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"...Vagabonding is like a pilgrimage without a specific destination or goal- not a quest for answers so much as a celebration of the questions, an embrace of the ambiguous, and an openness to anything that comes your way."

I think a lot about story, about beginnings and endings, and what we choose to do with the space between, our big chunky middle.  A middle that's a gift and a privilege, heaven forbid we forget.  How do we discern the difference between knowing when to invest and immerse, and knowing when to let go?  How do we ascribe weight and value to things and people, how do we choose our priorities in a world and a culture that demands our full attention in a million places at once?  

I’ve had quite a ride.  I’ve explored places of dreams and places of nightmares.  I’ve been confronted with what I believe, how I live, and who I am.  I’ve encountered communities founded and thriving on the power of hope, and suffering under the weight of despair.  I've met incredible people from all over the world, people I'm so freaking grateful to know and call friends.  Men, women, and children fixed so very tenderly in my heart, even as minutes and miles further divide us.  I've tested my claim, staked my life on profound beliefs in the power of courage and the kindness of strangers.  And though precariously rattled and cracked, these tenets of my faith remain deeply rooted to their foundation, my core.

With neither tangible reason nor agenda, I knew last year it was time to go, time to strike out on this grand adventure.  With a heart full of joy, an arsenal of stories, and far more questions than answers, I now know that it’s time to go home.  Because more than learning to greet in another language, I want to learn the babble of my toddler nephews, want to hear my niece whistle s through the gaping holes in her smile.  More than encountering another wildly strange foreign critter, I want to curl up with my muppety dog, and explain to her where I've been all this time.  I'll put away my beat up Kindle, and lose myself in the closest library I can find.  Instead of eating boiled eggs and rice for every meal, I'll experiment in the kitchens of my respective family members, pushing myself to master Thai cuisine and Spanish tapas.  More than befriending yet another fantastic human, I want to share space and timezone with my beloved friends.  I want to break bread with their new lovers and squeeze their fatty fat new babies.  I want to cheerlead for a few dearest to me, clawing their way up from the rockiest of bottoms.  I want to be present, fully present, here and now, with the people I love most in the world.

I don't have a plan.  I don't know how long I'll be here, or where I'll go next.  Surprisingly though, I'm at peace.  Because if I've learned anything this year, it's that life is full of surprises, full of things I can't imagine, and certainly won't presume to contrive.  I don't have a home or a car, I don't have possessions or an income.  But I have a brain of ideas, a spirit of adventure, and a heart of thanks.   So for the last time, at least for these next few weeks or months, I'll be on my way.  I'm going home.

In Poem

I am surrounded, drowning in, being buffeted by poetry.  I feel it coursing through my insides, too impishly quick to yet parse together.  Maybe it’s the solitude, having no recent conversation apart from some awkwardly sweet banter with my singular roommate, a doe-eyed German who bemoans the cold but refuses the extra blanket proffered as we huddle before the fireplace, the only source of heat desperately needed to circulate our blood before we beat a hasty retreat to our respective beds, 4 duvets deep, and almost warm enough.  I don’t know how to give words to songs unsung, to dreams tucked deep.  Maybe it’s best I get out of their way, these words that suffer and dare to give speech to unspeakable.  I have a feeling they’ll come in their own precocious time, whether or not I’m here to catch them. 

There’s something intangible here, something holy.  A holiest of spirits carving me with exquisite delicacy as I lose myself here in this God-soaked wilderness.  I am falling, head over heels, into the mystery of sun-drenched secrets whispered on the wind, into ancient truths huskily echoed among the restless mountains.  Mysteries that heave and bulge against the confines of overflowing souvenir shops and land carved into pasture.  Mysteries that seep through packs of tourists like me barreling arrogantly through this island, naively believing we'll understand this land of the long white cloud, this Aotearoa, from the end of a bungee cord.  We the progeny of so many well-intentioned generations who believed we could own land, we could tame and cultivate this good earth into something more than what it is, something better than what it’s always been.  I feel the mountains groan and sigh, the rivers moan and weep.  But still and all, here I stand.

Sometimes I wonder who among us remembers, if any of us pay proper homage to the Holy that surrounds us, the Holy that is in us.  A divinity with which we’ve been entrusted, despite our failings.  We’re deceived by our fleshiness into forgetting our Holy, the breath that breathes us, our diaphanous insides.  But I remember now.  She’s all around, this Holy.  And as she continues to sculpt her shorelines and my laugh lines, to compose her treetop symphonies and deep sea sonnets, I realize: I'm not simply surrounded by poetry.  I am the poem.

