Things About Going Places: The Colombian Edition (episode I)

Wherever you go, there you are.

I am here in Colombia - the country, not the outlet store - and the most striking thing about the place is me. That no matter how exotic and fabulous a place might be, if I am there experiencing it, I am also there bringing the experience of me to it.

It seems like most problems should be curable with a lot of sunshine, cheap beer and a solid tan line, but the reality is that those things only make certain issues more uncomfortable. Like being overweight for instance. I wonder how much less I would sweat if I was a healthy weight? Truth be told if I were thinner it would be harder to achieve the fitness goals that my Apple Watch seems to set and change for me randomly. While I am soft and pasty it seems to cut me some slack and congratulate me for riding a long escalator uphill.

But seriously. I am no cooler in Colombia than I was in Colville. In fact, probably less so. Apparently "white-trash noir" isn't a thing here in Medellin, and I would fit in better with some grandma print shirts and pleather pants, which I am actively in the market for. So maybe "white-trash noir" is THE thing here, but less white. Either way, I am definitely doing it wrong. I was SO PROUD of packing so lightly and with such versatility, reading no less than 8 blogs on "how to pack for a month in changing climates" since Cartagena is on the ocean and Bogota is in the mountains and our adventure was definitely not planned out for wardrobe efficiency. But for all my cock-sure packing, it turns out that one pair of yoga pants, one pair of jeans, and some frumpy shorts are not all it takes to walk the streets of Medellin. (And by walk the streets, I don't mean in the professional sense, although I do know where to go if I need to make a few extra bucks.)

So far, in the six days that I have been in this country, I have learned how to successfully communicate through sign language that I don't speak Spanish (did you know that it's the same as the universal sign for choking? Or at least it seems to work every time) and how to tell a taxi the wrong place to go. In fact I am probably the best at that EVER. Of ALL TIME.

I've also gotten a bit of a sunburn on my left shoulder, won all sorts of badges on my apple watch and been groped by someone on a metro that was more crowded than my parents' stairs on Christmas Eve.

this is my future.

Shout out to the dude over at Desk to Dirtbag for his tips on visiting Medellin. He's been spot on so far. Some of the best things I have seen since I got to Medellin include a guy walking 17 dogs at once, the cleanest metro cars EVER, ALL OF THE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS, Fernando Botero sculptures which made me feel oddly comfortable and at home with their gross disproportion in Plaza Botero, the fact that at least 45% of cars have reindeer antlers on them, and on Saturdays and Sundays, how the city closes one direction of their four-lane north/south thoroughfare until 1300 so people can walk their dogs and kids all up and down it for fitness. Or maybe just to show off those amazing Colombian butts. Either way it's cool.

We took a Real City Tour with a guide named Pablo of the city center that was totally rad. He explained that the metro cars remain pristine even with people crammed into them like sardines because the metro is a source of civic pride. The construction of the metro in the late 80s symbolized the emergence of Medellin from the clutches of a violent era of cartel wars and murder in the streets. It represents hope to the people of a cleaner, better future. Pablo shared his earliest memories of mass murders in his neighborhood in the 1980s when Pablo Escobar's reign of terror was at its height, and the evil that plagued their city at the time.

We spent some time in Botero Plaza, around all of these fat, funny looking statues, and later, as I read about the sculptor, Fernando Botero, a Medellin native, his perspective of beauty and reality was an odd-shaped breath of fresh air. The artist said once "Art should be an oasis: a place or refuge from the hardness of life," and for many reasons, his sculptures are that for Medellin, and that place was for me, as well. The most poignant of his statues is a fat bird that sits in San Antonio Plaza, a large open square with an amphitheater on one end that is used for large public gatherings. In 1995, an unknown terrorist placed 22 lbs of dynamite at the base of the bird statue during a crowded event. 30 people were killed and more than 200 were injured. The artist, upon hearing that the mayor wanted to move the fractured statue from the square and erase all evidence of the violence, called and demanded it be left as a reminder. He then crafted an identical bird which stands, whole and unscathed, next to the demolished one, as a tribute to hope and peace. This is Medellin. And I kind of love it.

The Birds of Peace by Fernando Botero (also kind of reminds me of a Madi bird)

They also have this alcohol here that is sort of like bourbon to Kentucky, or Fireball to Northport, called Aguardiente, which literally means "fire water." I did some professional research before getting involved and learned that most of the locals drink it "sin azucar" to avoid a hangover the next day. It tastes just like Good n' Plenty candy, but with less sweet. So basically, black licorice, but not in a Jaegermeister way. It's actually really good, especially with some good ol' fashioned American Country Music at the end of a long, weird day in a hostel room that you can't figure out how to use the air conditioner in. (Don't worry, we figured it out by day 3). Also Aguardiente, or "guaro" as the locals call it, seems to be a pretty sound remedy for a belly that has some reservations about the empanadas you bought from that one place on the corner that Pablo said was good.

Definitely do try this at home. (warning: might lead to bed-jumping-on Sammy Kershaw sing-a-longs)

Speaking of food, they have these things here called "buneulos." I feel bad telling you about them because you can't find them wherever it is you are, unless you are Colombian, and other than Pablo, I only know one of you (hi LUNA!), But HOLY COW. It's sort of like a savory donutty thing that is deep fried cornbread with cheese mixed in and quite possibly one of the four best things I have ever eaten, right behind steak, pizza and chicken chow mien. I've only allowed myself one buneulo so far, because (referring to paragraph one) I already have enough extra pounds to sweat off, but jiminy christmas they are yum. 

a BUNEULO! (P.S. that church behind me [in addition to being the oldest church in Medellin] is also where the professional streetwalkers hang out.)(P.S. II - that's another Botero statue behind me as well. She and I have some curves in common.)

Anyway, for now, I am going to go back to being me, here, and here with me, because it turns out I can't escape it, even if I have more tasty buneulos to brag about than beautiful Colombian butt (but I hear surgery is cheap here...). I know you all have a million questions, mostly about coffee and cocaine, so I will touch on those in my next blog. Ciao! 

Things About Feathers and Angels and Heroes

In 2015, my life was forever changed during a very short visit to the shores of the Normandy region of Northern France. My fascination with the history of the World War II battles that transpired there had made it one of the most compelling places in the world for me to visit, and I finally got to, with my mom and Dad (who is also a war history buff) and sister. What I experienced in the brief time I spent there in the surf, on the once blood-soaked sands where the fate of the world changed forever on that June day so long ago, in the villages that still wore the battle scars from days and weeks and months of onslaught, and in the American Cemetery at Normandy - what I felt, I don’t know that I’ll ever have words for.

We stayed the night in an old bed and breakfast overlooking the town square of Sainte-Mère-Église. my bedroom window looked directly out on the bell tower of the old churchyard where American paratroopers had dropped, miles off course from their intended target, and many had met a quick end, falling into German guns like gifts from above. I stood in the moonlight by my window that warm June night in 2015, some 71 years later, and could see it all happening.

But the most surprising revelation on my trip to Normandy wasn’t on the beaches where the boats landed, or the cliffs that the Rangers scaled, or the cobblestones where thousands of American boots marched, although those places left a deep mark on me.

 The most peculiar and unexpected awakening happened for me at a castle. The most ironic part was that I wasn’t very happy to leave the battlefields and war museums to visit a castle, but my family was keen on it, so I went along grudgingly. The castle had once functioned monastery, and a prison, and many other things throughout the centuries.

The dramatic spires of the place jut up out of the ocean from the giant rock perch where Mont St Michel sits against the backdrop of the English Channel. The ancient church is an island when the tide comes in, and somewhat inconvenient to reach even when the tide is out. Surrounded by sea water or bog-like sand, the old monastery and it’s supporting village were built in and ever climbing spiral upward, as the rock allowed no more outward growth.

Toward the top of the man-made mountain is a Great Hall, where perhaps once Kings and nobles dined. Where once monks chanted in echoing reverence and solemn glory.  The ceiling of the great hall, arching nearly 30 feet overhead, was filled with floating white feathers. Suspended magically in the air by some invisible force.

I asked several people what the feathers meant. I went home and googled it, and found no cohesive answer.

While I was there, I sat in a courtyard and wrestled with my own soul over some of the never-ending personal battles I was facing. I was staring up at a golden statue of St. Michael, the patron saint of soldiers, law enforcement, fire fighters and EMTs. The monastery was dedicated to him, and emblems and depictions of the arch angel were everywhere.

I sat there, while my family milled about the passageways and halls of the ages old stone buildings, and I had a talk with St. Mike. I made him some promises, about keeping my faith for as long as he would keep my brothers and sisters safe. The cops I love and the soldiers. My firefighter daughter and all of my friends on the line. I promised I would hold fast to believing in the protection he offered and the reasons that so many people run bravely into the fray for the freedom and safety of others.

St. Mike answered me, in a way, with the feathers, which, three years later, I learned were part of an artists display for an evening event. But for me, they were the floating remnants of a battle between good and evil. Pieces of an angel's wings left suspended throughout the ages as he wrestled the dragon. I saw the fight between right and wrong, between freedom and tyranny, between danger and security being waged in a timeless space that continues every day that brave men and women engage in the battle.

