Z is Zugspitze

The Zugspitze is the tallest mountain in Germany.  It is on the border between Germanyand Austria. Its peak measures 9,718 feet above sea level.  I visited The Zugspitze while on a family trip when I was in middle school. This blog was going to be about losing my purse there and not being able to go back and get it. It was going to be about how it was the first time I felt grown up in a bad way. The first time I experienced panic and fear. I didn’t know what else to write about and I needed a Z.

I needed a Z because I am almost finished with this A-Z challenge. But now I know what I will write about when I write about The Zugspitze. I will write about accomplishment.  I didn’t climb to the top of The Zugspitze, that’s not the kind of family I was ever a part of. We simply went to the visitor’s center, probably taking some sort of gondola up and witnessing spectacular views on the way. We didn’t work hard to get to the top, we simply paid a few Francs and were on our way.

I am sure several people have climbed to the top.  And it reminds me of a quote I heard from a guy I met traveling in Montezuma, Costa Rica- “The view from the top looks better when you’ve worked hard to get there.”  We appreciate things so much more when we’ve had to work hard to get there. I tell my ESL students all the time, “don’t translate. You’ll remember it more if you’ve worked hard to discover the answer.”

Our sense of achievement is directly related to our effort.  It is much more satisfying to complete something, reach a goal, finish a project when you know you worked hard, put your best effort into it and couldn’t have done more.

That’s kind of how I feel about this A-Z challenge. When I started out, I wasn’t even sure I could or would be able to do it. It was something I wanted to do to see if I could. Could I write a blog nearly every day for a month? Could I let go the idea that it needs to be perfect and edited and thought over for days? Could I simply write and put it out there day after day? Turns out I could. And I did. And it kind of feels like reaching the top of a mountain, looking down and appreciating where I’ve come even more because of the struggle it took.

I’m glad I did it. It feels great to start something and finish it. It gives me a sense of accomplishment I will carry with me. It lets me know I can do anything I set my mind to. I like to have reminders like that, little challenges that keep me going.  I am happy to be finished and able to focus my attention on other writing, namely, my novel which I have sadly neglected this month. I feel, however, that the brief hiatus will renew me and bring me back fresh to my novel, ready and raring to go.

Z is Zugspitze

The Zugspitze is the tallest mountain in Germany.  It is on the border between Germany and Austria. Its peak measures 9,718 feet above sea level.  I visited The Zugspitze while on a family trip when I was in middle school. This blog was going to be about losing my purse there and not being able to go back and get it. It was going to be about how it was the first time I felt grown up in a bad way. The first time I experienced panic and fear. I didn’t know what else to write about and I needed a Z.

I needed a Z because I am almost finished with this A-Z challenge. But now I know what I will write about when I write about The Zugspitze. I will write about accomplishment.  I didn’t climb to the top of The Zugspitze, that’s not the kind of family I was ever a part of. We simply went to the visitor’s center, probably taking some sort of gondola up and witnessing spectacular views on the way. We didn’t work hard to get to the top, we simply paid a few Francs and were on our way.

I am sure several people have climbed to the top.  And it reminds me of a quote I heard from a guy I met traveling in Montezuma, Costa Rica- “The view from the top looks better when you’ve worked hard to get there.”  We appreciate things so much more when we’ve had to work hard to get there. I tell my ESL students all the time, “don’t translate. You’ll remember it more if you’ve worked hard to discover the answer.”

Our sense of achievement is directly related to our effort.  It is much more satisfying to complete something, reach a goal, finish a project when you know you worked hard, put your best effort into it and couldn’t have done more.

That’s kind of how I feel about this A-Z challenge. When I started out, I wasn’t even sure I could or would be able to do it. It was something I wanted to do to see if I could. Could I write a blog nearly every day for a month? Could I let go the idea that it needs to be perfect and edited and thought over for days? Could I simply write and put it out there day after day? Turns out I could. And I did. And it kind of feels like reaching the top of a mountain, looking down and appreciating where I’ve come even more because of the struggle it took.

I’m glad I did it. It feels great to start something and finish it. It gives me a sense of accomplishment I will carry with me. It lets me know I can do anything I set my mind to. I like to have reminders like that, little challenges that keep me going.  I am happy to be finished and able to focus my attention on other writing, namely, my novel which I have sadly neglected this month. I feel, however, that the brief hiatus will renew me and bring me back fresh to my novel, ready and raring to go.

Y is for YOLO

Oh my, I can’t believe I’m using it, but it’s rather fitting. So many people ask me why I travel. I find it such a silly question. The answer seems so obvious to me. Yet, I am starting to understand, that to the person who does not travel, my lifestyle is very strange. And yes, I would call it a lifestyle.  Though it is not something I do every day, it is something I incorporate into my life several times a year. And without it, I would cease being me.

YOLO- you only live once. I suppose that is largely the answer to the question. I travel because I am here for a very short time, and I want to see and do and smell and taste and feel and experience everything I possibly can.  From a very young age, probably from moving around as much as I did with a father in the army, I discovered a need to go. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know it was a need, it was simply what I did. As I got older, it became a yearning, an eagerness to go, explore, learn, seek, find. 

Travel is one of the most fulfilling experiences in my life. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized that there are fewer and fewer firsts in our life. I hate this. When we are younger everything is a first, your first kiss, your first time driving a car, your first love.  I believe firsts are the secret to staying young, feeling young.  Travel allows me to experience firsts over and over again. Each new country, new culture, new dish, new beach, new rum allows me to have that exhilarating feeling of discovering something new.

There are over 200 countries.  Within those countries, there are 1,000’s of cities and people and food and ideas to unearth. I plan to visit all 200 countries and continue encountering firsts for the rest of my life because you only live once.

Y is for YOLO

Oh my, I can’t believe I’m using it, but it’s rather fitting. So many people ask me why I travel. I find it such a silly question. The answer seems so obvious to me. Yet, I am starting to understand, that to the person who does not travel, my lifestyle is very strange. And yes, I would call it a lifestyle.  Though it is not something I do every day, it is something I incorporate into my life several times a year. And without it, I would cease being me.

YOLO- you only live once. I suppose that is largely the answer to the question. I travel because I am here for a very short time, and I want to see and do and smell and taste and feel and experience everything I possibly can.  From a very young age, probably from moving around as much as I did with a father in the army, I discovered a need to go. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know it was a need, it was simply what I did. As I got older, it became a yearning, an eagerness to go, explore, learn, seek, find. 

Travel is one of the most fulfilling experiences in my life. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized that there are fewer and fewer firsts in our life. I hate this. When we are younger everything is a first, your first kiss, your first time driving a car, your first love.  I believe firsts are the secret to staying young, feeling young.  Travel allows me to experience firsts over and over again. Each new country, new culture, new dish, new beach, new rum allows me to have that exhilarating feeling of discovering something new.