Through The Wild, Wild West

Kate from Kansas, or RMB as I fondly call her, are on the move.  After disentangling ourselves from our coziest of nooks, we began the long haul down the coast.  Driving here in New Zealand is an art, for many reasons.  Apart from adjusting to left-sided driving, you are simply surrounded by magnificent distraction.  You don’t know until you come around the bend whether you’ll be astounded by snow-capped mountains, ducking beneath one of hundreds of waterfalls flowing above your head, or gaping open-mouthed at the surf rushing up from Antarctica to beat mercilessly onto the surface of the road on which you’re driving.  And that’s saying nothing of the endless hairpin turns, of careening around cliff after cliff, trying to dodge the gravel shooting like bullets from beneath the tires of the trucks skidding past, heavily laden as they are with freshly cut timber.  So you pull over.  Again and again, you skid to a halt and bust out your camera, saying to one another, “Can you even believe this?!”  Eventually you hop back into your sturdy little rental, only to do the same so many times over that your 6 hour drive imperceptibly becomes 10, and you arrive at your destination bleary eyed, but oh so happy to be here, to be taking up space on this island of imaginings. 

I know it’s winter, off-season for all but the ski bunnies living it up on the slopes of Queenstown.  But I’m glad to be here now, glad for the quiet, and space, and peace.  The early sunsets and late sunrises lend themselves to shortened days, but for me, right now, it’s a balm of gently forced rest after this year on the move.  Pop always told me that the best medicine is fresh air and sunshine, fresh water and exercise.  This place is the quintessential dose of all those things, and I need to remember when I go home, I can’t be long without them.  For my own sake, or those who have to be around me.  Yikes.

Kate and I continue to take full advantage of this perfect Kiwi medicine, hiking primordial glaciers, bounding across suspension bridges hanging precariously over swollen rivers, going on (failed) evening hikes in search of glowworms.  We dive headlong into the freezing deep night from our barely-heated room to ogle the glittering sky, the beginning of all things here at the end of the world.  Together we’ve become most dedicated investigators of the melty goodness and variety of Cadbury chocolate bars, and tasted just why Manuka honey is so dang expensive and so dang worth it.  Our days are full of shared hopes and fears, of giggles and peanut butter and jelly; Americana, we are.

Tomorrow we’ll part ways, Kate heading north to sort out the next steps of her new island life while I head to a teeny tiny, out-of-the-way-at-the-end-of-the-island town, on my ever loving quest to taste the world’s best oysters.  I’ll be sad to say goodbye to her, but not too much, because I’m confident that ours is a lifer of a friendship: whatcha think girlie, reunion 2017… British Columbia??

With A Winner

I think a part of me judged her before I consciously realized it.  Rocky Mountain Barbie, casually beautiful without even trying.  Thankfully though, I forgot my insecurity about five seconds later: we got on famously.  She’s tender and brave, and loves tramping around the outdoors as much as I do.  Our shared humor is the perfect synergy of 70% nerd, 20% dumbdumb, 5% dirtbag, and 5% snort.  I get the distinct impression our fellow hostel-mates secretly think we’re assholes, but that’s okay: we think we are hilarious.  Together we decided to stick, as much to our mutual delight as to the chagrin of those we’d encounter along the way.  Poor guys.

We were off to a brilliant start, hiking a bit of the Queen Charlotte Track off the northern coast of this southern island, a trek without achilles-snapping tendencies, thankfully.  As if our water taxi ride through Marlborough Sound could be any more stunning, we were given a performance by a pod of Hector’s dolphins, shy little guys, but oh so graceful.  I really believe interacting with animals is the most holy reminder of all that's good in the world.  Whether squishy or fluffy, sea creatures or land, they are to me, hope personified.   

Marlborough Sound

We slowly made our way northward, on a mission to hit Abel Tasman National Park before beginning to inch our way southward along the west coast.  Unbeknownst to us, the weather would soon turn, compelling us to curl up under thick blankets in front of the fireplace for the duration of the weekend, watching rainbows flicker in and out over the barren kiwi orchard adjacent to our hostel.  Before that though, we’d kayak the park, visiting colonies of male petrels looking for a mate, and islands of baby seals whining for their mamas to return with dinner.  It was as splendid a day as I’ve had, all the more so because I didn’t barf, which is kind of my thing when bobbing along on the ocean.  Bonus. 

Our departure from this park that is a national treasure was as difficult as emerging from under our cozy nest of comforters to head out into the frosty early morning dark.  But emerge we did, in effort to maximize the dawning light of a new winter day to begin our long drive down the wild western coast.  Watch out New Zealand, we Katies are coming for you!!

For a Year

Today is a year.  More than a year since my kick-ass goodbye party in Chicago, more than a year since I left my job and my friends.  A year since Mom and Kimmy drove me to the airport, talking me up, and talking about people they knew.  A year since I sat in the Philadelphia airport, waiting to fly one-way to Ireland, wearing Elise’s most beloved Cub’s t-shirt and the hiking pants I’m wearing right now.  A year since I met sweet little Josie and her equally sweet, if not more grouchy son, who drove me all the way to Galway.  I remember walking the wild western coast of Ireland, in a haze of sea foam and jet lag, wondering what the year would bring, who I’d meet, who I’d be.  The big picture of those wonderings, in hindsight, is too much for me, impossible to reflect on in their entirety.  But I can think about and acknowledge the little bits.  Because what has this year been, has any year been, but lots of little bits linked together like the finest of golden chains, worn thin by the salt of our tears?