Francesco Maffei, The Archangel Michael overthrowing Lucifer, ca. 1656

Shortly afterward, I had the feather of a Red Tailed Hawk tattooed on my arm, because those are the feathers of my homeland (now you know why!), and because I wanted a constant reminder of the war being waged and the pledge between me and St. Mike for my loved ones. Most days I wear his medal too, right next to my heart, where I hold the faith that good will always triumph, as it did on that fateful June day so long ago in Normandy, when thousands of heroes ran up against the dragon of evil and remain buried on that shore.

Normandy will always hold a very special place in my heart, and I can't wait to go back and have another chat with St. Mike about our deal and all the ones we are proud of.

Things About That Time of the Year

Call it Spring Fever. Call it Cabin Fever. Call it discontent. It's that time of year again. The time when it's too warm for boots and too cold for flip flops and everything I try to wear is Exactly the Wrong Thing. The weather is having an identity crisis just like I am. The house is too stuffy and the yard is too mucky and the only thing that feels good is being in the car and cruising down the road to anywhere, slightly over the speed limit with loud music and somebody that doesn't annoy me. Or a dog.

Unfortunately it's also that time of year when it seems more important than ever that I remain gainfully employed and so I find myself cruising up the road to places I'd rather not go, slightly under the speed limit behind a chip truck (if you have to ask, then you've never been on HWY 25 to the Canadian border) that has just thrown a rock the size of a golf ball into my already cracked windshield. It's ok, I didn't like that windshield anyway.

Seems like of All the Years that I've been complaining, this one should be the least complain-worthy. I've got a brand new-to-me house, living in the "Big City," and all-in-all, thing are looking mighty upwards for me. And yet, here I am, with complaints to register in spite of it.

I was reminded the other day, while talking to Someone Amazing, that this is part of my cycle, something I go through every. single. year. Like in 2017, and in 2016  and again in 2016 , and in 2014, and a lot of other times in between and before and probably ever afterward. It's just part of my year. Part of appreciating the other seasons when I am happy to be home and snuggled in, waiting anxiously for the first snowfall of the year and getting Christmas Trees. Or escaping the sweltering heat with a cold beer in a shady hammock. Spring is a restless season for me. And that's ok. It makes me re-examine and re-evaluate where I am at and what I am doing. Sometimes I come out knowing I am on the right path, and sometimes I get to re-adjust. Discontent isn't bad if it moves us to the next step, or the next phase, or the next level of commitment to the thing that we have been dragging our feet about, like a retirement plan, or a book to write, or Someone Amazing.

The good news is I get to bust out soon. In a few days I will be on my way to sunshiney and oceany things in Mexico with people that don't annoy me. And then it will be time to get to work. Time to travel and be busy and be homesick and discontent that I don't have endless hour to kill in my stuffy house and mucky yard with somebodies that do annoy me. And dogs.

Things About Change

 
I wasn't going to post in this blog anymore. I feel like it's time to shift gears and move into a new space. But I have been a little bit emotional lately and sometimes my feelings feel better when I give them words. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s that I’ve been to Mexico, Washington DC, Denver, celebrated Christmas with The Whole Family, bought a house and moved, had hip surgery and commuted over 5,000 miles in the last month and a half. Who can say exactly why I burst into tears at random intervals or the minute I hear anything by REO Speedwagon. It’s a mystery for sure.

All I know is that I feel awfully fragile, and not in a completely bad way. Just… RAW. Ready to feel all the feels and work through them. The sadness of moving away from the town where I have lived for the better part of 20 years and (mostly) raised my kids. The excitement of starting fresh, on my own, as a homeowner. The struggle of trying to decide whether to let my old Truck dog go be with Jesus or watch his frustration over a new life in a new house with limitations that I never enforced on him back in Northport, much to frustration of the baseball coaches and custodians of the school next door.

I am feeling all the tearing of the transition of my kids from children to adult, weighing out how much I can and should help them in the fight to become responsible humans. Sorting through how much is My Fault and what I have to let go for them to figure out. I am riding the waves of happiness and uncertainty that a fairly new relationship pushes toward the shores of my heart. Most moments I feel lost. Some moments I feel joy. All moments lately, I feel fear.

But what I do know is that all of these feelings, the good ones and the bad ones, are meant to bring me to the place where I belong, wherever that is. Fear and uncertainty protect me from wandering recklessly off course, bringing caution along as a guiding light of stability. Sadness and grief remind me of how very much I have been given in the happy years I have had at my old place and with my old dog. Glimpses of joy give me hope that the steps I am taking are the right ones, headed in the right direction. And stress and anxiety, well, they give me gray hair, and I guess I am about due.

For every time my heart cries out silently to the universe for help, I turn back to face the battle and the help I need is there. Not always in the form I expect in. Not always in a surprise check for thousands of dollars or an army of strong backs, although those things have happened for me, but sometimes in the showing up of a friend with a story, or in the plight of another friend who has much larger hurdles to face than I do, and a way that I can help them with the flood that is drowning them.

Amor Fati. I am in love with the fate that I am given. It is not always beautiful, but it is always mine. And while I question my decisions every. single. day. I feel overwhelmingly blessed that I have decisions to make, and they are mine entirely. There is no wrong that cannot be made right. There is no obstacle that cannot become the path, and even now while I can’t lift my arm, I can say that there is no pain without purpose, even if that purpose is a speedbump.

I will slow down. I will take only the responsibilities that are mine to bear, and no more. I will listen to MMMBop on repeat and cry wantonly if it gets me closer to peace. I will write the stories to pay the bills to make the life that I have chosen. And I will always be thankful that I can do that with a beer in one hand.

Things That We Didn't Do: On Baja Dogs and Breezes

We came to La Ventana to kiteboard, or more accurately, He came to kiteboard. I came for the beach and the beer and the warm sunshine on my face. A little fishing village nestled into a protected cove on the Sea of Cortez, La Ventana was founded in 1940 by a disenfranchised pearl diver and his family in search of a new beginning. Most parcels of land in the La Ventana bay were co-opted by the government, subsidizing small family plots until 1996 when Mexican law changed and granted ownership to the longtime farmers and ranchers who had worked the land for generations. La Ventana became a mecca for wind sport enthusiasts in the 1990s as the daily El Nortes (northerly fronts)  make for a wind sport enthusiast’s wet dream. It was a history I could relate to - a new beginning and the dream of doing my job somewhere that wasn’t cold and dreary. Anywhere that wasn’t the snowless frigidity of post-holiday wintertime in the northwest.

We got into La Ventana just in time for dinner on Thanksgiving night, and by some miracle, one of the little restaurants squeezed us in for an all-the-trimmings turkey dinner buffet, sans reservations. Later, He would say how it was the best food we had the whole time we were there, the piles of deep fried turkey and mashed potatoes so creamy that they couldn’t have been real. Even the wine tasted better than the merlots we had back home. I would agree with Him, except for the bag of totopos that the last residents of the Casita had left behind. They were salty and perfect. I couldn’t stop eating them at midnight and for breakfast, and while we laid out in the sun on the plaster roof top in the late morning the next day.  

All I wanted was a space of seaside to sit next to and write. Or daydream. Or drink. Maybe all at once. There was seaside, all right. Miles of it, white and sandy and the perfect amount of warm. Occasional Canadian kiteboarders drifted by, and the fourth generations of the family farmers, picking up sticks off the beach and being chased by little white Baja Dogs everywhere.

Late Friday  morning, we walked three miles along a dirty highway to cash in whatever tourist panache we had for a couples massage at the only large resort in town. We paid the going rate willingly, if for no other reason than to feel like we could afford it, and then we tromped back down the highway and then the three minute trail of sand and clay from our Casita to the beach with all of His kiteboarding gear and sat expectantly in the sand, waiting for the wind to pick up. And waiting. And waiting. In between the waiting, we wandered over to Baja Joe’s where everybody goes for coffee, and then beer, and then tequila, and some killer Asada Tacos. Saturday we repeated the process, but with less waiting and more tequila, the kiters bemoaning the quiet air over their Pacifico and nachos. Frustrated windseekers found solace in the mellow beat of a reggae band at Joe’s on Saturday night, the dance floor carelessly littered with multinational escapees of all generations and some of the farmers.

There wasn’t much accounting for Sunday morning, thanks to the Peyote IPA and the number of Baja Fogs that Paula the bartender made for us the previous night, but by afternoon, the waiting game began anew, and in anxious earnest as the wind picked up just enough to rustle the palm trees in the courtyard at Baja Joe’s and tease all of the pent up athletes. Kiters with small physiques and large kites hustled out to the beach to catch the gentle breeze, but those of greater substance knew the wind wasn’t enough to carry them offshore, so the wait continued.  

I didn’t do very well at proving that I am good at working “anywhere,” since unplugging and not caring about work seemed so much more important than getting 18 new stories cranked out and all of my deadlines met ahead of time. But it was heavenly. No place to be unless we wanted to be there, and nowhere to go except where our feet would take us. Lazy afternoon siestas were punctuated with walks up and down the beach for food, catching sunrises and sunsets if we felt like it, counting the constellations we could name and making up new ones. After a few days we found the Baja Dogs on our heels like the farmer’s kids, weaving in and out of kite shops and little make-shift patio restaurants that most of the locals seemed to run as a by-the-way businesses along the beach.