There are over 200 countries.  Within those countries, there are 1,000’s of cities and people and food and ideas to unearth. I plan to visit all 200 countries and continue encountering firsts for the rest of my life because you only live once.

X is for Xanadu

Xanadu- noun- A place of great beauty, luxury, and contentment

Origin- S.T Coleridge’s modification, in the poem, “Kubla Khan” (1797)

 It is my understanding that Xanadu is usually a fictitious place. One that is always being sought, yet rarely found.  In my travels and looking back through posts A-W I think it is fair to say that I consider most everywhere I’ve visited a personal Xanadu.  I think Xanadu can be found anywhere if you are willing to open your eyes a bit.  If you are willing to bend and mold yourself to fit where you are instead of constantly wishing things were different or better, any place can become a Xanadu.

Of course, generally my Xanadu includes a beach, sun, rum, diving, hiking, a waterfall or two and a few amazing folks to meet and enjoy it all with.  Put all those together and you’ve got my idea of paradise, a common synonym for Xanadu. I’m not picky. Give me one or two of those attributes and I will be happy. Give me all of them and I am in heaven.

I hope you have found your Xanadu a time or two. If not, I hope you are still seeking to find it. I also hope, that when you find it, you recognize it. Too often we miss out on the great things in life because we think there is something more, something better just around the corner.  We do not notice when everything we ever wanted is right in front of us because we thought it would be more, different, better.  Xanadu is out there. Make sure you know it when you find it.

X is for Xanadu

Xanadu- noun- A place of great beauty, luxury, and contentment

Origin- S.T Coleridge’s modification, in the poem, “Kubla Khan” (1797)

 It is my understanding that Xanadu is usually a fictitious place. One that is always being sought, yet rarely found.  In my travels and looking back through posts A-W I think it is fair to say that I consider most everywhere I’ve visited a personal Xanadu.  I think Xanadu can be found anywhere if you are willing to open your eyes a bit.  If you are willing to bend and mold yourself to fit where you are instead of constantly wishing things were different or better, any place can become a Xanadu.

Of course, generally my Xanadu includes a beach, sun, rum, diving, hiking, a waterfall or two and a few amazing folks to meet and enjoy it all with.  Put all those together and you’ve got my idea of paradise, a common synonym for Xanadu. I’m not picky. Give me one or two of those attributes and I will be happy. Give me all of them and I am in heaven.

I hope you have found your Xanadu a time or two. If not, I hope you are still seeking to find it. I also hope, that when you find it, you recognize it. Too often we miss out on the great things in life because we think there is something more, something better just around the corner.  We do not notice when everything we ever wanted is right in front of us because we thought it would be more, different, better.  Xanadu is out there. Make sure you know it when you find it.

W is for Waterfalls

Well, it was hard to think of a foreign place I’ve visited that starts with the letter ‘W’. I thought about writing about Watertown, New York, but I’ve been trying to stay away from the states, and especially places I’ve lived. So instead I’ll write about waterfalls, something I go out of my way to find while I am traveling.

The best and most recent waterfall I’ve had the privilege of taking a plunge in is the Juan Curi Waterfall in San Gil, Colombia. It is the kind of waterfall I dream of and had not previously ever found.  It is about 180 meters of falling water into the most perfectly circular pool. The hike to the falls is beautiful and not too strenuous, but who cares once you get there, it is all worth it.

I visited the falls with a brother and sister from GermanyI had met. After the short hike, we staked out our spot on the tiny landing around the falls laying our towels out and spreading our bags around. We sat and admired the falls. I wrote in my journal inspired by the beauty around me.

Finally, I stripped down to my bikini and braved the clear waters of the pool.  There were places you could not touch the bottom. It was a pool big enough to swim across. It was the biggest natural pool I’ve ever been in. I swam towards the falls and let the water cascade about me. I lingered there.

I will be traveling again soon, in a place where there will be several waterfalls, though I am not sure any could surpass the perfection of the Juan Curi Falls. Sometimes when you find perfection for the first time you end up comparing everything else to it.  Though I am hopeful I might find falls even better than these. That is always the hope.

W is for Waterfalls

Well, it was hard to think of a foreign place I’ve visited that starts with the letter ‘W’. I thought about writing about Watertown, New York, but I’ve been trying to stay away from the states, and especially places I’ve lived. So instead I’ll write about waterfalls, something I go out of my way to find while I am traveling.

The best and most recent waterfall I’ve had the privilege of taking a plunge in is the Juan Curi Waterfall in San Gil, Colombia. It is the kind of waterfall I dream of and had not previously ever found.  It is about 180 meters of falling water into the most perfectly circular pool. The hike to the falls is beautiful and not too strenuous, but who cares once you get there, it is all worth it.

I visited the falls with a brother and sister from Germany I had met. After the short hike, we staked out our spot on the tiny landing around the falls laying our towels out and spreading our bags around. We sat and admired the falls. I wrote in my journal inspired by the beauty around me.

Finally, I stripped down to my bikini and braved the clear waters of the pool.  There were places you could not touch the bottom. It was a pool big enough to swim across. It was the biggest natural pool I’ve ever been in. I swam towards the falls and let the water cascade about me. I lingered there.

I will be traveling again soon, in a place where there will be several waterfalls, though I am not sure any could surpass the perfection of the Juan Curi Falls. Sometimes when you find perfection for the first time you end up comparing everything else to it.  Though I am hopeful I might find falls even better than these. That is always the hope.

V is for Vietnam

I visited Vietnamin 1999 while sailing on Semester at Sea.  I had mixed feelings about seeing the country my father fought a war in. The night before our arrival in the port of Ho Chi Minh City, I attended a discussion group on the ship.  Participants included students, professors and several of the affectionately named Seasoned Salts. The Seasoned Salts were passengers, generally older, retired folks, who were traveling as voyagers, not students.

In the group, we heard from sisters of brothers who were drafted into the “conflict”, professors tasked with the daunting job of deciding who would go to war based on the letter grade they would assign their students, wives of husbands who never made it back, or if they did, were never the same.

I thought about my father. I thought about war.  I looked at things in a way I never had before, my eyes open with the revelations I was hearing. It was the most intense, unique discussion I have ever been a part of, and I learned more then I ever had or would have from any text book or class I might have taken.  I finally understood the importance of the journey I was making, both literally and figuratively, in that crowded room on the ship.

The next day, after docking in Ho Chi Minh, I stepped foot on the land so many Americans had before me, only I was doing it during a time of peace. I was nervous about how we would be received. The proximity of the war was suddenly real being in the place it all happened, and I feared Americans would be hated.  It was less than 25 years since the end of the conflict, and I felt responsible simply for being American.  Of course I was. 