How am I different, who am I now?  If anything, I’m much the same, if a little more… myself.  Both a little more open, and a little more skittish.  I’m more enamored with the world and her crazy people, as equally galvanized by love as I am fractured by hate.  I’m a little more inked and a little more brave.  A little more sun-kissed, a little more sun-damaged.  Sometimes I think I’m a little more tolerant, other times I’m concerned I’ve become decidedly less patient with nonsense, cultural or otherwise.  I’m more expectant and anticipatory, excitedly bracing for what’s to come.  I’m a little more idealistic and a little more realistic.  I feel a little more peaceful being single and childless in a world that stigmatizes women like me, even if on some days, I’m also a little more sad about it.  I’m a little smarter, and a little less sure of things.  Of anything.  A little drier of booze, but more saturated of coffee.  I’m more independent, and more in need of my people: there’s nothing like being solo for a year to teach you the value of relationships.  

This world is a big place, and we get to be here.  I get to be here.  This is no little bit.  I'm grateful.  So radically, terrifically, from-the-trampoline-into-the-ballpit grateful.  Let's see what's next.

To Middle Earth

It took me a minute to realize what I was feeling.  A kind of rejoicing, that a place such as this can exist.  Where the people are the friendliest, the air is pristine, and the land is raw.  The sea is a million shades of green at any given moment, jade and turquoise, pistachio and lime.  Crystalline and clear, it's home to more whales, dolphins, and penguins than anyplace, anywhere.  Commanding, magnificent, and proud, this is a place still seemingly as uncorrupted as the day is rose from the sea so many eons ago.  An island home to some of the most hilarious creatures I’ve ever met, big fat ninjas who are the best of company, and a reminder of the bulldogs with whom I was raised.  This place is New Zealand.

Before I left home last year, I thought I’d be zooming around this country in a camper van with a friend from home.  I didn’t realize that our southern hemisphere reunion wasn’t to be, or that I’d arrive here in the middle of winter.  It felt wrong to do Middle Earth without my Samwise Gamgee, but, as all bends in the road lead to somewhere, I kept on with my plan to do this country, even if it meant doing it, like the countries that came before, alone.  And thank God I did.

In my continued effort to remain present, I find myself basking in this joy, this opportunity to lose myself in this most perfect of places, with these most cartoonish of creatures.  I’ve lost hours and days among the seals, tripping over the fatties blending into the rocks as I climb among them, befriending the pups playing in the waterfall.  I’ve seen enormous sperm whales surfacing from the underwater canyons where they’re feeding just off the coast.  I’ve gotten sucked into the drama among a little blue penguin colony, as little Solo showed off for his new mate, and the little twin chicks begged for food.  It’s been glorious.  

Despite this saturation of majesty though, I still have to check myself.  Because sometimes I feel guilty for experiencing these things, for knowing this kind of joy.  People all over the world and in my own life, people I love most fiercely, are suffering.  Really, truly suffering.  And I’m not there, and can’t actively do anything to alleviate their pain, apart from praying and being in touch.  So maybe joy is a choice, believing in hope and beauty in a world laced with fear and pain.  That roly-poly seal pups will make me laugh out loud in the midst of acute heartache is proof of joy; that roly-poly seal pups are joy.  In fat rolls.

With Some Devils

Muirs Beach

The moon is extraordinary tonight.  Enormous and low, it’s a crescent.  A bright orange star hovers at the tip, a planet perhaps, or a fairy.  It’s the moon I used to doodle as a girl, when I still believed if I hoped and tried hard enough, I could fly myself up after my parents fell asleep, to schmooze with all the creatures who surely lived there.  I try to soak it all in, the sounds, the sky, even the temperature.  Protected as I now am by my fabulously forest green coat, a gift from Michelle and 1991, it’s still cold enough to make me dance.  I wake in the morning in a cloud of my own breath, sprinting through my frosty little compartment to the bathroom, an effort to expedite my morning toilette and return as quickly as possible to the burrow that is my bed.  A bonus, if you’re wondering, to being a solo traveler in a family-traveling world: the more beds, the more blankets.  All.  For.  Me.

Here in Tasmania, I’m getting back to my traveling roots.  Chasing rainbows up and down the coast, hiking national parks, and slowly perfecting the art of driving on the left side of the road, I move slowly.  I’ve encountered about 12 people and 900 wallabies, cartoonish little chubbers, and much more delightful company than the maniacal monkeys I’ve come to know and loathe.  This is a little dollop of an island that fell off Australia so many eons ago, a microcosm of that spectacular country that seems to be about 90% sky and 10% people.  Kind, friendly, easy people who I’ll surely miss when I take my leave.