Another night at Joes’ brought in a cover band that played everybody’s favorite song from all generations and genres. The dance floor was full of expatriate and unfulfilled kiteboarders dancing to “Jesse’s Girl,” locals still wearing the uniform of the restaurants next door from the shift they just finished, old run-away hippies and Baja Dogs. Pacifico bottles rolled across the paving stones and beer splashed between the toes of bare feet while the band played AC/DC and Elvis covers. That night nobody cared that the wind hadn’t come for them. That night the moonlight and the tequila and the music was enough.

He only got out on His kite once, and even then it wasn’t His kite, but a bigger one that He rented, hoping the bit of wind that picked up one afternoon would do it. It didn’t, and after fighting His way down the curving shoreline, He endured the walk of shame back up the beach, board in hand, to get back to the more readily accessible sport of beer and tacos and dreaming up ways of smuggling Baja Dogs home to the northwest. Secretly, I didn’t mind the lack of wind, mostly because I was selfish and liked Him next to me on the beach. But Him being next to me made for less work getting done and more lazy wave-gazing, watching the hermit crabs scuttle sideways across the beach and staring at the cloudless sky as if the wind might suddenly appear visibly. I wouldn’t call it a loss, for Him or for me.

Things That Are The Worst

There's this self-help guru out there on the inter webs named Tim Ferris, and other than having a stellar six pack and rocking a bald head almost as well as Bruce Willis, I am not sure what he exactly does that makes him so amazing, other than writing some pretty decentish things, which is something that I aspire to (along with a stellar six pack). But whatever it is that he is famous for, he's so good he only needs a website with his first name : https://tim.blog/ - also something I should aspire to, except http://liv.blog/ has a WAY cooler vibe than his. Anyway, Ferris - Tim, that is, has this thing he talks about called fearsetting. It's like goalsetting, except the un-side of it. Like, what you DON'T want to happen. When I stumbled across Tim's fearsetting TED talk, it occurred to me that I had actually been fearsetting in my own life for several years.

The first time that I remember consciously doing it was when I was in Uganda , trying to sleep in the searing heat under a mosquito net with tarantula sized holes in it. I was having a full-fledged panic attack. I couldn't breathe enough to gasp out the sobs that my soul was working up, and it wasn't the mosquitos or the tarantulas, since I am pretty sure there aren't any tarantulas in Uganda. It was as if I had suddenly realized, laying down to sleep, that I was, at a bare minimum, two days of travel away from my four little girls, without the resources or ability to get to them if something went wrong. I was a single mom, beyond poor, halfway around the world from my kids. The fear and doubt and guilt that raced through my mind that night was crippling. I couldn't escape it, so I faced it. Starting with the Worst Thing I Could Imagine, I looked each fear in the eye and asked myself what I would do. If one of my girls was hurt -  how would I deal? I made a plan, who I could call, how I could get there. Then I faced the next fear, until I worked my way down the Worst Case Scenario List, making plans, until I had taken away all of the reasons to not go on with my trip and sleep soundly that night.

That, in an nutshell, is fearsetting. It's looking the most Terrible Thing You can Imagine in the face and asking yourself what you would do. Once you find an answer, the fear subsides. And there is always an answer.

On a daily basis we deal with anxiety about relationships and money and decisions, when the reality is that the thing that we are freaking out about is something we have probably already faced (which makes them rational fears, but fears nonetheless). When I panic about the risk of a being dumped or rejected or abandoned, I remember when I was, and I think about how I survived it, and how I would survive it better now. When I fear financial destitution, I reflect back on the moments of absolute poverty-stricken impossibility and how I got back on my feet by digging all of the quarters out of the couch cushions to buy gas to get to work. I wish I could say I was exaggerating.

I have never faced the loss of a child, or even a very close loved one, but I can imagine the disabling grief and when I am overwhelmed with the knowledge that their protection, especially as they launch into their own lives as adults, is out of my hands, I have to find peace in knowing I have the people around me to keep me together if something like that happened. And if I don't, I'd better get busy finding them.

Fears are really the things that keeps us from our goals. Fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of wasted time, energy, passion - those are my big things. I have never really had money to fear losing, and failure is such a ritual procedure for me that it doesn't scare me that much, but wasting one more day of this infinitely short life (yes, that's an oxymoron), scares the shit out of me. It's like FOMO (fear of missing out, for all you old people) on speed, because instead of missing out on like, the best Halloween party EVER, you're missing out on years of your life - or you gave them away like an idiot to some jerkface who didn't appreciate them.

So I face that fear, the fear of wasting time, and I look at all of the things that I have brought with me from the "wasted" years. Four AMAZING kids. Skillz. Mad skillz. Insight. Compassion. Empathy. Humility. A complete Battlestar Gallactica DVD set. So how wasted were those years? Look where they brought me! To a place I would never be otherwise, with people I might never have known. The fear subsides and I look forward to the next adventure. I pray that it is one that will last, but if it isn't, I know I will have gained even more.

So that's where I am at. Eating fear for breakfast along with pain and failure and stomping off all of the negative vibes. Or at least most days I am. Why we, as humans, and especially me, are so intent on finding the things to worry about when we have such good things to be doing, cookies to eat and dogs to pet and just, LIFE! But we, me especially, have to bog the good things down with the what ifs. And what if things were just fine? What if we had nothing to fear because we always have a way out? I say these things to remind myself that even the Worst Things can, and will be survived, so I might as well enjoy all of the Best Things that surround me every day.

Lost Munu

Things About Adventures

So I am doing this THING, for work, which leaves me with lots of free time on my hands and my bosses say they like it when I am bored. That’s great, except usually when I am bored, I write, and my bosses apparently don’t like it when I write. Last time I was doing this THING and I wrote, I nearly got fired, so I am gonna try to be more careful. In fact I have been told that I can’t write about the THING I do for work, when I am at work, in case I say something BAD. Words like “inappropriate”, “representation” and “make us look bad” have been thrown around, so to be safe, I am not going to say where I am or what I am doing. Just in case. And I am not going to tell you all of the funny things that happen, or that people say, or that come in my lunches, or anything. In case.

Instead I am going to write about things that are not here, wherever it is that I am, that may or may not be right next to an ocean and some poison oak. Instead, I am going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, for that is the exact space in history where all true adventures begin, we planned a quiet weekend. The weekend had completely nothing in it, except for beautiful couches and some TV and maybe a pizza or two. It was perfect. Saturday morning dawned sunny and beautiful, with no Obligations or Responsibilities. Then the phone rang. A certain set of parentals were stranded. It seems that an aged Cadillac, which was in Very Good Condition Otherwise, had given up the ghost somewhere around that place on I-90 where Noone lives. You know the spot? Well the parentals luckily knew someone who lived not far from Noone and they caught a ride to civilization, towing the Good Condition but otherwise dead Cadillac with them, and then they called us.

We, being good, caring offspring, always willing to help and having no other plans that day, decided (with some hesitation) to go rescue the parentals as good, caring children do. It all started off OK. A planless weekend had just morphed accidentally into a road trip weekend, as the parentals needed a ride to the Land of Ports, where they would get a rental car to use until their flight home to Florida a few days later.

Being always up for adventure and also Very Accommodating, I was especially excited for this unplanned road trip because it was my first time meeting the parentals of Someone that I like Awfulmuch. The Someone might have been a little less enthusiastic, because for one thing, he already knows his parents and it’s not nearly as exciting as meeting new ones, and for another thing, couches are Very Nice. But me, being such a good shoulder-whisperer that alternates a little carelessly between angel and devil, I talked him into how much fun a road trip would be.

We picked up the ‘rents in Ritzville where they said goodbye fondly to the Cadillac in Otherwise Good Condition, and headed south and then west toward Portland, talking of other road trips and cars and trucks and things that you talk about with parents you’ve just met, like the weather and what kind of jelly you like. The trip was fine, even though it was hotter than the gorge has been in memorable history and we hadn’t packed any ice cream.

After dropping the parents off at the airport, and then re-dropping them off at the airport when someone realized that someone else needed something else from someone’s wallet, we, just The Two of Us, went on our merry way into the Big City to stay in a Big City Hotel and eat some Big City Food. Or we would have, if suddenly the Jeep we were riding in hadn’t decided it needed an immediate and unarguable break to cool down. Somehow we got off the freeway and onto a side street in downtown Portland, where we hemmed and hawed about what was broken, how to fix it and whether or not someone could send a helicopter to take us home. No helicopter came, but an ambulance did deliver some pizza to us while we waited for a tow truck to find us. Turns out that downtown Portland is a long way from any tow trucks.

Deciding that whateveritwas that was broken was not going to be easily fixed on a downtown sidestreet in Portland on Saturday night after everything was closed, or Sunday morning when everyone was at church, we opted for a tow out to Astoria, where the parentals had headed in their cheery red rental car just moments before. We figured that fixing the problem with some help, another car for the inevitable running around that it would require, and a place to stay, made more sense than sharing a room with the guy in the cardboard house on the street where we were parked.