The proximity became even more apparent as I roamed the streets filled with beggars and gum sellers, some with a missing arm or leg, clearly from the war, or from the land mines years later. Some were just children. I had wept at the discussion, and I held back tears as I took in everyone around me on the streets.

I was treated kindly, not yelled at or told to go home. It was unexpected.  Why was I so welcomed in a land that saw so much hate at the hands of my country?  I don’t know the answer. I imagine in order to move forward you must forgive, or at least forget the trespasses of those around you.  I felt only peace during my time in Vietnam.  The people I met had found a place of peace and found a way to spread it.

V is for Vietnam

I visited Vietnam in 1999 while sailing on Semester at Sea.  I had mixed feelings about seeing the country my father fought a war in. The night before our arrival in the port of Ho Chi Minh City, I attended a discussion group on the ship.  Participants included students, professors and several of the affectionately named Seasoned Salts. The Seasoned Salts were passengers, generally older, retired folks, who were traveling as voyagers, not students.

In the group, we heard from sisters of brothers who were drafted into the “conflict”, professors tasked with the daunting job of deciding who would go to war based on the letter grade they would assign their students, wives of husbands who never made it back, or if they did, were never the same.

I thought about my father. I thought about war.  I looked at things in a way I never had before, my eyes open with the revelations I was hearing. It was the most intense, unique discussion I have ever been a part of, and I learned more then I ever had or would have from any text book or class I might have taken.  I finally understood the importance of the journey I was making, both literally and figuratively, in that crowded room on the ship.

The next day, after docking in Ho Chi Minh, I stepped foot on the land so many Americans had before me, only I was doing it during a time of peace. I was nervous about how we would be received. The proximity of the war was suddenly real being in the place it all happened, and I feared Americans would be hated.  It was less than 25 years since the end of the conflict, and I felt responsible simply for being American.  Of course I was. 

The proximity became even more apparent as I roamed the streets filled with beggars and gum sellers, some with a missing arm or leg, clearly from the war, or from the land mines years later. Some were just children. I had wept at the discussion, and I held back tears as I took in everyone around me on the streets.

I was treated kindly, not yelled at or told to go home. It was unexpected.  Why was I so welcomed in a land that saw so much hate at the hands of my country?  I don’t know the answer. I imagine in order to move forward you must forgive, or at least forget the trespasses of those around you.  I felt only peace during my time in Vietnam.  The people I met had found a place of peace and found a way to spread it.

U is for Uruguay or My Fall From Grace

 

While visiting Buenos Aires, I took a ferry over to Colonia, Uruguay.  I stayed in the quaint little town for the evening, strolling the cobbled streets and people watching. The next day, I took a bus to Montevideo, the capital.  I stayed two days there.  I went to a few museums, laid on the beach and ate a steak.  Not just any steak.  The first steak I’d eaten in over 16 years. And a steak I’ve told no one about, until just now.

Uruguayis possibly even more famous than Argentinafor its amazing beef.  I’d heard so much about it from fellow travelers and locals alike that it was nearly impossible for me not to eat one.  Though, being a vegetarian since I was 10 years old presented a giant moral dilemma.  However, being alone in a foreign country presented a very viable option to said dilemma.  One I’d never considered till walking the streets in Uruguayand passing restaurant after restaurant advertising the most beautiful looking steaks I’d even seen. 

I rationalized; I’d not eaten meat for over 16 years. I’d done my duty. One little steak won’t hurt. No one will know.  It looks so good. And, with that, I found a renowned steakhouse from my guidebook and took a seat.  When the waitress came round she asked for my order. I said the steak. She asked how I’d like it cooked. I had no idea? The last time I ordered a steak, I’m pretty sure my mom was still cutting my meat.

When my dinner arrived, I was anxious and excited. I took knife and fork (in the wrong hands apparently, remember, I’d never cut my own meat before) and began to dig in. It was marvelous, everything I remembered and much, much more.  It was made even more special because of the secret I was keeping.  Forbidden things always taste better.

I’ve been eating meat now for about three years, after 24 years of being a vegetarian, with the exception of one sunny day in Uruguaywhere I ate the most delicious steak I’ve ever had.   I’ve told people my gateway meat was the deer and elk my ex boyfriend would bow hunt, but perhaps it was that steak in Uruguayso many years earlier.

U is for Uruguay or My Fall From Grace

 

While visiting Buenos Aires, I took a ferry over to Colonia, Uruguay.  I stayed in the quaint little town for the evening, strolling the cobbled streets and people watching. The next day, I took a bus to Montevideo, the capital.  I stayed two days there.  I went to a few museums, laid on the beach and ate a steak.  Not just any steak.  The first steak I’d eaten in over 16 years. And a steak I’ve told no one about, until just now.

Uruguay is possibly even more famous than Argentina for its amazing beef.  I’d heard so much about it from fellow travelers and locals alike that it was nearly impossible for me not to eat one.  Though, being a vegetarian since I was 10 years old presented a giant moral dilemma.  However, being alone in a foreign country presented a very viable option to said dilemma.  One I’d never considered till walking the streets in Uruguay and passing restaurant after restaurant advertising the most beautiful looking steaks I’d even seen. 

I rationalized; I’d not eaten meat for over 16 years. I’d done my duty. One little steak won’t hurt. No one will know.  It looks so good. And, with that, I found a renowned steakhouse from my guidebook and took a seat.  When the waitress came round she asked for my order. I said the steak. She asked how I’d like it cooked. I had no idea? The last time I ordered a steak, I’m pretty sure my mom was still cutting my meat.

When my dinner arrived, I was anxious and excited. I took knife and fork (in the wrong hands apparently, remember, I’d never cut my own meat before) and began to dig in. It was marvelous, everything I remembered and much, much more.  It was made even more special because of the secret I was keeping.  Forbidden things always taste better.

I’ve been eating meat now for about three years, after 24 years of being a vegetarian, with the exception of one sunny day in Uruguay where I ate the most delicious steak I’ve ever had.   I’ve told people my gateway meat was the deer and elk my ex boyfriend would bow hunt, but perhaps it was that steak in Uruguay so many years earlier.

T is for Tegucigalpa

It’s a mouthful, I know. If you prefer, you can call it like the locals do, Tegus, I do. It’s just easier. Tegus is the capital of Hondurasand home to world’s 4^th most dangerous airport.  JFK is the 5^th (depending on which list you look at) which means I’ve flown into 2 of the ten most dangerous airports. Toncontin is the airport I had the pleasure of using a few times while living in Hondo, another affectionate nickname. What makes it dangerous is its incredibly short runway which leaves you holding your breath as you descend over the city’s only highway. (I might be more scared to be driving on said highway while a plane is coming in for a landing overhead.) You’re not holding your breath long, though your back is not touching its seat till it comes to a complete stop at the gate.

