tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43456865912701887282024-03-13T03:27:07.381-07:00one thousand wordsinspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-51014086966033946002015-09-23T08:43:00.001-07:002015-09-23T12:51:37.972-07:00Endings and Beginnings<i>“It’s a funny thing about coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. You realize what’s changed is you.” <br /> -The Curious Case of Benjamin Button</i><br />
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At the end of a long journey, it can be difficult to decompress and figure out what you’ve actually learned. Change is inevitable, growth is almost certain, and at the very least you’re returning to a life that has progressed without your daily contribution.<br />
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It’s been three weeks to the day since our return from Paris, and Jay and I both are already noticing the changes. ...<br />
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“Have you ever thought about how many clothes you have?”<br />
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“Yeah, it’s weird. Are you still waking up at 5:00 in the morning?”<br />
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“Sometimes. I keep feeling like I have a train to catch.”<br />
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“I miss the French. I miss the way they talk. I miss their bread.”<br />
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“I miss Ireland. I think about those stupid wind bushes all the time.”<br />
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“Yesterday I went out with my friends. Their work lives sound miserable. Is that what I sounded like before?” <br />
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“Pretty much, yeah. Do people keep asking you what place you liked best?”<br />
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“Yep. I say the same thing every time -- ”<br />
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“Ireland for the people, France for the history, Eastern Europe for the landscape?”<br />
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“France for the people, Eastern Europe for the history, Ireland for the landscape.”<br />
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“Agree to disagree.”<br />
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“Doesn’t it feel like everything between high school and the trip never really happened? Being back in your hometown, I mean?”<br />
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“Seattle was definitely a dream. The particulars of how we met are Greek to me.”<br />
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Sigh. “Greece....”<br />
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<b>And on it goes....</b><br />
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And on it <i>still</i> goes. The above was obviously composed a great deal of time ago, as Jay and I have been home for over three months now. In fact, this is my last night on the west coast for a while; tomorrow I relocate to New York City. (Jay is kicking some serious Shakespeare ass in Seattle right now, but he’ll be on his way next month.)<br />
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So, once again, my life is tetrised into airplane-friendly luggage,
awaiting its new home, and once again I'm contemplating what travel, change, beginnings, and endings ultimately teach us.<br />
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With Jay in Portland/Seattle and me in Spokane, this summer left little opportunity for co-reminiscence. Still, our readjustments to life in Pacific Standard Time were fairly similar. For a few weeks our trip was the main topic of conversation with friends, family, and even strangers around our respective towns. Everyone wanted to know the itinerary, our favorite places, and (with surprising candor) whether certain Eastern European countries' economic crises were “apparent” in their tourism. (??!) Then, as all things do, our journey faded into the background of our respective lives. We reconnected with some semblance of normal routine. <br />
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I say “some semblance” because of course things changed. You can’t just uproot your life for three months and expect time to stand still. Friendships shift, careers progress, people cut their hair, buildings are torn down... Someone you've lived with for a year and a half becomes someone you’ve spent every waking moment with for three months straight, and suddenly (when you return home as a long-distance couple) your otherwise independent souls have become embarrassingly weepy at the mere thought of spending time apart. Yes, things change.<br />
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But returning to my sleepy hometown, living with family again, reconnecting with old friends, hopping back on the “What’s next for me?” train -- arguably the things that were most at variance with the life I’d made for myself in Seattle -- oddly enough, these circumstances seemed to wash over me without ceremony. Even reunions with Seattle friends and coworkers were astonishingly effortless. Psychologically, it felt like I’d imagined my entire life since college. Functionally, it appeared that no time had passed at all.<br />