I wish I could remember the tow truck driver’s name, but I am not sure he ever gave it to us, although I can tell you that he has three daughters, all redheads, he works lots of overtime and he is a proficient sleep driver. It took us at least a zillion hours to get from Portland to Astoria in the tow truck - hours which were punctuated either by awkward conversations with the tow truck driver about his red headed daughters or watching his head nod sporadically toward his chest in little narcoleptic fits when we weren’t asking him questions. The worst part was that when he was sleep-driving, he would go the speed limit or slightly over, getting us more quickly to our destination, but the minute we would ask him a question and he would start responding, his foot would come off the gas pedal and the rusty, whale-like truck would slow to 22 MPH for the entirety of the conversation. It was completely impossible to decide which scenario was worse, but I was snuggled up next to Someone I Like Very Much on the World’s Most Uncomfortable Bench Seat with my feet up on a tool box that wouldn’t close all the way until 2 in the morning, and I didn’t even mind.  

We finally got to Astoria, and a beautiful hotel room (with a pull out bed, of course) overlooking a beautiful bridge and biscuits and gravy for breakfast and a Dutch Bros right up the road. It turns out that the fix wasn’t too hard, once we figured out the problem with some parental help (what goes around, comes around?) and before long, we were back on the road toward home, only a few hours behind our original unplanned plan.

They say that Adventure is merely lack of planning, which can be kind of exciting, especially for Someone who is a Planner. I think that Adventure is more like a plan with a question mark at the end, or one of those choose-your-own-ending books that leave a few pages blank, just in case. I like question marks and blank pages a lot, and I also like Someone who is a Planner a lot, and even though our do-nothing weekend turned into late nights and troubleshooting and problem solving and miles and miles, it was a good adventure, and I wouldn’t have undone it, even if it meant that the Cadillac in Otherwise Good Condition would still be alive. Which is fine, since the parentals have recently replaced it with an aged Pearl White Cadillac that is also in Otherwise Very Good Condition.

Things That Are Seedy

When I was a kid, I remember my mom referring to “seedy hotel rooms”. Actually I am not sure if she was referring to hotel rooms, but I felt like when she used the word “seedy” it must be in reference to hotel rooms, because what else can really fall under that classification. For that matter, what in the world does “seedy” even mean? In my juvenile brain I imagined something like a dried up orange, sour and sticking to your teeth, and definitely hard water stains in the bathtub. That is seedy for sure.

I started hashing through all of this on a recent sleepless, yet thought -provoking night at a hotel room that could probably pretty fairly be considered seedy. I was trying to be thrifty since my employers had been reticent to pay for the nicer hotel the last time I needed one for work. There were hard water stains on the bathtub for sure, but no dried out oranges to speak of. If I had to define seedy I would probably say it something akin to the opposite of “classy”, i.e. low quality, unkempt, and questionably legal. The ACTUAL definition of seedy is much better than mine:

Seed·y ˈsēdē/

Adjective

1. sordid and disreputable.

As I lay contorted in a bed with undefinable lumps in it, I decided it would be helpful to develop an identification strategy for anyone who wonders if they might be staying in a seedy hotel room. Here are the parameters I came up with.

1. If you walk into the room and smell wet carpet, it’s a pretty sure sign you’re at a seedy hotel. Chances are also good that where you smell wet carpet there is wet carpet and it will be a relief to discover that it’s mostly from the leaking air conditioner, and probably not from that suspicious stain by the bathroom door.
2. If you find yourself playing the “floor is lava” by yourself, leaping from bed to table to entertainment center to cracked bathroom tiles to avoid carpet stains, you’re probably in a seedy hotel.
3. If the table you lept to from the bed does not support your parcours adventures and breaks into 5 pieces, you’re probably in a seedy hotel.
4. If the paper cups wrapped in saran wrap by the coffeemaker are so biodegradable that they biodegrade during one episode of House with a little bit of ice water in them, chances are good you picked a seedy hotel.
5. If it sounds like there is a middle school game of twister going on above you and they all brought their toddler siblings with them, you might be staying at a seedy hotel.
6. If the guy in the room down the hall has his door open and an ACTUAL boom box stationed to blare into the hallway some unrecognizable cross between mariachi and Celine Dion, yeah, you’re probably there.
7. If the coffee for your room is two scoops of folgers in a zip-lock baggie…
8. If the circa 1987 wallpaper still matches the bedspread and the paint is rubbed off of EVERY CORNER, it’s a good sign.
9. If there is hair in the bed BEFORE you get in it, well, that’s just gross.
10. If there is no discernable difference in color, smell or viscosity of the shampoo, conditioner, body lotion and shoe polish - good chance you’re at a seedy place.

of course I have.

Things About Hosteling

In all fairness, staying in hostels was probably my favorite part of the trip to Brazil. For all of my grown-up complaining and fit-pitching, I can't help but smile when I think of the people and the things that I got to experience in hostels.

New Year's Eve on Copacabana!

Our first Hostel was in Rio de Janeiro. In case you don't know, Rio is a city of 6 million people, which is about 5,999,627 more people than I am really comfortable sharing a zip code with at one time. Our Hostel was located in the Santa Teresa neighborhood, known for it's colorful and artsy culture and the perpetual party atmosphere, which is obviously why I desperately needed to stay there. Because parties. Until at least 9 PM. We shared an 8 bunk room for 5 nights with 6 boys that rotated in and out like migrant shift workers from various continents. There was finally one other girl from London there, a bronze-skinned bohemian beauty who flitted in and out like she owned the place, which, if you consulted any of the 20-something international romeos in our dorm, would be the general consensus.

January 1st 2017. The aftermath. (the shirtless dude on the beanbags in the corner is the hostel owner

I was without question the oldest person in the hostel, which I would estimate houses anywhere from 20-75 people on any given night. I was also the only mom. Being a mom has it's definite advantages, as a few of the kids will respect your age and sleep needs by tiptoeing quietly around the darkened door room after 9 PM when I usually holed up in my bunk for the duration of the night. Halle was able to take full advantage of the perpetual party atmosphere and hit up some of the street parties and famous Cachaça bars and Samba joints.

One night, a friend of the hostel owner who was a Syrian refugee cooked dinner for the entire hostel - some amazing rice and beef dish with peanuts and I don't even know what. But it was really good. That night I stayed downstairs with all of the kids and drank caipirinhas and Antarctica beer like it was going out of style. In case you were wondering, a caipirinha is a traditional Brazilian cocktail made with limes, simple syrup and Cachaça, which is a spirit distilled from sugar cane. And it's delicious. I might have had a dozen or two during my stay.

The best part about staying in hostels is, hands down, the super cool and friendly people from all over the world that you get to meet and subsequently, hang out with. In every hostel (we stayed in three) we got the best tourist tips, sometimes tag along local guides and help getting everywhere we wanted to.

The second hostel that we stayed in was in the middle of the Mata Atlantica Rainforest, in a little hippie beach town called Trindade, and couldn't have been more different from our urban hostel in Rio. We spent the one day that we had in Trindade hiking to beaches that were squirreled along rustic coastal trails, slip-sliding in our Havianas in the mud from torrential downpours that happen at least once a day. While we were there, we sat out one of the awesome storms in a great little restaurant with good local beer and an American classic rock cover band. In the meantime, back at our hostel, the wood slat bridge that spanned the small creek between the main hostel lodge and the bunkhouse where we were sleeping collapsed when one end of the bridge support sloughed off in a miniature land slide. The minor catastrophe also cut off the water supply to the the entire hostel which meant that we were relegated to drinking the cheap beer on hand at the hostel. It was a super fun night, like camping with cousins when the power goes out. We played UNO with some kids from the Netherlands and I am pretty sure I didn't win.

I would tell you that the last hostel we stayed in was my favorite except that I really like all of them for different reasons. Green Haven Hostel in Ubatuba (yes, it's a real place) was located directly across from a big beach where giant, lifted tractors drive out into the surf with trailers to pick up boats that come into the bay. Ubatuba is the surf capital of Brazil, and while it took a little doing to find the "best surf beach", we finally did, and Halle got a lesson while I soaked up the last full beach day that we had in Brazil. It was exactly everything that I imagined Brazil would be. Turquoise water, crashing waves, and beautiful bronzed bodies of all shapes and sizes. And then we went back to the hostel, where they hosted a killer Brazilian barbeque and partied all. night. long.

Hostel living certainly isn't for everyone. In fact, I am not sure it's even for me, but it was a memorable experience, every sleepless night of it. Halle was insistent that the night that we spent at a hotel robbed us of the cultural experience that a hostel provides, and while I enjoyed the "private" bedroom and a bathroom and shower all to myself, I have to admit that I missed the adventure and intrigue of sharing a house with 50 strangers from all over the world. Even if I was the only mom.

Things About Cultural Experiences

He says the tap water is fine to drink. He says, “never mind the silt when it rains like this. It should be fine. It IS fine.” His self correction was so quick that I almost believe him. And after all, since Halle and I didn’t bring enough cash to pay for our two nights at his hostel where we had only booked ONE bed, who can question the integrity of the owner? Especially when he is a Brit named David, or George, or James, or one of those really super British names, and gives one the sneaking suspicion that his frequent emergent rendezvous in the dark and rainy alleyway have more to do with a booming drug business than a hostel with silty tap water. But who am I to question? It's all about the “cultural experience”. (Turns out that George, the hostel owner, actually owned the Pousada (hotel) across the street as well and was running back and forth in the torrential rain storm to deal with guests over there. So no drugs. I think [almost disappointing].)

it will hold me, right?