Tegus is about 1-2 hours away from Comayagua where I lived and taught for a year. That is depending on what form of transportation you use. I usually used the bus which took the better part of two hours depending on how many random shanty towns it stopped at along the way.  My fellow teachers would go to Tegus to go to a ‘big city.’ One which had American food- Fridays, Chili’s, McDonalds, you get the idea. There were also large shopping malls and movie theaters with nearly new movies.  I went to Tegus as a means to an end. From there I went to Valle De Los Angeles and La Tigre national park on random solo weekend trips. It was also the jumping off point for all locales south- Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama.  The main bus terminal was there and I used it often while I traveled to all Central American countries but Belize.

Tegus is a big, busy, dirty city, like most capitals are and for this reason I never spent much time there, but I have a special affection for the capital which led me to so many other places during my time in Central America.

T is for Tegucigalpa

It’s a mouthful, I know. If you prefer, you can call it like the locals do, Tegus, I do. It’s just easier. Tegus is the capital of Honduras and home to world’s 4^th most dangerous airport.  JFK is the 5^th (depending on which list you look at) which means I’ve flown into 2 of the ten most dangerous airports. Toncontin is the airport I had the pleasure of using a few times while living in Hondo, another affectionate nickname. What makes it dangerous is its incredibly short runway which leaves you holding your breath as you descend over the city’s only highway. (I might be more scared to be driving on said highway while a plane is coming in for a landing overhead.) You’re not holding your breath long, though your back is not touching its seat till it comes to a complete stop at the gate.

Tegus is about 1-2 hours away from Comayagua where I lived and taught for a year. That is depending on what form of transportation you use. I usually used the bus which took the better part of two hours depending on how many random shanty towns it stopped at along the way.  My fellow teachers would go to Tegus to go to a ‘big city.’ One which had American food- Fridays, Chili’s, McDonalds, you get the idea. There were also large shopping malls and movie theaters with nearly new movies.  I went to Tegus as a means to an end. From there I went to Valle De Los Angeles and La Tigre national park on random solo weekend trips. It was also the jumping off point for all locales south- Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama.  The main bus terminal was there and I used it often while I traveled to all Central American countries but Belize.

Tegus is a big, busy, dirty city, like most capitals are and for this reason I never spent much time there, but I have a special affection for the capital which led me to so many other places during my time in Central America.

S is for Spain

3 ways Spainhas influenced my life

 

1.  While walking along Las Ramblas with Abra on our aforementioned college students backpacking around Europe trip, we found the inspiration for the tattoo we would get to commemorate our trip.  It was the various moonscapes of the many spray paint artists along the street which motivated us to create a tattoo of a world with wings. It displays Europe most prominently and rests on my back with beautiful wings on either side. It was this tattoo that inspired me to get more tattoos of my various trips and travels. Though this only lasted through one more trip, Semester at Sea, for which I got waves surrounding the world. It simply became impossible to pay tribute to every place I traveled. I’d have run out of space quickly.

 

 

2. My novel, What We Let Go, is largely influenced by my Europe trip.  It is set in Spainand includes several scenes which were first created by Abra and I in Spain, including a train strike somewhere between Spainand France, a few curious hostel incidents and one incredible night of dancing.  It has been amazing to relive those days full of awe and wonder while writing my novel and I am grateful to have the material.

 

 

3.   I consider my trip in Europethe catalyst for the rest of my traveling life in a sense. It was the first trip I took without my folks and the first budget traveling I ever did.  I fell in love with the idea of moving, taking trains, staying in hostels, exploring museums and gardens and generally living life on a whim. There is no better way to do it!

S is for Spain

3 ways Spain has influenced my life

 

1.  While walking along Las Ramblas with Abra on our aforementioned college students backpacking around Europe trip, we found the inspiration for the tattoo we would get to commemorate our trip.  It was the various moonscapes of the many spray paint artists along the street which motivated us to create a tattoo of a world with wings. It displays Europe most prominently and rests on my back with beautiful wings on either side. It was this tattoo that inspired me to get more tattoos of my various trips and travels. Though this only lasted through one more trip, Semester at Sea, for which I got waves surrounding the world. It simply became impossible to pay tribute to every place I traveled. I’d have run out of space quickly.

 

 

2. My novel, What We Let Go, is largely influenced by my Europe trip.  It is set in Spain and includes several scenes which were first created by Abra and I in Spain, including a train strike somewhere between Spain and France, a few curious hostel incidents and one incredible night of dancing.  It has been amazing to relive those days full of awe and wonder while writing my novel and I am grateful to have the material.

 

 

3.   I consider my trip in Europe the catalyst for the rest of my traveling life in a sense. It was the first trip I took without my folks and the first budget traveling I ever did.  I fell in love with the idea of moving, taking trains, staying in hostels, exploring museums and gardens and generally living life on a whim. There is no better way to do it!

R is for Roatan

I visited the islands of Hondurasas often as possible while I lived in Comayagua.  I got SCUBA certified in Utila and advanced certified in Roatan. I established my life as a diver on the islands. I feel in love underwater.

My trips to Roatan were lackadaisical and carefree. I loved island life. I loved diving. I made elaborate plans in my head how I could return to either island and teach there, or simply become a dive bum.  Alas, that never did happen, though I still have aspiration of living on an island one day. Instead, I would visit and relish the island life I so longed for the rest of my time in Honduras. I enjoyed a simpler pace of life there, with rolling blackouts and water outs.  The only traffic consisted of golf carts, bikes and the occasional horse. The rum was plentiful and the people friendly and kind. The diving was incredible and cheap.  The nightlife was always alive.

Another thing I enjoyed about the islands was the language. The first language on the islands is English, though not an English I was ever used to hearing. It was more of sing songy, Jamaican-y English that I couldn’t hear enough of.  I’d eavesdrop on little blonde haired blued eyed girls, natives of the islands, while having breakfast in a café and simply be in awe of their language which I could barely make out as my own.  I found it even more fascinating because the rest of the country spoke Spanish, which I struggled to speak daily while living there.

There is little that would bring me back to mainland Honduras, especially now, as the violence and corruption increases.  But the islands will always hold a special spot in my heart, and I would eagerly return and do another dive.

R is for Roatan

I visited the islands of Honduras as often as possible while I lived in Comayagua.  I got SCUBA certified in Utila and advanced certified in Roatan. I established my life as a diver on the islands. I feel in love underwater.