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What I came to realize through it all was this: The changes that result from an extended adventure -- a break from reality, a journey abroad, a quarter-life purpose-quest; whatever you’d like to call it -- have little effect on the world you leave behind. Few people are going to regard you differently than before, America won't seem like a different planet on return, and if a work sabbatical is part of your experience (it wasn’t part of ours) your company and employees are unlikely to change much in their own right. And yet these are the exact anxieties we entertain when we weigh the possibility of leaving.<br />
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“Oh, I could never catch up on my life again.”<br />
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“I need to focus on my career.”<br />
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“I’ll miss out on everything.”<br />
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This simply isn't the case! If you have professional focus and a good work ethic to begin with, there’s no reason you can’t be back on your feet in the mere time it takes to recover from jet lag. If you haven't developed these qualities in your career yet, face it: you probably don't have much to sacrifice anyway.<br />
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Obviously money is a factor here, and setting a reasonable budget for both the duration of your journey <i>and</i> a month or so after your return is a necessity. If you can afford to do that, though, chances are the other excuses are just sour grapes.<br />
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Here’s what <i>did</i> change during my three months away from home and “real life”: <br />
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My appreciation for and desire to show generosity. <br />
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The way I handle stress.<br />
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My perspective on teamwork.<br />
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My confidence in my own resourcefulness.<br />
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The way I think about money.<br />
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My perspective on fear.<br />
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The amount of energy I spend analyzing The Past.<br />
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The amount of energy I spend worrying about The Future.<br />
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My ability to connect with strangers.<br />
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My interest in negativism and my tolerance for defeatists.<br />
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My relationship with my personal belongings.<br />
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My conversation and listening skills.<br />
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The ways I purchase and consume food.<br />
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My thoughts on marriage and parenthood.<br />
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My interest in the seemingly mundane.<br />
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The value I place on new experiences.<br />
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So what’s the through-line here? What do all these alterations have in common? Simple. All of them were internal. They happened in my head, heart, and soul. They affected and continue to affect my behavior and habits, not my appearance or resume or even my Five-Year-Plan. They go deeper than my datebook.<br />
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As I prepare for my move to New York, a large part of me is terrified. There are the obvious concerns (of which many people have graciously reminded me these past few months): making/keeping enough money, finding a comfortable apartment, persisting in the face of great rejection, noise pollution, never-ending crowds, cockroaches... But beyond all that lies a greater fear: The possibility of this new-found wisdom being lost in the rush of a new, frantic, ambitious environment. I returned to this previously abandoned final post (I knew it stayed on my desktop for a reason!)<b> to bear witness to my own dawning sense of self; to publicly preserve a moment of clarity which I hope will continue to inform my future habits and ultimately pave the way to better personhood. </b>If it exists here in writing, perhaps it will carve itself into my heart as well.<br />
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Much appreciation is due to those of you who followed Jay and me on this journey -- especially for the kind words of support we received throughout the process. Stories serve little purpose in the absence of ears, and I humbly thank you for lending me yours.<br />
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Until next time,<br />
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R. <br />
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inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-2855240980725526852015-06-17T23:05:00.001-07:002015-06-17T23:06:17.841-07:00Two Days in Paris<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>DISCLAIMER: This post is far longer than 1000 words. There is nothing I can do about it. It's Paris. </i></span><br />
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When it comes to the City of Lights, there never seems to be enough hours in the day. Perhaps that's why Paris is such a night city... people are never quite ready to double-kiss it goodbye!<br />
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While I certainly share this opinion now, the first time I visited Paris I found it terribly underwhelming. I was a senior in high school, going abroad for the first time with my family, and alight with images of Gene Kelly and Audrey Hepburn, bicycles and baguettes, and armed with three years of high school French, which I was just dying to try out on real-life Parisians. <br />
