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.