My trips to Roatan were lackadaisical and carefree. I loved island life. I loved diving. I made elaborate plans in my head how I could return to either island and teach there, or simply become a dive bum.  Alas, that never did happen, though I still have aspiration of living on an island one day. Instead, I would visit and relish the island life I so longed for the rest of my time in Honduras. I enjoyed a simpler pace of life there, with rolling blackouts and water outs.  The only traffic consisted of golf carts, bikes and the occasional horse. The rum was plentiful and the people friendly and kind. The diving was incredible and cheap.  The nightlife was always alive.

Another thing I enjoyed about the islands was the language. The first language on the islands is English, though not an English I was ever used to hearing. It was more of sing songy, Jamaican-y English that I couldn’t hear enough of.  I’d eavesdrop on little blonde haired blued eyed girls, natives of the islands, while having breakfast in a café and simply be in awe of their language which I could barely make out as my own.  I found it even more fascinating because the rest of the country spoke Spanish, which I struggled to speak daily while living there.

There is little that would bring me back to mainland Honduras, especially now, as the violence and corruption increases.  But the islands will always hold a special spot in my heart, and I would eagerly return and do another dive.

Q is for Quebec

I am pretty sure I’ve been to Quebec. I’d have to ask my mom to verify that I suppose. But, according to the ‘O’ post, I think it’s entirely likely that I’ve been here as well. And ‘Q’ was a very hard letter. I found one in Guatemala which I think I’ve been to, but it’s nickname starts with ‘X’ and I thought I should probably save that for when the going gets really tough towards the end of the alphabet. Besides, this post isn’t going to be about my travels in Quebec, it is going to be about Québécois.

I had no idea that was how it was spelled until I looked it up for this post. It looks just about as pretentious it sounds. Though I do very much enjoy saying it. Almost as much as I enjoy saying ‘Cananaden,’ which is how I prefer to say Canadian.  At any rate, there are an awful lot of these Québécois traveling. I run into them everywhere.  They remind me a little bit of Texans, in the fact that they very rarely associate with their actually country of Canada. I suppose they have more claim to susceed having their own language and all.

I have very rarely met a Canadian abroad who was not from Quebec.  Excluding some of the lovely folks I taught with in Honduras, I suppose. They travel in big groups of 4-8 and unlike meeting other folks from England or Australia and rejoicing in the fact that I’ve found someone I can speak English with for a bit, they tend to speak in their first language of French, even though, clearly, they speak English as well.  This often makes things difficult when out in a group of Québécois, and often leads me to leave said group, with very little love loss.

Mostly I just wanted to write a post in which I use ‘Québécois’ as often as possible. I think I did alright in that pursuit.

Q is for Quebec

I am pretty sure I’ve been to Quebec. I’d have to ask my mom to verify that I suppose. But, according to the ‘O’ post, I think it’s entirely likely that I’ve been here as well. And ‘Q’ was a very hard letter. I found one in Guatemala which I think I’ve been to, but it’s nickname starts with ‘X’ and I thought I should probably save that for when the going gets really tough towards the end of the alphabet. Besides, this post isn’t going to be about my travels in Quebec, it is going to be about Québécois.

I had no idea that was how it was spelled until I looked it up for this post. It looks just about as pretentious it sounds. Though I do very much enjoy saying it. Almost as much as I enjoy saying ‘Cananaden,’ which is how I prefer to say Canadian.  At any rate, there are an awful lot of these Québécois traveling. I run into them everywhere.  They remind me a little bit of Texans, in the fact that they very rarely associate with their actually country of Canada. I suppose they have more claim to susceed having their own language and all.

I have very rarely met a Canadian abroad who was not from Quebec.  Excluding some of the lovely folks I taught with in Honduras, I suppose. They travel in big groups of 4-8 and unlike meeting other folks from England or Australia and rejoicing in the fact that I’ve found someone I can speak English with for a bit, they tend to speak in their first language of French, even though, clearly, they speak English as well.  This often makes things difficult when out in a group of Québécois, and often leads me to leave said group, with very little love loss.

Mostly I just wanted to write a post in which I use ‘Québécois’ as often as possible. I think I did alright in that pursuit.

P is for Panama

10 Things I loved about Panama

 

1. Diving- Some of the cheapest diving in the world is in Panama. I had thought Honduras had that racket till I got to Panama.  Each dive I went on was just me, the dive master and one other diver. We saw more sharks than I ever have in my life. Awesome!
2. Using the US dollar- So nice when you don’t have to figure out the exchange rate, or fear you’ve calculated it wrong and gotten ripped off.
3. Bocas Del Toro- Tiny little islands everywhere, where the main mode of transportation is water taxis.  I would take one to a different island each day and often have the dock and water to myself.  I’d lay in the sun reading and jump into the water every so often to cool off. Absolutely my idea of paradise.  I planned to stay just a few days and ended up staying over a week.
4. The beer there is called Soberana. I think that is funny.
5. It was the first place I saw a wild blue and gold macaw, ironically Honduras’ national bird.
6. Boquete- A tiny little mountain town that reminded me of Fort Collins. The air was fresh and it was so much cooler than the rest of the country. A welcome relief. Plus they had their own version of cows on parade.
7. The brightly painted chicken busses.
8. Being able to drink Flor De Cana in lieu of Ron Abuelo, Panama’s poor excuse for a rum.
9. Anticipating the reunion of my friend Karen Crone and two of her sisters in Costa Rica. Crossing the border on foot.
10. Isla San Cristobal – Some of the clearest waters and so many starfishes.

P is for Panama

10 Things I loved about Panama

 

1. Diving- Some of the cheapest diving in the world is in Panama. I had thought Honduras had that racket till I got to Panama.  Each dive I went on was just me, the dive master and one other diver. We saw more sharks than I ever have in my life. Awesome!
2. Using the US dollar- So nice when you don’t have to figure out the exchange rate, or fear you’ve calculated it wrong and gotten ripped off.
3. Bocas Del Toro- Tiny little islands everywhere, where the main mode of transportation is water taxis.  I would take one to a different island each day and often have the dock and water to myself.  I’d lay in the sun reading and jump into the water every so often to cool off. Absolutely my idea of paradise.  I planned to stay just a few days and ended up staying over a week.
4. The beer there is called Soberana. I think that is funny.
5. It was the first place I saw a wild blue and gold macaw, ironically Honduras’ national bird.
6. Boquete- A tiny little mountain town that reminded me of Fort Collins. The air was fresh and it was so much cooler than the rest of the country. A welcome relief. Plus they had their own version of cows on parade.
7. The brightly painted chicken busses.
8. Being able to drink Flor De Cana in lieu of Ron Abuelo, Panama’s poor excuse for a rum.
9. Anticipating the reunion of my friend Karen Crone and two of her sisters in Costa Rica. Crossing the border on foot.
10. Isla San Cristobal – Some of the clearest waters and so many starfishes.