According to my 20 year old daughter, it was this rich cultural experience that I deprived her from when I insisted on paying for a hotel room after 5 nights in a hostel in Rio De Janiero: possibly the biggest, hottest, dirtiest city I have ever visited. It must have been the cultural deprivation that drove her to a 45 minute shower in the hotel room, uninterrupted by visitors of all sorts and unenhanced by the multicultural diarrhea nearby in a toilet that wouldn't flush. (#hostellifeforever!) I do feel like Halle should save passing her judgements on me for when she is thirty nine and a half and has given birth without medical aid in a dirt floor structure of questionable design and no flushing toilet. I will take “luxury”, with or without culture, whenever I can afford it. But luxury comes in many forms.

Like for instance, tonight, in my warm shower (all of the water here is solar heated, along with EVERYthing else), I was joined by a lightning bug. Now there is luxury you can't even buy. And the lighting storm on Ilha Grande last night, like a giant rave in the sky, thunder and rain screaming for attention like an emo support group - the kind of awesome drama that Hollywood can never recreate.

Feijoada FTW. I love this stuff. Just don't tell me what's in it.

I like Brazil. Things that I like about Brazil include: The music. The food (at least the stuff I can identify). The very nice people who tolerate idiot Americans who don't bother to learn Portuguese before they visit (thank God Halle learned muito pequeno [I made those words up completely]). The fact that I have lost weight. The fact that losing weight precludes me from falling through the REALLY springy and far too flexible one by whatever wood slats on any of a hundred little bridges spanning murky water that looks like hot chocolate and smells like diarrhea. I like the turquoise water of the ocean, and the miles and miles of foamy beach, these rainbow people in all shades and colors and from every background. I like imagining a life on this side of the equator as normal, and not the foreign, sticky, sweaty, amazingly weird world it is to me.

I can honestly say that my comfort zone hasn't been breached to this level since I visited Uganda. Except that one time I had to go to church on Easter Sunday. But it's good. And I still keep pinching myself to make sure I am really experiencing it. Or maybe that was the biting ants that swarmed my feet at the waterfall. Who knows?

so much adventure.

Things About Brazil

I decided to go to Brazil with my 20 year old daughter. I have no idea why. The opportunity presented itself, and, since South America is one of the very few remaining continents I have to visit (just antarctica and Australia left now!), it seemed foolish to say no. I was also moderately uncomfortable with my oldest daughter doing this new-fangled thing called couch-surfing (back when I was a kid we called it being a hobo) all over Brazil by herself, staying with random strangers that were probably human traffickers posing as nice South American families with comfortable couches. So, by going to Brazil myself, I could obviously prevent All the Worst Things from happening to Halle, being the formidable and intimidating character that I am.


I didn't go to Brazil because it has been a lifelong dream of mine to go there, even though it is a country in the world and I plan to see them all before I die. I didn't go to Brazil because I had some opportunity to serve the global community and make the world a better place by throwing around my white privilege and lack of cultural understanding. I certainly didn't go to Brazil because I could afford it, or because I deserved it, or because taking the time off of work and ditching my other kids and pets and responsibilities just made sense. I guess I went because I could, and because I was curious. And also because it was negative a thousand degrees in Stevens County this month and I never had time to get a tan last summer.

It seemed like a good idea at first, which is often how ideas start out. And then it started to seem like a questionable idea, but I had committed to Halle. And then it seemed like a terrible, scary and irresponsible idea and I am much too old and broke and nervous to be traipsing around South America like a 20 year old with no bills or dependent creatures, but I had already bought the ticket. So Brazil was happening, and I pretended to put my worries aside to go enjoy the burning hot equatorial sunshine and 97% RH.

I spent two weeks in the 5th largest country in the world. Brazil occupies almost half of the continent of South America. It is the largest Portuguese speaking nation in the world, and the only one in South America, having been claimed as a Portuguese territory in 1500. The fascinating thing about world travel is that no part remains untouched by the cultures of other places. Before I went to Brazil I spent a few days in Washington DC with my family for Christmas, and was able to visit the recently opened National Museum of African American History. Wandering through those halls, and then revisiting the replicated history of enslaved people in South America (Brazil was one of the last large countries to abolish slavery), made me wonder what our worlds would look like if the slave ships had never reached our shores. Everything would be different. But that's a tar baby I won't tackle here. Brazil is rich with the combined culture of the native Amerindian, enslaved African transplants and European occupational influence.

But most importantly, in January, Brazil is hot. SO HOT. Hot as Hades in the Devil's summertime. The average daily temperatures while we were in Rio were in the high nineties, with relative humidities to match. It took me two weeks to acclimatize, so I was just about comfortable in time to come home to -18 degree mornings at home. One thing for sure, this trip wasn't about being comfortable.

The thing about traveling with your 20 year old daughter is that she's 20, and you're not. And she's your daughter, and you're the mom. So there is a little bit of a weirdness there. Mostly it worked out great because if I was up for partying (see exhibit A: New Years Eve on Copacabana [maybe in the next post]), I could party her into the ground, and if I wasn't, then I would just go to bed and worry about her getting partied into the ground by someone else's mom, or more accurately, getting mugged at a street party in Rio without me there to protect her.

We packed our two week schedule tight, and even so we only scratched the surface of Brazil's southeastern coastal area, with the exception of a two day excursion to Iguacu Falls, the largest waterfall system in the world, wherein I made friends with a pack of very naughty Coatis and accidentally didn't book a hotel room for our first night. Luckily things worked out somehow, in spite of our total inability to communicate with the poor hotel clerk who was working at 2 AM when we showed up, sans reservations.

But Iguacu Falls, or Iguazu Falls, as it's called on the Argentinian side where we also visited (passport stamps, yo!), was my first taste of the wild and dramatic summer storms of South America. It was amazing and beautiful. Before we even got to Rio Halle introduced me to what would become a survival staple, Pao de Quiejo, which I still have great difficulty pronouncing and just decided to call Bow-chicka-Bow-wows. Bow Chickas are like little cheese-bread balls made of manioc flour and parmesan. What's not to love?

There is no way to encapsulate the entire trip in one blog post, so I will be back with more, after I sleep off some jet lag.

Things About Busting Out

Sometimes I can feel the four walls of the choices I have made closing in around me like the trash compactor in A New Hope (If you don't get that reference, I have nothing but sympathy and suggestions for recovering you childhood for you). I am fantastically busy - so much so that the idea of adding one more activity to the list borders on tear-jerking. The trouble is that I find myself drowning in everybody else's business. This is not the business of me. This is the business of the people that I owe money to, the friends in need, the children I am raising - the choices I have made - closing in, all around me.

I can find The Joy in the things every day that I Must Do, but secretly, in my heart, I long for The Joy to find me. To seek me out. To pursue me relentlessly like a puppy who needs my involvement Right This Second. I can make the best of things, see the cup half full, bloom where I am planted and all of that jazz - I am a pro - really, I am. But I ache to wake up, once again overcome by happiness, and the knowledge that I am known. I am doing my OWN business. It's about me. It hasn't been the season for that lately - there's just been too much outside of me that needed tending, so the weeds have taken over my internal garden in the same fashion that they would a real garden if I ever tried to have one.

But the sun is out, and my dormant soul is pushing back against the walls of obligation and duty. So much so that I just Googled airfare prices for next week to three different continents, then map-quested a semi-reasonable road trip that I could actually manage. I need to fly. I've been feeling it for a couple of weeks. Maybe longer, but it was quiet until recently and I could ignore it. Not any more. I am restless and frustrated, and I need the open road to remember me and all of our good times. I need to remind the springtime that I am more than the sum of my many children and jobs and commitments. More than a teacher, a waitress, a mother, a chauffeur - I am a Wildling trapped in an SUV and a rental agreement. I stare out the window of my classroom some moments and feel my breath come short and shallow, as if the air has been cut off completely by the finger-smudged glass.

Maybe I don't have somebody to ride shotgun for - maybe alone is better anyway. Maybe I am discontent - but if nobody was ever discontent, I feel like we'd still be grunting at each other over our gourdfuls of seeds and berries, and waxing philosophical about how the idea of a wheel isn't very practical really. All that traveling. A little bit of restless is what it takes to get over the mountains, and I am grateful that my restless isn't dead yet.

It's time to break this 100 mile radius that I have circled for months on end. It's time to cross state lines, bend the rules and make up my story as I go, choosing to tell only The Ones I please when I am done. It is time to expand my heart again, to take in more than this tiny little town and all of the hurts and aches and struggles that the winter has fed it. I know that out there The Joy is waiting. It's calling for me to come and play. The air smells different in Montana. In Oregon. In Idaho. Along the highway. Maybe I won't hit Mexico, but I can get started. Wait for me, Someplace, I am coming...