In addition to having the world’s best oysters, Tasmania also hosts some of the most fantastical creatures on earth.  Bandicoots and eastern quolls, Tasmanian devils and pademelons, weirdo little buddies I had to meet to believe.  They snort and bark and carry on, peeking out from the bushes when they think I’m not watching.  In the evenings I run a wallaby gauntlet to get in and out of my trailer; they’re as curious of me as I am of them, and I think they want to share my snacks.  I get the feeling if I settle down and keep quiet, they'll start chatting me up like Mr. and Mrs. Beaver in Narnia.  Anything could happen on a day like today.

Bay of Fires

But in the meantime I am perfectly content tumbling around this enchanted island in my little Suzuki and in my head.  I’m letting the scents of eucalyptus and pine and salty air newly born from the sea clear my brain and heart of the smog of the last several months, and the last several years.  I’m visiting haunted penal colonies, and a granite coastline covered in a stunningly orange lichen, the bay of fires stolen long ago, like the rest of the country, from the Aboriginal natives.  I’m taking advantage of the quiet, sleeping without earplugs, and staving off frostbite with cup after cup of granny tea made the way my aunt Mary Alice taught me.  And for today, that’s enough.

With A Legend

I think we leave everyone we meet a little better, or a little worse: our encounters with one another are never empty and heaven forbid we underestimate our influence.  We have the power to boost weary spirits and instill hope.  In the same way, we can wallop someone's best effort and ruin their day.  While some of us are the spiciest of riojas, and others no more than a generic boxed wine of unrealized potential, Michelle is the most playful of champagnes, bubbling and sparkling all over the place.
  

I knew last year on the camino that Michelle was a special lady.  Even in the gnarliest of weather she walked on without complaint, propelled by a combination of self determination and optimism unlike any I've seen.  She was generous with her time and herself as so many of us scrambled for a moment in her orbit.  Together the rest of us shared a collective camino suspicion that I can now confirm to be true: Michelle is in fact a real, live legend.

Michelle is the kind of woman I want to be.  She’s strong and brave and loves a good adventure.  She laughs easily and often, and seems to have a handle on what it means to live with integrity, gratefully and full on.  She’s so fearless in the face of barking kangaroos that she actually barks back.  I, however, run for my life.  She patiently taught me the art of driving left, and gifted me with the depth of her heart as we talked about everything under the cool Australian sun as we zipped along the Great Ocean Road.  She succeeded in expanding my palate to include grilled cheese with vegemite, while I failed in my reciprocal attempt to awaken her inner American with peanut butter and jelly pancakes.  I suppose nobody's perfect.

So many times on this trip and in this life, I am awed by goodness.  Whether by the trees or the critters living among them, by the squeaks of new babies or the way a coconut tastes when I’m dying of thirst, there are a million little things that astound me in their perfect simplicity.  More than ever before, I count friendship and connection among the greatest of gifts, one of the things that most sustains me.  My time with Michelle blew wind into my solo sails, and reminded me how much better life is when we it’s shared.  Or, more precisely in this case, when it’s shared with a legend.

With My Favorite Hipster

My inspiration for visiting Australia wasn’t the Great Barrier Reef.  It wasn’t the mountains, or the beaches, or the surfers.  My primary reason for visiting this country, and even rearranging my trip to do it sooner than originally planned, was for the people.  And as if time with one of my favorite high school friends wasn’t enough, I had another little duo a bit further south who were a pressing priority, and I knew, would give me the boost I needed to continue eastward, and closer to home.  This little duo was Colin and Michelle. 

Colin and Michelle are a mother-son combination I first encountered on the camino back in the fall.  Like so many other magical bits of that particular adventure, our connection was brief in time, but longstanding in connection, so it didn’t seem strange to be circumnavigating the globe for a visit.  I would start with Colin.

I realized quickly that my time with Colin could qualify as total cultural immersion: Australian hipster 20-somethings are as foreign a population to me as any of the other cultures I've hung out with this year, so I was delighted to see how these fabled millenniels really live.

We were off to a running start when Colin managed to find me at the wrong terminal of the airport; it’s been exactly once this year that I’ve had a familiar face to greet me on arrival, and phew, was it refreshing.  After winding our way out of the terminal, we were greeted by a chubby lot of enormous kangaroos: they were ridiculous to see in person, like big fluffy pears with tails, and I’m pretty sure I snorted.  Colin promised more to come as we headed into the early dusk toward the city he calls home, and, equally exciting to me, toward a proper bed in an apartment-not-a-hostel.  Dreamy.