O is for Ottawa Ontario ( Double O)

This will be the biggest stretch I’ve made, sorry.  Would you believe there is only one country that begins with the letter “O?” Can you guess it? I’ll give you a second…. Oman. I knew this because several of my awesome students are from there. I did not, however, know it was the only one. So I shall write to you about Canada, specifically, kind of, Ottawa Ontario, for which I feel I should receive bonus points for alliteration.

When I lived in upstate New York, (we say upstate because no one actually knows of any of the cities or towns upstate.  In case you’re wondering, Watertown, endearingly nicknamed Snowtown USA,) we were about an hour away from Canada. Back in those days you didn’t need a passport to cross the border. “Back in those days,” Jeez, how old am I?  We would cross the border seamlessly and spend a weekend exploring a new country.  Class field trips would involve a border crossing. How many middle schools can say that?  I’ve seen Niagara Fallsfrom both sides, used Canadian money the same as American, especially coinage, and used ‘Eh’ at the end of my sentences.

It was such a normal part of my life while living upstate that I didn’t know how unusual it was.  If I had stayed longer, I would have joined my friends for their 19^thbirthdays on a trip across the border to celebrate where they were finally legally able to drink. I would have watched the border get stricter and stricter as 9/11 passed, and I would have needed a passport.  And I probably would have continued to place ‘eh’ at the end of every sentence.

O is for Ottawa Ontario ( Double O)

This will be the biggest stretch I’ve made, sorry.  Would you believe there is only one country that begins with the letter “O?” Can you guess it? I’ll give you a second…. Oman. I knew this because several of my awesome students are from there. I did not, however, know it was the only one. So I shall write to you about Canada, specifically, kind of, Ottawa Ontario, for which I feel I should receive bonus points for alliteration.

When I lived in upstate New York, (we say upstate because no one actually knows of any of the cities or towns upstate.  In case you’re wondering, Watertown, endearingly nicknamed Snowtown USA,) we were about an hour away from Canada. Back in those days you didn’t need a passport to cross the border. “Back in those days,” Jeez, how old am I?  We would cross the border seamlessly and spend a weekend exploring a new country.  Class field trips would involve a border crossing. How many middle schools can say that?  I’ve seen Niagara Falls from both sides, used Canadian money the same as American, especially coinage, and used ‘Eh’ at the end of my sentences.

It was such a normal part of my life while living upstate that I didn’t know how unusual it was.  If I had stayed longer, I would have joined my friends for their 19^th birthdays on a trip across the border to celebrate where they were finally legally able to drink. I would have watched the border get stricter and stricter as 9/11 passed, and I would have needed a passport.  And I probably would have continued to place ‘eh’ at the end of every sentence.

N is for Nicaragua

This month I am participation in a blog challenge. I will write 26 blogs. Each title will begin with each of the 26 letters of the alphabet. My idea is to write about different countries and cities I’ve visited and share a specific memory experienced there.  I am now over halfway finished! Such an optimist! Hope you enjoy!

 

This post shall be my homage to the best rum in the world, Flor De Cana.  It would be an ode to rum if I knew how to write one.  I actually first tasted Flor De Cana while living in Honduras.  At the time I believed it was Honduran. Later I learned that while Hondurashas its own rum, they prefer the Nicaraguan rum. Rather a no brainer there, Flor being worlds better than any of the others I came across in all of Central America.

And so it was that when I left Hondurasto go traveling south for a few months, I made it a goal to get to the Flor De Cana Distillery.  Having drunk the beautiful dark liquor for the better part of a year, I was anxious to see where and how it was made.  Chichigalpa is not exactly on the beaten path and supposedly you needed to make reservation to take a tour.  I tried and failed to do that.

Instead, I simply showed up, jumping off a bus on its way to Managua, in a very tiny, dusty town.  The distillery was hard to miss, it being the tallest building among one story shacks.  I walked to the distillery and was grateful to see another gringo already there. This was a good sign. An even better sign was when he told me he had, in fact, made a reservation. Good on you kid! Thanks! It was easy enough to join his tour, as he was the only one anyway. (A note to readers- My luck is not usually this good when I travel, sadly, but somehow, when it comes to rum, it is. I think it might have something to do with our mutual respect for one another.)

The tour was in Spanish. Mine was not all that great at the time, though I did my best to follow and understand.  But, really, it didn’t matter much. I saw the rum in the giant vats, I saw the barrels and the processing line, and in the end, I tasted every year up to 50!!!!! I suppose if I am to be honest, that is the reason I came.  It was glorious.

Since returning to the states, I have been singing Flor’s praising and introducing everyone I can to the lovely liquor.  I am surprised, though grateful, to find it in a select few liquor stores and even some bars around town now.  The secret is out folks. If you’re not drinking it, you’re wasting your time.

N is for Nicaragua

This month I am participation in a blog challenge. I will write 26 blogs. Each title will begin with each of the 26 letters of the alphabet. My idea is to write about different countries and cities I’ve visited and share a specific memory experienced there.  I am now over halfway finished! Such an optimist! Hope you enjoy!

 

This post shall be my homage to the best rum in the world, Flor De Cana.  It would be an ode to rum if I knew how to write one.  I actually first tasted Flor De Cana while living in Honduras.  At the time I believed it was Honduran. Later I learned that while Honduras has its own rum, they prefer the Nicaraguan rum. Rather a no brainer there, Flor being worlds better than any of the others I came across in all of Central America.

And so it was that when I left Honduras to go traveling south for a few months, I made it a goal to get to the Flor De Cana Distillery.  Having drunk the beautiful dark liquor for the better part of a year, I was anxious to see where and how it was made.  Chichigalpa is not exactly on the beaten path and supposedly you needed to make reservation to take a tour.  I tried and failed to do that.

Instead, I simply showed up, jumping off a bus on its way to Managua, in a very tiny, dusty town.  The distillery was hard to miss, it being the tallest building among one story shacks.  I walked to the distillery and was grateful to see another gringo already there. This was a good sign. An even better sign was when he told me he had, in fact, made a reservation. Good on you kid! Thanks! It was easy enough to join his tour, as he was the only one anyway. (A note to readers- My luck is not usually this good when I travel, sadly, but somehow, when it comes to rum, it is. I think it might have something to do with our mutual respect for one another.)

The tour was in Spanish. Mine was not all that great at the time, though I did my best to follow and understand.  But, really, it didn’t matter much. I saw the rum in the giant vats, I saw the barrels and the processing line, and in the end, I tasted every year up to 50!!!!! I suppose if I am to be honest, that is the reason I came.  It was glorious.