Chief Mountain, Glacier National Park

Things About Fear

Last week the world blew all to heck. Literally. I have heard reports from the towns south of me, I have seen the pictures on social media to support the claims. In the dark, cold hours of the night, I could heard the angry roar of the wind, like a bear unleashed from a long captivity, wreaking vengeance on his captors. I imagined the giant dying tree above my bedroom crashing down through the roof. I imagined what many people faced in reality that night.

I was afraid. I was afraid for the daughter who lives in Spokane, where she listened to perpetual sirens as the giant trees fell like blades of grass around the neighborhoods. I was afraid for my youngest daughter and the entire bus full of middle school basketball players trekking back from a match across a mountain pass in the violent storm. I was afraid for all of my friends and family who were at the mercy of the wrath of nature.

The word afraid means "to be filled with fear or apprehension." I believe that fear itself is a gift, but to be filled with it is death.

Fear is an unavoidable human reality. It is easy to demonize fear and make it the enemy, but fear is often the one thing that keeps us safe. Fear is the only reason we don't leap unprotected from skyscrapers or dive unguided into the darkest depths. Fear keeps us alive, but it can also keep us from living. Fear, left to spiral out of control, can dominate our existence and paralyze us from movement. When fear fills us up, and we are afraid, it can monopolize our time with useless worry and wasted days of what-ifs and but-maybes. It can be the still small voice that tells us which side of the street to walk on, or it can be the screaming howl of senseless paranoia. Fear is a gift, but like any gift without moderation, can cause death.

My two oldest daughters are heading off in a couple of weeks to a country in a different hemisphere from me. They will be "alone". Traveling teenagers with no supervision during The Holidays in South America, away from me, out of reach of any futile protection I imagine I can offer them. It brings me back to the place I was in 2009, when I lay on a bed under a mosquito net full of holes and I realized that from my location in Northern Uganda, it would take me no less than two days to reach my kids back home if something went wrong. In that moment I began to panic, to regret my decision to travel, to hate myself for abandoning my post as sworn protector. But in that moment I also had to find peace, and the only way I could do that was by reminding myself that they are in The Hands of Someone who has loved them much more and much longer than I have. That even sitting next to me at the dinner table, they are no more under "my protection" than they are 10,000 miles away. They do not belong to me, they belong to themselves and they world they were created for. They have a reason to be here, and their purpose as human beings is certainly not to sit "safely" by my side.

I have to remember this when Halle is working all night on an uncontrolled fireline. I have to remember this when MacKenzie rides the bus alone in Spokane. I have to remember it when Aspen is at the top of Sherman Pass with her classmates in a windstorm, and when Natalee doesn't come home from a sleepover on time. I have to remember this when there are kids being murdered on college campuses almost daily, our Protectors in Blue are being killed on the streets, and there are terrorist threats close to home.

My delusion of control and protection over the ones I love I owe entirely to the safety that they have been granted thus far by a Power far greater than me. I have not kept them safe. I have not prevented their harm. The One who made them has sheltered them, and will continue to do so until their purpose is served. There is no other way to live life with healthy fear and respect for the dangers of this world, than to believe that Someone Bigger is in charge. All I can offer is wisdom and prayer.

In this ugly world of terror, surrounded by human beings intent on destruction, our wisdom has to be grounded in healthy fear and our fear has to be driven by wisdom. I carry a gun not because I am afraid of the bad people, but because I know they exist and I am not afraid to counter them if I must. I wear a seatbelt not because I plan to be in a wreck, but because I know that no accident is planned and I have seen the consequences of not using that protection.

One of my best friends is a police officer - I do not fear the real danger he faces every day but I do pray for his protection every shift. One of my best friends is facing health challenges that could be terrifying, but I trust in her strength to overcome anything. The things that we fear the most: death, pain, suffering... are the things that none of us can avoid. Bad things happen every day, to good people. Our only choice is to embrace the purpose behind the things we suffer, before the things that kill us and make every step count along the way.

Which is why I am not harping (very much) on the girls' trip to Brazil. I am trying very hard to remind them to be wise, but to not nag them to quit living. This world is so vastly different from the one I knew as a teenager. More connected, more open, in some ways better, in other ways, immensely more dangerous. But again, they fly under the Wing of a Bigger Bird than me, and I am thankful.

I am not afraid anymore. I am not filled with fear. There are fearful things, to be sure, but they do not own me. Like that night in Uganda, there are moments when I have to make the conscious decision to put aside my fear for my faith. I have done it a thousand times before, facing the suffering and the struggle to find the joy on the other side of fear. I did it when I  left a destructive marriage and a damaging community, I did it when I pushed through the nightmare of getting a college education, of single motherhood, of starting over in a new town. I do it every time the pager goes off in the middle of the night or I see the burning forest ahead of me. Fear is always there, but I am not afraid, and because I am not afraid, I have oodles of stories to tell. I can only hope the same joy for the ones I love.

READ: The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker, and Deep Survival by Laurence Gonzales. Both of these books have been game changers for me.

Things About Being American in not-America

There are a few basic rules to international traveling. I am fairly certain that I don’t know any of them, but it was quickly evident to me that in addition to the real rules, like passports and visas and not being felons on the run or carrying any highly contagious diseases, there are a number of unspoken cultural things-to-avoid when outside of one’s own country. Most of these can basically be summed up into one: don’t be a jerk.

If you are going to travel to countries that are not the United States, it is important to remember several things, including the fact that you are traveling to countries that ARE NOT THE UNITED STATES. Sometimes, in these other countries, they do things differently. Like even speaking English. Turns out, this widely spoken language is actually spoken quite differently from place to place, which is interesting to discover when you, say, refer to that quintessential travelling necessity that us “Americans” call a fanny-pack, in a country like Australia and have succeeded in offended the young women in front of you by a careless mention of their genitalia.

clearly a language barrier problem here.

Recently, being a world traveler, I was in Dublin with my family, and my parents were not particularly amused when my cousin and I kept referring to the “crack” that locals were telling us we could find downtown. The more enlightened among us readily understood that “crack” is an Irish term based on the Gaelic word  “craic”, which means simply “a good time”, and was most likely stolen and perverted by American druggies in the roaring twenties. Once this miscommunication was ironed out we were all relieved that even mom and dad could join us for a bit o’ crack in the pubs of Ireland.

have a bit o' crack! and a creamy pint!

Another keen traveling tip for Americans Abroad is the vital importance of matching luggage. This is the ONLY way to ensure adventures such as mixing up the bags of 6’1”, 190 lb. Uncle Jim and 4’9” 92 lb. Aunt Janet when we split off to fly to separate countries for more exploring. Not that Aunt Janet wouldn’t have killed it in green gym shorts and a bicycling cap, but I am not sure the Netherlands would have recovered from Uncle Jim in a size 00 zip off quick dry skirt  – this could easily be misconstrued as some sort of cultural terrorism. Matching suitcases also offers the reassurance that EVERYONE will know that we are related, even English speaking people who don’t really speak English. I saw several American families following this important travel protocol, and was somewhat envious of their Disney Themed carry-ons. Next time, family. Next time.

You have to admit, they do look like they know what they're doing.

Dietary differences are an important factor to consider when traveling as well. One of our family members has celiac disease, which proved problematic, especially when we were on “the continent”, where A) they didn’t even pretend to speak English and B) continental breakfast is actually a THING. As is continental lunch, and dinner. The four major food groups in France are bread, croissants, rolls and cheese. Lucky for Aunt J, we already knew the word for cheese was “fromage”, which offered a relatively safe source of protein for her. Also, it turns out, hot dog is a nearly universal term. Shortly into our trip, after a text-a-friend to the most recent high-school French student, we were able to eek out the French word blé – which I think is wheat, because once we said that (actually showed them in text, because pronouncing blé is much harder than one would imagine), they smiled and said, in a very frenchy accent: “AHHH! Oui! Glúten Free!” which happens to be exactly what we were saying the whole time, but in American. Lord Love a Duck.

Sanna spilled her unidentifiable French green gelatinous appetizer. We do fancy, yo. 

Now, in spite of hailing from Northport, I would consider myself a fairly well rounded, cultured and adaptable individual. We live in a multi-cultural world, and I like it that way. I am of the firm belief that both the Native Americans AND the Spanish were on this continent before us white European folks, so there’s absolutely no reason that Spanish or whatever language shouldn’t be spoken and taught here. We are as much of a melting pot as the world has to offer, and it turns out, after being in Ireland, England, Scotland and France, there’s a lot of melting all over the place. We had authentic Italian food with authentic Italian waiters in Edinburgh, we had German wait staff in Ireland, and we had Czechish service in London. And in every place we went, “English speaking” country or no, we seemed to run into communication barriers, which makes me feel a bit like the common denominator, and also the cliché American jerk. No matter how loudly or slowly I spoke, they still didn't understand me. #youredoingitwrong

Like the time that we ordered hamburger steak in France and had it delivered to our table pretty much raw. The polite European thing to do might have been eating hamburger tartaré, but… well, I sent mine back to the kitchen for a little bit of cooking, because: e-coli, you guys.

um, so the differences weren't ALL bad. This is a "Knickerbocker Glory" and I want one every single day for the rest of my life. @Temple Brewhouse in London

Also did you know that American Plumbing isn't the universal standard? For instance, I ran across a pit toilet in France, that I was happy to use in my urgent need. And some places don't have stand up showers. And some places have sitting showers for your nether regions (not to be confused with Nether-lands). Not to mention the variety of how-do-you-turn-it-on and how-do-you-get-hot-water dilemmas we faced in different locations. It's all quite complicated and confusing for the average 'Merican. I mean, it certainly wasn't a village in Uganda, or even a Chinese suburb, for that matter, but it was also not Colville.

this is where common sense and picture instructions come in real handy.