Together we spent a whirlwind few days together, catching up on life, exploring Melbourne, and inking a bit of camino into our flesh.  I learned more than I ever wanted about Australian Rules football, and even managed to pilfer a hoodie or two as a buffer from the cold.  Despite the difference in our age and generation, Colin gives me such hope for the state of the world.  Because even as a fresh young 24 year old, he is intelligent, thoughtful, and a selfless friend.  He’s creative and talented, and makes everyone better just by being himself.  If Colin and his hipster friends really are taking over the world, I think we'll be okay.

Down Memory Lane

Many of my closest friends growing up were guys.  Even before puberty, I experienced the beauty and value of boyfriends with Alex.  I went on to log a million hours driving around aimlessly with Ryan, wasting gas and laughing.  There were plenty of others before a later connection with Brady, who remains one of my most consistent friends to date.  But one of my all-time favorite fellows, around whom so very many of my youthful memories evolve, was Gillig.

Gillig was one of the best.  Before we were old enough to vote, we were discussing systemic racism and poverty in Mr.Shue’s sociology class, and trying to curse in French when we thought Madame Gladfelter couldn’t hear us.  I don’t remember him ever creating drama or talking smack, nor do I remember him ever aligning himself with any of the cliques, however many cool points he would have been awarded by their exclusivity.  He was a star athlete in a sport nobody realized existed, and I understand looking back, a bit of a hunk. Together we giggled our way through high school, more often than not at his nerdy jokes, while we eagerly awaited our graduation into the big wide world that fascinated us. 

After achieving his degree on a fencing scholarship, he went on to live and work all over the world.  A ski instructor in Canada, seasons in Central America, years here and there in Europe.  Truthfully, he became so cool, I was a little worried.  All the same, I was way more excited to see him than anything else Sydney had to offer.  It took me about 5 post-reunion seconds to realize, like a million times before, I needn’t have worried.

Gillig and I were able to spend a few long and lazy days together with his gorgeous wife Shirin, and their squeaky new baby Charlie.  Like 20 years before, we talked as much about international relations and adventure as we did about Kiwi cartoons and our mutual friends.  Adult Gillig is much the same as the affable fellow I remember, except that now, apart from remaining the king of nerd humor, he is a master in the kitchen, and a most loving family man.  My time with his recently expanded little family was some of the best I’ve spent on the road, and a solid reminder of how much I love my mates.  Next time Gilligs, the oysters are on me!

To The Land of Oz

My initial impressions upon landing here in Australia were simultaneous and many.  After 6 months of rocketing overstimulation, my senses were decidedly underwhelmed upon debarking.  For the first time in recent memory I inhaled lungful after lungful of cool, crisp, clean air.  No longer was my throat burning from the pollution, no longer was my olfactory system overwhelmed by the scents of rotting garbage and exhaust and the raw sewage flowing along the footpath.  This place is clean, so much so that for the first time this year, I’m neither elevating my feet in restaurants to avoid the certain scurrying of begging rats, nor averting my eyes from their fat brothers racing on the rafters above.

As quickly as I realized the overt absence of so many environmental qualities I’ve grown accustomed to this year, I couldn’t help but notice the presence of others.  This place, or at least the parts of Sydney I’ve seen so far, is beautiful.  Really, really beautiful.  Despite arriving in the heart of winter, many of the trees still hold their leaves.  The grass is emerald green, and tropical flowers continue to bloom.  Parakeets and lorikeets continue to squawk and dive along the tree line, some even as bold as their homely pigeon cousins, coming closer than I’m comfortable with to pilfer crumbs. 

And the people.  There is a heterogeneity here that I find incredibly refreshing, a feature in many western cities that I’ve really missed, and don’t take for granted.  Despite being an urban setting, those I’ve met are decidedly more laid back and relaxed than the average Chicagoan.  And nice, they are so nice.  I don’t know that I’ve met a friendlier bunch anywhere, ever.  Their manners are impeccable, so much so that even on public transportation, everyone is given their turn to board and their personal space to relax while their magically efficient network gets them where they need to be.  And in my experience, on time.  Personal space on a sparklingly clean, relatively efficient mode of public transportation?  Good Lord, it’s been a long time.

Like anyplace though, this place isn’t perfect.  While they brew some of the best coffee I’ve ever had, I pay a small fortune for each cup.  Though at this point in my travels, quite willingly.  They make some tasty wine and beer, but alcohol seems to dominate the Aussie social scene.  While no different than home, it's become painfully obvious to me after so long away.  And while their winter temperatures are more comparable to a Chicago springtime, I realized after the first few nights of painstakingly shivering all of my thermals in a threadbare blanket that they rarely have heaters.  At least in the hostels.  Lucky for me though, this magical land of Oz is also the magical land of Target.