Since returning to the states, I have been singing Flor’s praising and introducing everyone I can to the lovely liquor.  I am surprised, though grateful, to find it in a select few liquor stores and even some bars around town now.  The secret is out folks. If you’re not drinking it, you’re wasting your time.

M is for Morocco

Moroccowas our last port before we sailed back to The United States of America.  The UShad become unfamiliar and foreign to me the farther away I got from it. We’d been sailing for nearly three months at this point, and I had no interest in returning. Ever.  I suppose that was a foreshadowing of things to come. If only we ever know those as they are happening, when they can actually help us. Though what would I have done if I’d known sooner that I wanted to stay out in the world wandering it? Just stayed about I suppose.

But I digress, in Morocco, a devoutly Muslim country, we went about our wanderings in the only fashion we could knowing when we left this country we’d be returning and not simply sailing to another port, another world. We set about securing what little alcohol there is to be found in a country whose religion shuns the stuff.  It was Alyssa’s 21^st birthday and we were celebrating. Not many people get to turn 21 in Morocco. We found two bottles of red wine; the details of which I am fuzzy on now.

I remember we had two or three rooms of a hotel with a shared balcony that overlooked the square. We gathered on the balcony in the warm night air and watched the people down below. We passed around the plastic cups we’d attained.  We retrieved the bottles from their hiding spots, surprising the rest of the guests.  We stood among cheers and screams of glee over the forbidden wine.  And then we were stumped.

 We’d secured the bottles of wine, but how did we intend to open said bottles? This is the reason Swiss army knives come with cork screws I realized then. That lovely little youtube video that shows the man opening a bottle of wine with a shoe would have come in handy, but this was 15 years prior to that little gem and alas, we were not privy to that information.  But we were resourceful and while none of us had that handy little Swiss army knife, we did have a knife among us. We used it to dig into the cork, eventually pushing it into the bottle so that the wine flowed freely into our tiny plastic cups. We might have had to contend with bits of cork in our delightful sips of wine, but we were able to toast to Alyssa and wish her a proper happy birthday.

M is for Morocco

Morocco was our last port before we sailed back to The United States of America.  The US had become unfamiliar and foreign to me the farther away I got from it. We’d been sailing for nearly three months at this point, and I had no interest in returning. Ever.  I suppose that was a foreshadowing of things to come. If only we ever know those as they are happening, when they can actually help us. Though what would I have done if I’d known sooner that I wanted to stay out in the world wandering it? Just stayed about I suppose.

But I digress, in Morocco, a devoutly Muslim country, we went about our wanderings in the only fashion we could knowing when we left this country we’d be returning and not simply sailing to another port, another world. We set about securing what little alcohol there is to be found in a country whose religion shuns the stuff.  It was Alyssa’s 21^st birthday and we were celebrating. Not many people get to turn 21 in Morocco. We found two bottles of red wine; the details of which I am fuzzy on now.

I remember we had two or three rooms of a hotel with a shared balcony that overlooked the square. We gathered on the balcony in the warm night air and watched the people down below. We passed around the plastic cups we’d attained.  We retrieved the bottles from their hiding spots, surprising the rest of the guests.  We stood among cheers and screams of glee over the forbidden wine.  And then we were stumped.

 We’d secured the bottles of wine, but how did we intend to open said bottles? This is the reason Swiss army knives come with cork screws I realized then. That lovely little youtube video that shows the man opening a bottle of wine with a shoe would have come in handy, but this was 15 years prior to that little gem and alas, we were not privy to that information.  But we were resourceful and while none of us had that handy little Swiss army knife, we did have a knife among us. We used it to dig into the cork, eventually pushing it into the bottle so that the wine flowed freely into our tiny plastic cups. We might have had to contend with bits of cork in our delightful sips of wine, but we were able to toast to Alyssa and wish her a proper happy birthday.

L is for Lago Yojoa

The first weekend after I moved to Hondurasa few fellow teachers and I took a weekend trip to Lago Yojoa. We were in pursuit of the famous D and D Brewery we had read and heard so much about.  Beer was not exactly heralded as a craft in Hondurasand finding a brewery in the country was a treat. It was apparently owned by a retired deadhead from Oregon and I was eager to meet him.

The trip there involved several bus rides and random stops and switches. I was the only one who spoke any kind of Spanish, and I remember being happy about not having lost the little Spanish I knew in my year back in the states between Chileand Honduras.  It was an interesting feeling having the other teachers depend on me to get us there. I still remember thinking it was a GD miracle we made it. But, we did.

Once there, we met Bob, the owner of the brewery and hotel.  He was everything I’d imagined and set us up with rooms and then beers, all while The Grateful Dead was playing through the speakers in the restaurant.  There are rare treats when you live abroad- finding a micro brew and some Dead were up there with the best of them. I was pretty sure I was in heaven and vowed to come here often in the year I’d be in Honduras. Though, I never did make it back.

Bob showed us the different tours, and hikes and fishing we could do in the area while we started on our second brew.  He told us about the Pulhapanzak Falls that were close to the lake.  And so, as all good travelers do, we changed plans, forgetting about the lake preferring the adventure Bob was selling in his description of the falls, which including a climb behind the waterfall and a cave off of it.

At the falls, we found a young boy, maybe 12 or 13 years old to lead us through the falls.  It was one of the scariest, most thrilling things I’ve ever done.  Walking through the falling water, so thick you are basically swimming, holding your breath, closing your eyes, climbing into the cave for a little refuge from the falls, exiting back out and standing completely under and behind the falls as they tumble into the pool at the bottom. It was a surreal feeling. Rarely do you get the chance to stand behind a fall and look out from that vantage point as the water crashes in the pool and carries on. I’ve never been more happy to veer off course than I was that day at Pulhapanzak Falls.

 

 

 

 

L is for Lago Yojoa

The first weekend after I moved to Honduras a few fellow teachers and I took a weekend trip to Lago Yojoa. We were in pursuit of the famous D and D Brewery we had read and heard so much about.  Beer was not exactly heralded as a craft in Honduras and finding a brewery in the country was a treat. It was apparently owned by a retired deadhead from Oregon and I was eager to meet him.

The trip there involved several bus rides and random stops and switches. I was the only one who spoke any kind of Spanish, and I remember being happy about not having lost the little Spanish I knew in my year back in the states between Chile and Honduras.  It was an interesting feeling having the other teachers depend on me to get us there. I still remember thinking it was a GD miracle we made it. But, we did.

Once there, we met Bob, the owner of the brewery and hotel.  He was everything I’d imagined and set us up with rooms and then beers, all while The Grateful Dead was playing through the speakers in the restaurant.  There are rare treats when you live abroad- finding a micro brew and some Dead were up there with the best of them. I was pretty sure I was in heaven and vowed to come here often in the year I’d be in Honduras. Though, I never did make it back.