Maybe it sounds shallow to say that I like the way we do things here in the good ol' USof A. Or maybe it just sounds like I am closed-minded and stuck in an American rut, which is ok. It's fun to experience things like accidentally peeing on your ankles, or eating raw hamburger every once in awhile, but for the most part, I'll take what we've got going on here. I just have to remember that when I DO venture out into the Big Wide World again, to take my travel etiquette and a couple of basic translation dictionaries with me. Just in case. 

Things That I Got to Do

I realize it’s been a long time since y’all heard from me. I know that there’s a lot to catch up on. I’ve been busy, guys, traveling the world and experiencing things that are so overwhelming, I am not even sure where to begin.

For anybody who doesn’t know, I got to go over to Ireland with my family. Ireland, Scotland, France and England, actually, all made possible by my parents. Specifically my mother who has spent the last year planning and scheming (in a totally legitimate, non-subversive way, of course) and coordinating the perfect execution of a nearly three week, four country tour of the British Isles and beyond. Most of the expense of this trip was covered by airline miles and award points accumulated carefully and meticulously through a strategy so complex and precise, that I would imagine even the spreadsheets were outwitted. My mother is a master in the art of thrifty travel and making things happen. I am in awe.

The first half of our trip was spent all over the rolling green hills of Ireland, touring the three Cs – Castles, Cathedrals and Cliffs. Then we spent two nights in the fairy tale town of Edinburgh, Scotland, where I felt certain I had stepped into Diagon Alley and was watching carefully for Ollivander ‘s Wand Shop. After Scotland, we spent three nights in France, along the Normandy Coast, visiting beaches where thousands of Allied Troops disembarked in June of 1944. Then it was on to jolly old England for two nights in London listening to Big Ben announce the imminent arrival of our departure.

At no point, as I wandered through these long-lived lands, did the dizzying knowledge of Someone Before escape me. How many places that I stood had seen death, revolution, romance and intrigue. Thousands of years of history happened beneath my feet in these spots, before the New World across the sea was even imagined. Cities haunted by the superstitions of generations, faith that hangs in the air as thick as the ghosts that it tells about – stories whisper out of every wall about the destinies that came and went from these places.

I got to put my hands on ancient stones that have known the light touch of Mary Queen of Scots and the hard fist of Oliver Cromwell.

I got to bury my feet in the once blood-soaked sand of Omaha Beach.

I got to look out the window of Anne Boleyn’s bedroom.

I got to stand on rocks that could tell the stories of people more ancient than we have even discovered.

I leaned against walls that saw the death-slumped shoulders of chain-mailed knights, and bricks that held up generations of legend-drunk Irishmen and their singing heads.

I sat on benches that were grazed by the silk of fine, corset-ensconced ladies and where war-tired noblemen held their aching heads in their hands.

My feet got to travel the paths of age-old monks, following their trail of knowledge and faith throughout history.

I got to look up into the ceilings of castles and cathedrals that held secrets of conspiracies to thrones, illicit love stories and religious turning points that defined the destiny of the New World across the oceans.

I got to see the armor that grew to enclose the graduating form of Henry the VII as he evolved through his legendary reign.

I got to feel the cold salt water waves of the hard Irish beaches that hold a thousand stories of sailors and soldiers and saints.

I got to walk the same worn-smooth cobbled streets as witches and kings, abbots and invaders.

I got to stand beneath the floating feathers of Mont St Michel as they drift weightless in the still air, the suspended remnants of the archangel’s battle with the dragon of evil.

I got to lay eyes on the sparkling crown jewels of a Tiny Island that have been the reason for countless murders and wars and changes in religious trends.

I got to bear witness to centuries of traditions grafted from native beliefs onto imported rituals, a melding of spiritual, physical and legal forces compelling the people to their prescribed faiths.

I got to hear the story of religion used as a political vehicle over time, in turn redeeming and condemning followers, offering salvation and grace one minute, only to take it away at the whim of a ruling monarch and replace it with judgment and death.

I got to visit churches that swung wildly between different observations of faith and fell mercilessly on the people beneath them, seeking refuge. Places of comfort that became places of torture, and vice-verse.

I got to experience breathtaking landscapes, Kincaid cottages, adorable villages, intimidating fortresses, cozy chateaus, ancient metropolises, and in many places, the awkward clash of new and old, mixed up together in a land that still seeks to reconcile the bloody past with the enabled present. Elevators in 700 year old castles. Flushing toilets in rustic rock cottages. Glass Office Buildings alongside thatched roofs. These places know where they’re going but they’re careful to not forget where they have been.

These are dichotomies that we see rarely in our young nation. Old is torn down to acquiesce to new, and progress is not halted for tradition. We are the melting pot of the world, and rather than learning from our mistakes, we scorn them as erstwhile products of some other entity, and we start from scratch as though our slate was clean. We deny our torture chambers and internment camps and legacy of slavery.  We hide our face from the shame of bad rulers and poor legislative decisions. Granted, we have not the luxury of centuries to ease the pain of embarrassment, but the failures of our nation are carefully erased and tactfully avoided in polite conversation. And with the avoidance comes the perpetuation. Without looking back it is difficult to look forward, and we stay forever locked in our “just fine” state of being where equality is a trendy word and not a trend. So much we could learn from our cousins across the pond of adding the new to old and retaining the beauty that comes from gradual change through time. But we are young, we are impatient, we are revolutionaries. We’d prefer to knock down the whole tower of blocks and start over if it wasn’t constructed according to our tastes. We see no value in the experience of those who have gone before us, either for their successes or for their mistakes.

I have no idea where that ramble came from... sorry. But anyway, I feel like a pretty lucky girl for all the stuff I got to do, and I've got a lot more to write up

Things About Planning Ahead

Everyone knows how put together I am: the 37.95-year-old picture of poise, perfection, and polish. I am the epitome of organization. I have mastered the art of efficiency and getting All Of the Things Done.

Case in point:

I did a really really good job packing my bag for an 8 day trip to Washington DC to visit my brothers and sister-in-law. I thought every angle through: weather, comfort, travel, occasional propriety... and I nailed it. I packed the quintessential combination of things that I need and nothing I don't. I even called my mom to brag about my packing skillz. They were THAT legit.

Some important packing tips that I have gleaned in my vast globe trotting experience:

1. Always pack vitals like prescriptions and toothbrushes in your purse or carryon, you know, just in case. Unless you're so organized that you know you can rely on your real bag to be with you at all times.
2. Don't pack anything you really won't wear, no matter how "practical" or "cute" it is. Be realistic - the heels are nice, but seriously? And don't forget the Fire Tactical Underwear Rule of four (FTUR4): front/back/inside/out.
3. Utilize the relatives that you are visiting whenever possible. For instance, don't pack unnecessary items like shampoo, toothpaste, razors, deodorant or sweatpants when you know you can just use theirs.
4. If you've been secretly looking for an excuse to buy something new, conveniently "forget" to pack the old version. This plan doesn't work well on the months that all of your paychecks seem to be taking an awfully long time to get into your empty bank account.
5. Always wear or keep socks on the plane. A) feet get cold B) ew, germs.
6. Never pack a book for long flights, because you might miss an amazing opportunity for networking and conversation with the stranger that you are sharing intimate space with. Like that one time I traveled with the unshowered Berkeley professor/closet distiller to Amsterdam and learned how to make vodka when I was 16.
7. It's ok if your bag is overfull. You will never be bringing extra stuff back with you. Ever.
8. Create an exciting iPod playlist by going to your iTunes library and putting ALL SONGS on shuffle. For me the result was an eclectic delight of Simon & Garfunkel,  Super Adventure Club, Lionel Richie and Steve Green.
9. Make sure your earbuds are as ill-fitting as possible to avoid the temptation to use them constantly to eliminate the joyful sounds of children in the back rows. This is just antisocial and says you're a terrible human being.
10. Bring the heaviest water bottle you can find. This is useful for dropping and rolling maneuvers that MIGHT result in your seat-mate/new BFF asking to be relocated. You can only take someone's face accidentally in your lap so many times before it just gets weird.
11. Remember anything (or everything) you forget can always be mailed to you by whichever sister/friend has not become completely burned out on crisis intervention in your life.
12. Always wear your favorite clothes/shoes (BRA!) while traveling in case you somehow become seperated from your luggage. Hey, it could happen. Don't be stuck with the chafe.


So these are just some of the most important tips I have found in my uber successful travel planning.