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In Ass-less Pants

Burrito Head

Chicago taught me a lot about weather.  I learned to wait to put on mascara until after I melt the icicles from my eyebrows.  Chicago taught me how to run and slip and slide through thigh-height snowdrifts in scrubs, to get to my girlfriends waiting to drive my carless self to work when they couldn’t get down the side street to my bus stop.  After too many years in trendy, not-nearly-warm-enough pea coats, Chicago humbled me into wearing the ubiquitous puffy coat: despite my chagrin at looking even more inflated than my baseline Chicago puff, it was love at first snuggle.

What Chicago didn’t teach me though was how to manage chronically syrupy, suffocating, glutinous Asian heat and humidity.  How to sweat so profusely and continuously that even cold showers are ineffective at ebbing the flow.  When your toes are sweating, and your hair is sweating, and your sweat is sweating.  When you drink upwards of 5 or 6 liters of water daily, only to pee hardly ever.  Thus far, 2016 has been my year of chasing summer.  And I’m over it.  

There is of course, the occasional reprieve.  There aren’t yet too many hostels here in the country, but those I’ve visited tend to have functional air conditioning for sleeping.  Hallelujah.  That is unless your roommate insists on turning it off and sleeping in a windowless, unventilated shoebox with several strangers: she was a peach.  There are also the night buses.  Built to show off all that Myanmar has to offer, this sweet ride not only blasts arctic air directly onto your head all night long, but will also, if you’re lucky, blast some super special tunes.  Music is important here, a real fundamental of Myanmar culture.  On occasion you’ll even spot a karaoke truck gliding along, inviting people to come and belt their hearts out into the accompanying megaphone, which is always a blistering treat.  So for your overnight pleasure, because surely you didn’t want to actually sleep, there is a continuous show, a continuous blast of music videos.  And not your run-of-the-mill western pop, but crooning, swooning, Myanmar heavy metal.  Live.  I burrito my head to protect my ears from frostbite, but not even the thickest of blankets can protect me from the cacophony detonating from the speakers.  Oh, Myanmar… 

Cool Treats!

While I’d prefer to keep the cute little attached earlobes I share with my siblings, I’m open to just about anything that could provide respite from my sweaty self.  I pool hop at hotels I can’t afford, and wash my hair unnecessarily, simply for the relief of something cool and wet on my neck.  I wear Thai tourist pants like all of my college student [non]peers, partly to avoid the scandal of being a woman in shorts, and partly to avoid the dreadfully hot weight of my trusty hiking pants. But as they say, and as I’ve continued to learn, I need to be more careful about what I wish for.  Or at least, more careful about dressing like a college student.

It was just another steamy evening here in Yangon.  I’d connected with a young Chicagoan named Caroline, a bright young thing with a million lifetimes under her belt, Caroline killed me with her caustic self-deprecating humor and inspired me with her courage.  She also allowed me to tag along to the Human Rights Human Dignity International Film Festival being held just around the corner.  While we waited in a 200 degree lobby in a crush of hundreds of people, I tried not to faint of heatstroke or whack any of the unsuspecting men pressing me from all sides: while I’ve made progress since India, I’m considerably more skittish than before, and secretly consider my umbrella as much a samurai sword as a rain protector.  Baby steps.

When we finally arrived to our seats, I chugged what remained of my water and tore open my prawn chips; a significant concession for this popcorn-loving girl.  We sat through the painfully slow beginning to a Chinese film, only to arrive at the even more painful content.  Though artfully done and compelling, we were contending with less weighty but similarly compelling distractions from our respective seats.  Caroline was captivated by the army of cockroaches marching across the railing.  I was focused on my ass.

My enormous tourist pants are ever falling down, but I wouldn't call them particularly breezy.  As I watched Mongolian migrant workers labor in the hell that is the coal mining industry, I had an epiphany: I had busted the ass out of my pants.  Not a little hole, or a subtle rip.  The seam down the middle intended to adjoin my two bigger-than-the-average-Asian legs was literally hanging on by a single thread: it simply didn’t exist anymore.  For how long I’d trucked myself and my flesh-toned, hideous traveling underwear through the city I had no idea.  Not exactly the cool off I had in mind, but maybe it's onl fair: one free show deserves another?

Without a Brain Injury

Chinlone Ballers

I arrived here in Bagan after several quiet days in Mandalay fighting a cold and some serious homesickness.  Daily I wandered the streets gobbling up mangosteens, the prettiest little fruit that is both fun to eat and a little eyebally, while agonizing over what to do, where to go, what I want.  While I didn’t come to any major decisions, I did manage to sink into a little bit of a funk.  This country is lovely and full of gentle people, but it is also far more isolating as a solo traveler, English only just beginning to emerge among the locals, and travelers often behaving as decidedly exclusive couples.  Nowadays I try to pay attention to the feelings that accompany my growly funks, having far fewer distractions behind which to hide, and far less consistent access to my support system.  It’s for these reasons that I rely more heavily on my proven funk-busters: fresh air, long walks, good coffee, lots of sunshine.  And on special occasions when I’m very lucky, a friend born before 1995. 

