and in the months and years that followed our arrival back in the States I vowed that I would one day return to The Great White Mother, this time as a teacher.  It was pretty hard being back in the States and setting another goal of returning to the ship made things a little easier. Before disembarking at our final port in Miami, I learned that this difficulty returning home had a name, reverse culture shock. I had never heard of such a thing, yet it was something I would become very familiar with with every journey I would return ‘home’ from. It never gets easier.

 It is no longer a possibility to return to The Great White Mother, as she has been put to rest wherever it is great ships go.  But there is another ship and another voyage, isn’t there always? Ron’s video and perhaps the new year has let me return to that goal.  How did I ever get away from it?

 Directly after watching the video I got on the Semester at Sea website, well that’s not true, directly after I went outside to smoke a cigarette and compose myself. I was at work after all.  Directly after that cigarette, I came back in and got on the website. I looked at the different employment opportunities. I applied to one. I found four others I could also possibly qualify for. 

 It’s funny the way tiny reminders can bring you back to giant goals.  For me, seeing all those old friends, dear countries and the ship brought me back to a time in my life that I can now, 15 years later, say was perfect. It will always be the time in my life to which everything else is compared, and generally pales.

 I know I cannot recreate it. I’ve thought that before about returning to Chile.  And as another good friend from that time in my life pointed out, when I texted him to tell him I wanted to return to Semester as Sea and therefore needed to get my Phd, “Would they really let a PhD student go? It wouldn’t be quite the same.” I had to clarify for him, that getting my PhD would be the means by which I would become a professor on the ship, not a student.  And no, it wouldn’t be the same. Of course it wouldn’t.

 If I had known, would I have done anything differently? Probably not.  That’s the problem, isn’t it?  We’ve no way of knowing exactly what this moment or that journey is going to be for us.  We can only hope that some day, long after it is all over, we can look back and remember it the way we hoped we would before we ever started.

Semester at Sea

Ours was the Millennium voyage, the Mr. MOB voyage, the CNN voyage, or otherwise known as the voyage that changed my life.   We were going around the world, literally. A fact we reminded ourselves of in every port as we posed for pictures in front of the Great Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, with our arms above our heads in a circle; clearly the universal sign for ‘going around the world.’ 

 I knew it was a significant time of my live, I’m sure I had an inkling that it could be life changing, but I was 21 years old.  There was no way to know how truly significant it would be then. I’m not sure, even now, I fully understand the impact taking that voyage has had on me. If I had known, would I have done anything differently?

  I’m not sure how many countries I had visited when I stepped foot onto the ship, but I know I added 10 more in those three months and gained a desire and zest for travel that cannot be quenched. I am now at 43 countries and all seven continents. My ultimate goal is to travel to every country in the world.  It’s lofty I know, but so was my goal of going on Semester at Sea, and that happened.

 After Semester at Sea, I moved to Chicago for a few years after graduating college. Then I took a TEFL course and moved to Santiago, Chile, where I taught for a year and a half. I returned to the states to get my master’s in education and then was off again; this time to Comayagua, Honduras for a year to teach high school.  I never wanted to teach before, but after Semester at Sea I knew I wanted to travel, and teaching became the way I could do that. I continue to teach ESL as CSU and remain in an international community while residing in the States, something I didn’t know was possible.   All of this, I am certain, is not a path I would have chosen were it not for one particular voyage.

 And so, when a good friend from the ship, Ron, recently posted a video of our semester around the world, a compilation of our time on the ship, which we affectionately called The Great White Mother, and our time around the various 10 countries we visited, I was in tears remembering the incredible times we had. I became so nostalgic it hurt.

 On the ship and in the months and years that followed our arrival back in the States I vowed that I would one day return to The Great White Mother, this time as a teacher.  It was pretty hard being back in the States and setting another goal of returning to the ship made things a little easier. Before disembarking at our final port in Miami, I learned that this difficulty returning home had a name, reverse culture shock. I had never heard of such a thing, yet it was something I would become very familiar with with every journey I would return ‘home’ from. It never gets easier.

 It is no longer a possibility to return to The Great White Mother, as she has been put to rest wherever it is great ships go.  But there is another ship and another voyage, isn’t there always? Ron’s video and perhaps the new year has let me return to that goal.  How did I ever get away from it?

 Directly after watching the video I got on the Semester at Sea website, well that’s not true, directly after I went outside to smoke a cigarette and compose myself. I was at work after all.  Directly after that cigarette, I came back in and got on the website. I looked at the different employment opportunities. I applied to one. I found four others I could also possibly qualify for. 

 It’s funny the way tiny reminders can bring you back to giant goals.  For me, seeing all those old friends, dear countries and the ship brought me back to a time in my life that I can now, 15 years later, say was perfect. It will always be the time in my life to which everything else is compared, and generally pales.

 I know I cannot recreate it. I’ve thought that before about returning to Chile.  And as another good friend from that time in my life pointed out, when I texted him to tell him I wanted to return to Semester as Sea and therefore needed to get my Phd, “Would they really let a PhD student go? It wouldn’t be quite the same.” I had to clarify for him, that getting my PhD would be the means by which I would become a professor on the ship, not a student.  And no, it wouldn’t be the same. Of course it wouldn’t.

 If I had known, would I have done anything differently? Probably not.  That’s the problem, isn’t it?  We’ve no way of knowing exactly what this moment or that journey is going to be for us.  We can only hope that some day, long after it is all over, we can look back and remember it the way we hoped we would before we ever started.

Expired Condoms

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I’ll buy the condoms.

 

Expired Condoms

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I’ll buy the condoms.

 

You Never Regret a Swim

                                                       You Never Regret a Swim

 

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

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

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