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This was in 2008, at the height of the second Bush Administration's
second go-around. (I shouldn't need to tell you how French people -- or in
fact, most European people -- felt about George W. Bush at this time, let alone the foolish Americans
who somehow managed to make the mistake of "electing" him twice.) Needless to say, our loud-mouth "nucular" family of five (tailed by my impishly irreverent younger brother, who spent the entire vacation in a U.S. army jacket) were quickly surveyed and dismissed by most everyone we encountered in Paris. Confidence in my foreign language abilities immediately waned when my patisserie request (<i>Bonjour, avez-vous des tartes au citron?) </i>was repudiated with an English response.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f1c232;">April in Paris, circa 2008. Doing my damndest to maintain a level of "Euro chic" beside these clowns. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f1c232;">A lighter moment on this trip.</span></td></tr>
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Thus, a follow-up visit to this tricky city was at the top of my travel list.<br />
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During our time in Lyon, Jay and I stayed with two college-aged women who granted me much more grace in stumbling through my French repertoire. (I should note that my speaking skills have remained more or less unchanged since 2008; with the exception of the occasional DuoLingo refresher, my French studies ceased after high school.) At any rate, seven years of work on general self-confidence must have made an impact: I found myself understanding and slipping into French conversation with more mettle than ever before. It was with renewed faith that I boarded the train to Paris, and that faith laid the groundwork for a fantastic final two days in our grand adventure.<br />
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The journey began at the <a href="http://eldoradohotel.fr/">Hôtel Eldorado</a>, a guidebook-recommended budget hotel near Place de Clichy. I'd greeted the concierge and described our reservation in French, and she continued speaking French to me long past the point where I could fully grasp what she was saying. I took a private joy in this -- I'd managed to pronounce words and form sentences enough to convince her of fluency. Even if she was privy to my Americanness, I'd earned her benefit of the doubt. As far as I was concerned, I'd just been admitted into an exclusive society. There was nothing to say but <i>Merci, merci beaucoup!</i><br />
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Our room proved <i>tres adorable </i>with its attic-like ceiling, colorful decor, and provincial shuttered windows, but the world outside awaited. It had been a while since our croissant-and-coffee train breakfast, so Jay and I walked along the Boulevard de Clichy in search of <i>dejeuner</i>. We ended up at a cafe near the Moulin Rouge that was bizarrely dubbed "La Marmite." (I still don't know why.) There, we feasted on generous portions of quiche and chicken, green salad, and frites, as well as a carafe of red wine. Throughout France, but in Paris especially, the food is no joke. There is a reason these people spend two hours at lunch.<br />
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People-watching is a favorite travel pastime of mine, and it's particularly satisfying in a place like Paris. Long considered the fashion capital of the world, its pedestrians never fail to disappoint. From trendy dungarees to colorful bowties to the classically French Breton stripes and tailored pants combo, everyone looked dressed to perfection. For myself, having just fostered an obsession with <a href="http://dailyconnoisseur.blogspot.com/">The Daily Connoisseur</a>, it was like being at a holiday parade.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f1c232;">Anyone familiar with Scott's <i>Madame Chic </i>series will appreciate this significance of this photo!</span></td></tr>
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The rest of the day was spent on foot, with me urging a very-tired Jay "just one block further" for the next five hours. We passed the unmissable Palais Garnier (cue <i>Phantom of the Opera</i> overture), window-drooled at Ladurée (does anyone really buy $4 macarons?), and strolled along the Rue de Rivoli (which always makes me think of "ravioli" when I see it typed out....) At the Tuileries Garden we paused to admire well-dressed passersby and relax on the surprisingly comfortable green metal lawn chairs. We then waltzed our way across the Seine and into the quietly stunning <span class="fn org">6th arrondissement</span>. After walking through this area for some time, we found our stomachs rumbling and popped into a nearby grocery.<br />
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You've surely heard the odes to French bread, but you can't quite grasp its divinity until you've walked into an unassuming shop (really, just about any one will do), plucked a STILL WARM baguette off the shelf, and discovered that it's half gone upon arrival to wherever you were going. It's true the French regard meals at a sit-down affair, but you won't be hard pressed to find a Parisian nibbling their baguette en route. Try walking anywhere with a hot, delicious-smelling piece of soft-baked holiness in your arms and you'll quickly understand the deviation here.<br />