After spending a few days tottering around this ancient town of 3,000 temples on a dinky little scooter, I chose a big girl bike capable 

accelerating beyond 30 kph, feeling decidedly more confident than I should have, perhaps even a little cocky: I’m the daughter of a biker, after all.  I got his eyes and his calves, why not his Harley skills?

After some stealthy surveillance to determine she was in fact alone, I practically accosted Theresa, asking if she wanted some company.  More to the point, if she’d be willing to be my friend for a few hours.  A bit startled but no less gracious, she agreed to share a mango lassi to determine if we’d want to commit to being friends for longer than an hour.  Just a few sips into our thickly delicious sweet and sour drinks, we knew we were a friendly fit.  We spent the next few days tearing up temples and pagodas, visiting carvers and painters, and avoiding disasters.  Or at least, nearly avoiding disasters. 

With my burgeoning confidence and what would later prove to be an inaccurate map, we headed eastward to see more of the country and get off the beaten path.  And see it we did, driving for hours beneath the brilliant sun in circles leading to nowhere.  When we eventually found the road we were looking for we turned left, full of confidence and misinformation, into an unplowed field of gravelly sand.  It wasn’t 5 minutes before I was airborne, realizing in slow motion that brakes don’t work in sand, and we had indeed made a mistake.  I popped up nearly 

as soon as I landed, wanting to assure Theresa I was okay, knowing I’d look a disaster squashed awkwardly beneath my damn big girl bike.  As I spit sand from my mouth and dug gravel from my knee, I realized my dreams of proving my coolness to my brothers were effectively dashed.  Instead of a wild-and-free selfie with hair billowing in the breeze, I’d be lucky to get a photo at all, or at least one that hid the ripped and ruined pants now barely covering my bloody leg. 

All told, the first few days here in Bagan were good for my soul.  Proper quality time with a new friend, fresh air and sunshine from the seat of a mildly nefarious scooter, even thwarting a brain injury.  Solid reminders of the pleasures of simplicity, and the freedom I have to pursue them.  Now if only I could convince my brothers that only the coolest of big sisters experiences whiplash in her armpits…

To The Prettiest Dirty Lake Ever

So.  Much.  Gold.

I met them when I first arrived here in Myanmar, a trifecta of the most naturally cheerful French Canadian medical students, traveling Asia while they wait for the results of their boards and the beginning of their respective residency programs.  I love me some residents, even at home, and these three were no exception.  They were question askers and voracious learners, memorizing as much of the Myanmar language as they could to maximize their interactions with the locals, and the length to which they could use their impeccable manners.  Best of all, they loved each other well.  Singing their hearts out without accompaniment, squeezing the most they could from life with boundless energy and enthusiasm, I was tickled when we realized that our paths would intersect at Inle Lake, and quickly booked a bed in their hotel.

It didn’t take me long to realize these three hilarious humans took adventure seriously, packing as much fun as possible into our time together.  I bit my tired old tongue, and did my best to hang on tight. 

Alodaw Pauk Pagoda

We spent our first day on bicycles, pedaling through rice paddies, villages, and monasteries.  I learned a little too late that apart from nearly matching my own body weight, my bicycle was unable to keep itself in gear up any kind of elevation.  I willed my quads and my pollution-infested lungs to ante up, and tried to hide the fact that the exertion in tropical humidity made me feel like my ruby red head might blow off my body, as my adorable (younger) friends glided effortlessly ahead.  We visited temples, philosophized while watching fishermen, and even spent some time in a natural hot spring.  Which, incidentally, I do not recommend after sweating out the entirety of your body fluid.  Like curtains on a stage, the thunderclouds eventually drew the afternoon to a close, and while they raced the storm back to town, I chugged behind in the downpour, praying not to be struck by lighting, and trying not to die.  I was unconscious before 9.

Early the next morning we made our way across the street to HaHa, our boat driver for the day.  I slathered borrowed SPF 30 onto my body, having run out of my own SPF 50, and settled in.  This would later prove to be a crispy mistake.  After winding through the canal, we entered the lake and spotted a traditional fisherman, perfectly staged and perfectly posed.  We wound through floating villages, and marveled at babies sitting on the precarious bamboo somehow holding their homes steady.  The water was serenely clear, and deceptively beautiful: beneath the surface, forests and mountains and valleys floated, landscapes composed entirely of trash.  While mamas did their dishes and children took their baths, boats blew oil and families pitched trash into this water on which they lived.  We tried to wrap our brains around the 14 kilometer floating garden that provides the vegetables to the surrounding villages, and tore up some street food at a local market.  We visited several homes of floating craftsmen, families of traditional weavers, and jewelers, and tobacco rollers.  I held my breath as a man melted silver inches from my ankle, and tried not to gnaw through the banana-flavored cigarette, meticulously rolled into a tea leaf.  Our day ended at an enormous floating monastery known for training cats to jump through hoops.  Excusez-moi?  While we didn’t personally witness any feline shenanigans, there were certainly enough cats and kittens floating around to fill a bathtub.  What a world.