Bob showed us the different tours, and hikes and fishing we could do in the area while we started on our second brew.  He told us about the Pulhapanzak Falls that were close to the lake.  And so, as all good travelers do, we changed plans, forgetting about the lake preferring the adventure Bob was selling in his description of the falls, which including a climb behind the waterfall and a cave off of it.

At the falls, we found a young boy, maybe 12 or 13 years old to lead us through the falls.  It was one of the scariest, most thrilling things I’ve ever done.  Walking through the falling water, so thick you are basically swimming, holding your breath, closing your eyes, climbing into the cave for a little refuge from the falls, exiting back out and standing completely under and behind the falls as they tumble into the pool at the bottom. It was a surreal feeling. Rarely do you get the chance to stand behind a fall and look out from that vantage point as the water crashes in the pool and carries on. I’ve never been more happy to veer off course than I was that day at Pulhapanzak Falls.

 

 

 

 

K is for Kansas

 

My mother always thought it was neat that my brother and I were born in the only two K states; Kansasand Kentucky. I, on the other hand, always thought it was weird that I had to tell people that I was from Kansas. I lived the very first year of my life in Kansas, before we moved to Tacoma, Washington, then Fayetteville, North Carolina, then, Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, then, Fort Drum, New York, and then finally, Colorado Springs, Colorado.  Yes, I was an army brat, moving every three years of my life until my father decided to retire in Colorado Springs.

So, while I never associated with Kansas, never had good friends or fond memories of the place, and while it was not the place my father, or mother or even brother was from, when the question was asked, where are you from, I was obliged to answer, Kansas. That’s the standard answer right? Where you are from, is where you were born.  I never understood this, but also, at a young age, I never understood that other people actually stayed and grew up where they were born. It was a novel idea to me.  One I was just beginning to resent my folks for.

It wasn’t until very recently that I brought an idea up to my father. I told him that I thought military brats should have an exception to the ‘native’ rule.  I told him that I thought we should get to choose where we are from.  Why would I ever say I was from Kansaswhen the bulk of my living and growing up took place outside of there?  He agreed with me and asked me where it is I would say I was from if I weren’t limited by birth.

Colorado, I told him. Of course Colorado. It is the longest I have ever lived anywhere, albeit, scattered over time and split here and there.  I grew up and got to graduate from the same high school I attended as a freshman. Most military brats, my brother included, do not get to do this. I went to college two hours away. I left and moved abroad, came back, got my masters and finally began teaching in the same university I attended.  It is where my folks still live half the year.  Coloradohas all the memories and moments I imagine someone has if they grew up where they were born.  Coloradoholds my heart and I am filled with pride when I think of being from here. So I claim it. I claim it as the place where I am from, because I think I am entitled to it, having moved around all my life, I think I get the right to decide where I am from, and I choose Colorado.

Where would you be from, if you could choose?

K is for Kansas

 

My mother always thought it was neat that my brother and I were born in the only two K states; Kansas and Kentucky. I, on the other hand, always thought it was weird that I had to tell people that I was from Kansas. I lived the very first year of my life in Kansas, before we moved to Tacoma, Washington, then Fayetteville, North Carolina, then, Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, then, Fort Drum, New York, and then finally, Colorado Springs, Colorado.  Yes, I was an army brat, moving every three years of my life until my father decided to retire in Colorado Springs.

So, while I never associated with Kansas, never had good friends or fond memories of the place, and while it was not the place my father, or mother or even brother was from, when the question was asked, where are you from, I was obliged to answer, Kansas. That’s the standard answer right? Where you are from, is where you were born.  I never understood this, but also, at a young age, I never understood that other people actually stayed and grew up where they were born. It was a novel idea to me.  One I was just beginning to resent my folks for.

It wasn’t until very recently that I brought an idea up to my father. I told him that I thought military brats should have an exception to the ‘native’ rule.  I told him that I thought we should get to choose where we are from.  Why would I ever say I was from Kansas when the bulk of my living and growing up took place outside of there?  He agreed with me and asked me where it is I would say I was from if I weren’t limited by birth.

Colorado, I told him. Of course Colorado. It is the longest I have ever lived anywhere, albeit, scattered over time and split here and there.  I grew up and got to graduate from the same high school I attended as a freshman. Most military brats, my brother included, do not get to do this. I went to college two hours away. I left and moved abroad, came back, got my masters and finally began teaching in the same university I attended.  It is where my folks still live half the year.  Colorado has all the memories and moments I imagine someone has if they grew up where they were born.  Colorado holds my heart and I am filled with pride when I think of being from here. So I claim it. I claim it as the place where I am from, because I think I am entitled to it, having moved around all my life, I think I get the right to decide where I am from, and I choose Colorado.

Where would you be from, if you could choose?

J is for Japan

J is for Japan

I took a bullet train to Hiroshima, Japan. I felt somehow compelled to visit the peace museum there to truly understand the damage and devastation we’d caused. Before the museum, all I’d seen were pictures in history books that I couldn’t quite believe.

Outside the museum, I saw the eternal flame which will remain lit until all nuclear weapons in the world are abolished. I wondered when and if that would ever happened. I doubted it would in my lifetime.
Inside the museum, I poured over a giant map of the world showing which countries have nuclear weapons and how many they have. I learned about the Manhattan Project and was embarrassed, ashamed. I saw concrete walls, preserved to show the shadows of human beings burned into them from the bomb dropping. I heard recordings of the few survivors. I wept.

I do not know if I am better off having visited the museum. I do not know what it was that made me go.  I suppose I have a better understanding of what happened, and this has only created a sense of awe at just what it is humans can do to one another. I remembered being more scared of the future than I’d ever been, realizing what the world is capable of.

 

J is for Japan

J is for Japan

I took a bullet train to Hiroshima, Japan. I felt somehow compelled to visit the peace museum there to truly understand the damage and devastation we’d caused. Before the museum, all I’d seen were pictures in history books that I couldn’t quite believe.

Outside the museum, I saw the eternal flame which will remain lit until all nuclear weapons in the world are abolished. I wondered when and if that would ever happened. I doubted it would in my lifetime.
Inside the museum, I poured over a giant map of the world showing which countries have nuclear weapons and how many they have. I learned about the Manhattan Project and was embarrassed, ashamed. I saw concrete walls, preserved to show the shadows of human beings burned into them from the bomb dropping. I heard recordings of the few survivors. I wept.

I do not know if I am better off having visited the museum. I do not know what it was that made me go.  I suppose I have a better understanding of what happened, and this has only created a sense of awe at just what it is humans can do to one another. I remembered being more scared of the future than I’d ever been, realizing what the world is capable of.