I decided to perform an unexpected experiment in ultra-light travel when I left for DC this morning. Ever efficient, I had budgeted my time wisely for maximum sleeping-in time in order to make the airport with just enough time to check in, which is great when you decide to go with out the bag that you carefully packed using the steps aforementioned. I am sure it's getting much more use sitting on my bedroom floor anyway. Due to my excellent timing, going back for the cumbersome (and clearly unnecessary) bag was out of the question, so without questioning my sister's burn-out status, I had her mail the important things, like, oh, you know, prescriptions and bras, and will figure the rest out when I arrive in D.C.

Because who doesn't love an ADVENTURE!!

Authors Note: FYI I do not share deodorant or razors with ANYONE. Toothbrushes are negotiable.

Things That Are Dramatic

You say drama like its a bad thing. You tell me I'm too much drama - and you're damn straight I am. I'm a single mom with four daughters on a shoestring budget. Too many hats and jobs to count, volunteering, dedicating, overloading. Emotions are always high at my house. Even if I was an amoeba there would be drama. If I let the girls walk all over me and didn't get back in their face for the disrespect and insolence they throw at me. If I didn't send my 17 year old to live with her dad there would STILL be drama. The toilet would overflow. The flu would come. The fleas won't stop. And I will tell you about it. Because I am too much drama. 

You know what else is drama? The bald eagle that just dive bombed my windshield. The monster buck that stepped in front of my car out of the mist on Boulder pass. The raging inferno of a forest fire. The mighty Columbia River. All drama. Too much drama. Extremes of hot and cold, gentle and cruel, bad and good. 

Life is drama. Without drama, life is passionless. Blah. Sane? Perhaps. Boring? Absolutely. Without drama there is no passionate love song. No gut-wrenching tear-jerker. Without drama, who cares if some Dude died on a cross, or rose again. Who cares if He was ever born? Who cares about anything? Drama makes the world go 'round. 

The silly mystery of Christmas presents wrapped up in shiny paper is drama. Drawn out traditions and advents and pilgrimages are drama. Hanging on to family memories and paying hundreds of dollars to see loved ones for few days is straight up drama. 

Every bit of my life plays out like the worst soap opera you might imagine. You can't dream this stuff up - but it happens. Every day. Between real people. Silly fights and hopeless romances. Highs and lows. Ins and outs, feuds and alliances. Life ebbs and flows around us and changes and only the most detached are not touched by the pain and the joy and the DRAMA that is LIFE.

Could we stand for less weeping and gnashing of teeth? There's no question. Do I need to talk about every dramatic thing that happens to me? No. But I do, because that's how I deal. If I can't make fun of the drama in my life then it might eat me alive. I can't avoid it - it won't go away. And it's not only because I have terrible taste in husbands and some sort of aversion to gainful employment, it's because I believe in living life - chasing it down and wrestling every bit out of it. Life is short, and full of drama. Good drama, and bad drama, and excitement and grey times. I don't want a day to go by that I haven't seen for every hour that it is worth. I want to wring the life out of each minute, because someday they will all run out, and you never know if the most fun is hiding in the last drop. 

So I will take the drama, and the judgement that comes with it. I will go on living my life and enjoying it, enduring it, hoping it, believing it until the clock runs out. We only get one shot, and I want to make mine worth every second of the drama that it brings. 

Things About Getting Lost

I would assume that growing up, the idea crossed every kid's mind at least once that they must be adopted. For me, it was usually once a day. Even though my walk is unmistakably my dad's, and my mouth is without question my mother's, but still... something about me just didn't fit. Lately it's been occurring to me that maybe I wasn't adopted, but maybe I wasn't actually SUPPOSED to be here at all. Maybe I snuck my way into the universe like some cosmic accidental joke that God played on my parents. And then all three of them were like "well, Jeez. What are we gonna do with this one?" Nothing has ever quite worked out the way it "should have" for me. I have been coming to terms with the fact that I won't ever have a 60th wedding anniversary, or a burial plot next to someone. And that's ok I guess, since I really want my ashes scattered somewhere really fun, so people can remember me every time they hang out there. But I still think that maybe I just don't fit into this life quite right. I am a square peg in a round universe. Maybe, just maybe, I am SO accident prone that I have unintentionally missed every rendezvous with death that has been appointed to me. I showed up late, true to form, for all of the stellar alignments that would return me to my rightful place in the Order of Things.

All of this crossed my mind as I was leaving Walla Walla yesterday. Walla Walla is the epicenter of my existence. The place that destined me to birth, if such a destiny was in the first place. The beginning of it all. I was there for the memorial service of a great Uncle/Cousin named Solomon Frank, whom I remember meeting as a little girl, probably between Easter Egg Hunts and visits from The Real Santa Claus, who apparently lived across the street from Grandma Schiffman in 1983. Solomon Frank was triple related to me, since at least three Schiffmans married at least three Franks, and both lines crisscrossed repeatedly in a somewhat Appalachian fashion. Volga Germans, the Franks immigrated INTO Russia (I know, right?) under the reign of Catherine The Great and set up German colonies along the Volga river, and then crossed over to the US when Russia started thinking maybe German-Russians shouldn't be a thing after all. Staunch Lutheran Reformationists, this family, getting all mixed up with the ever-imbibing Schiffmans, hard drinking Germans with a penchant for all sorts of vices. I was there with my parents and my Aunt and Uncle and clone-cousin, and we had some interesting conversations about what made us the person(s) that we are, which is quite nearly the same, and a repetition for all intents and purposes of our great grandmother Francis Hawk. Who was neither Frank nor Schiffman, but threw in her own dash of awesome for the perfect mix. Francis was a woman ahead of her time. She was on stage with Adam West, the actor who first portrayed Batman on the big screen. She helped excavate and curate the historical site of the Whitman Mission, an amateur archaeologist after my own heart. She was a photographer, an artist, a mountaineer, a mother, an a journalist for the Associated Press back when they were worth their mettle in World War II. My cousin Hannah and I have (often unintentionally) pursued almost the exact same exploits. It's a little bit eery.

Anyway, I left Walla Walla and foolishly followed SIRI's directions off into the wheat covered hills of the lower Palouse. I was lost in thought as I travelled a couple of different two lane, winding highways dutifully, disregarding a curious note that they were oddly named roads, but trusting the painted double yellow to not be destination-less. After about 45 minutes SIRI told me to turn on to a gravel road. Sensing immediately that this was it, her final play to do me in, I disobeyed. As far as I knew, I didn't need to take a gravel road ANYWHERE between Walla Walla and Northport, and it was obviously nothing more than an attempt to shake me. Nice try, SIRI. I continued on the two lane for another 20 minutes or so and then it ended. Well really, it turned into a gravel road. Which was disconcerting. The gravel road was well maintained and pointed int the general direction of the Columbia River which gave me some peace. I reassured myself that I wasn't in a hurry, and since I was already looking at backtracking at least 20 miles I might as well try it. SIRI started sputtering about having no service and Proceeding To the Route, which apparently now was off in the middle of a wheat field somewhere. I followed the gravel for 18 miles and at last there was a tiny little farm town. I knew a highway had to be nearby. Until I got close and realized that the tiny farm town was actually just a huge farm. With lots of campers. and no highway. I tried taking the road through the farm and it was fenced off  in the direction that SIRI insisted was the way to Northport. South facing, interestingly. She's vicious. I took the only road out and started thinking about that family that got lost on the forest road in Oregon and the dad starved to death. I figured my odds were slightly better because there was lots of wheat around, plus all the fire snacks I brought home, and if I ever overcame my pride and the hint of terror that the farmhouse might be the den of a serial killer, I could always ask for directions. Fortunately, after another 20 minutes of driving too fast on a gravel road, with no cell service and no radio reception, so basically, running for my life, I ran into WA State HWY 261, which I didn't even know existed. For the record, it is my personal belief that HWY 261 is actually a roller coaster. hiding in a witness protection program after a few too many suspicious theme park deaths. I survived that road/ride with only a touch of carsickness and then raced my gas light to the nearest gas station, which it turns out was NOT in Washtucna. I met a nice family of healthy black widow spiders living in a public restroom provided by the Washtucna Lions Club. (Note to Lion's Club - get in there with some big boots and a shop-vac STAT!) Once again, narrowly escaping the death that has been pursuing me since my unintentional inception. Somehow I got to Ritzville alive, and remarkably, ahead of schedule.

All of that near-death-defying experience made me think about accidents, the unfortunate ones, and the serendipitous ones, and how a wrong turn can be the thing that makes your life what it is. The extra bends and turns and the little bit of uncertainty that makes your heart beat a little bit faster. Knowing for certain that there are a LOT of wheat fields out there that you can't see from the highway. A lot of stuff to see and know, that you can't reach from a direct route. It's ok sometimes to get off course, both to see the sights, and to know that you won't die. Not at the hands of a serial killer or a black widow or starvation. And that it's ok to go with your gut - sometimes you wind up on a questionable gravel road, but in the end, it all works out.

Things That Make Money

this is what I do in the woods: suspend IV bags from sticks and hang out with silly boys

I am leaving for a forest fire up in Wenatchee. This will probably result in a two week silence from me, but if it works out, I will find ways to speak from fire camp. In the meantime, I will be making enough money to finance my woman-of-leisure lifestyle when I return.