Pa-O Teens

Our last day together was slower, as we had all day to wait for our respective night buses.  We impulsively decided to investigate the “Traditional Myanmar Massages” for less than $7 an hour, and made our way to the hot and dusty home of a family in the center of town.  On the hardwood second floor above the crying toddlers and spitting husbands downstairs were 4 questionably clean blankets, arranged side by side.  We lay face down, and awaited our fates.  I now believe “Traditional Myanmar Massage” to mean a whole lot of no training and a free pass to squeeze and smoosh and smack the shit out of the western tourists converging on their city.  I practiced my deep breathing, knowing better than to sneak a glance in the direction of my friends: I am a notorious giggler even at the best of times.  When we finally escaped their pointy elbows and thumbs, we fled across the street to our favorite cafe to share fresh mango juice and compete for "most scandalous location of thumbprint-shaped bruise."  If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.

With Desperately Needed Girl Time

It is a small wonder that I had any friends at all in college.  Instead of acknowledging the excruciating pain of my parents’ divorce, I became the classic martyr, taking responsibility for as many others as I could, not yet having the tools or insight to take responsibility for myself.  I built tremendous ramparts of defense around my bleeding heart, walls of bitterness, anger, and curly fries, and gained a solid 40 pounds of cellulite-filled, razor sharp edges.  Despite this though, a few women were able to penetrate my defenses, and become some of my most treasured friends.  Erin was among them.

To me, Erin was the quintessential “cool girl”, and I couldn’t believe she’d want to be friends with me.  Erin was self assured and confident when those things were still abstract, distant concepts to me.  Together we’d smoke Marlboro Lights, and write poetry, and question “Where is God when it hurts,”, and “Where are men when we’re sober”.  Erin taught me authenticity before it was mainstream, and gained my trust and respect when I wasn’t giving it away very freely, if at all.  To this day, she remains one of my dearest friends, so when she began pushing me to connect with Amanda, I knew I’d have to figure out a way to make it happen.

Getting to Amanda however, was no small feat.  Though I’m not sure it’s necessary, we shall call her town Nowheresville for security reasons.  On the Thai border, it is a town with a notorious reputation for easy access to weapons and drugs, though I experienced none of that.  Perhaps because we were living in a classroom of the school where she and her husband teach English, my experience was both cozy and tasty, as local dishes and delicacies were our only options.  The only safe access to Nowheresville is by local air, which was an adventure in and of itself, and one I’m glad to have experienced, apart from the constant hawking and spitting at 30,000 feet: flight attendants actually hand out extra barf bags to support this ubiquitous local custom.  Nast.

I knew immediately upon meeting her that my spittle-filled flights were going to be worth it.  She was warm and friendly, and for the first time in a long time, someone with whom I knew I would really connect.  How many others can understand the refreshment of a cold bucket shower, or the art of not peeing on your feet over a toilet hole?  Her friendship would quickly prove to be a gift, and it began with a suggestion to visit a pool she had recently discovered.  Simultaneous offers of friendship and a cool dip were magic to my lonely, swimming-deprived, sweaty ears, and I dove into both.

After paying our admission with Thai baht, we found the most obscure little table we could, knowing we’d receive the curious stares of everyone in attendance.  Amanda was a great model of patience for me, as at this point, I’m running on fumes alone, desperately tired of being no more than an anomalous object of interest.  It was glorious to splash around, to reconnect with one of my most favorite lifelong pleasures.  That is until it began to rain cannonballs of moderately obese Chinese boys.  I did the best I could to tame my inner bitch, until they began squeezing their masks onto their fat faces and bobbing around us, snorkeling not to see coral or starfish, but our white lady bodies.  Culturally sensitive or not, I sent those little suckers flying: I don’t think they saw it coming.

My time with Amanda was as deeply satisfying and encouraging as any I’ve had on the road.  We took advantage of proper coffee in a cafe with real wifi, raided a 7-11 to satisfy our curiosity about a variety of Asian snack foods, and came to the joint conclusion that roasted watermelon seeds taste like sweet feet.  We spent most of our time lying on the floor of her classroom, staring at the ceiling and talking about life.  Being away from home for a year, how we want our lives to be different when we get home, what faith looks like when it has to grow legs and stand on its own, apart from community and a dogma that makes very little sense outside of the distorted cultural Christianity that we come from.  We talked about a faith boiled down to knowing nothing more than loving well, and doing the best we can.  Which probably means not being a bitch to fat children.  Did I mention doing the best we can?