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With the bread, sliced salami, a small wheel of Camembert, and a pear in tow, Jay and I made our way to the southeast base of the Eiffel Tower. Picnicking here is a fairly standard tourist activity (just say no to the vendors who pester you with wine and roses), but there's a reason for it: everything from the tree-lined path to the awe-inducing tower is positively romantic. And even grocery food is unbeatable in Paris.<br />
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On day two, Jay and I headed to Le <span class="st">Marché</span> des Enfants Rouges, the oldest market in Paris. The vendors appeared to be setting up for lunch, so we had our breakfast at a nearby cafe instead. Somehow the rich combination of cafe au lait and croissant sustained me until mid-afternoon, when I settled my appetite with another baguette and yesterday's Camembert. Jay skated by on dark coffee and a large omelette. I'm convinced this kind of light eating can only be managed in France (I seem to have a much bigger appetite at home), but it's something to celebrate when you're on a budget!<br />
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After brunch it was off to gift-shop for our respective families. A shop called Merci in the Marais district had been recommended by several sources, but Jay summarized it best as "a French and more overpriced Urban Outfitters." We had fun browsing there nevertheless. Nothing caught our interest for the rest of the boulevard or Rue de Rivoli, but on route to Notre Dame we came across the loveliest stationery shop called <span class="st">Mélodies Graphiques</span>. It was run by a smiling, gray-haired man who took great care in wrapping up our journals, pen nibs, and hand-painted cards "just so." Jay and I reemerged into the world as though we'd spent the last forty minutes in a Dickensian time portal.<br />
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I had a hankering to visit L'Occitane, convinced (and correct) that I could score a better price here than in the States. This meant descending into the tastefully-concealed Carrousel de Louvre, an underground mall beneath the museum's iconic glass pyramid. In spite of all the tourists, the experience was disarmingly pleasant. The subsurface location separated the flashy shop windows from the history-steeped streets, allowing one to float between the two worlds without aesthetic conflict. Once again, I felt like a time-traveler. I'm now convinced that the US would benefit from converting their mall rats into mall moles!<br />
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At mid-evening we metroed back for a hotel siesta before taking our dinner downstairs. As it turned out, the Eldorado's adjacent restaurant was quite the local hot-spot, and we were lucky to have gotten there early. Jay and I treated ourselves to wine and dessert with our meal, and everything was, of course, perfect.<br />
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Paris isn't called the City of Lights for nothing, and I wasn't about to let its landmark finish pass us by. The two of us walked the 50-some minutes back to the Eiffel Tower around 10:30pm, once it was finally dark. We were rewarded with a breathtaking glow of yellow light against the inky curtain of sky. Just as we walked away, it began to glitter. <i>Quelle finale!</i><br />
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In the morning, I awoke to the sound of birds outside our window. It was the final day of our incredible journey. By this time tomorrow, Jay and I would be back home and 5000 miles away from the lights and sounds, the Breton stripes and delicious baguettes.<i> </i>I tried to relish every second of it -- each breath of Parisan air that flowed through the curtains. As Jay stirred beside me, he smiled in melancholic understanding.<br />
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We breakfasted in the downstairs cafe. Jay ordered a coffee and orange juice, and then the waitress turned to me.<br />
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"Pour vous?" <br />
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"Un cafe au lait, sil vous plait."<br />
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And then, for some reason second-guessing myself: "Just coffee, I mean. With milk."<br />
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"Mais oui!" replied the waitress with a reassuring smile. "You said it perfectly. C'est un choix tres Francais."<br />
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I glowed across the table at Jay. It took me seven years, but I had finally united with the <i>tres Francais</i>.<br />
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inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-13656218296240773362015-06-15T09:29:00.000-07:002015-06-15T09:29:00.647-07:00L'architecture de Lyon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-60095877532312925882015-06-14T09:26:00.001-07:002015-06-17T14:57:04.789-07:00Lyon's Basilica de Notre-Dame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-5626668579018570142015-06-13T09:01:00.000-07:002015-06-13T09:01:00.346-07:00On Top of the World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-55067156939981088852015-06-12T08:43:00.000-07:002015-06-12T08:43:00.656-07:00Life's a Beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-22856711120681674522015-06-11T08:33:00.004-07:002015-06-11T08:48:10.410-07:00Exploring Santorini<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-27466824965888883372015-06-10T05:00:00.000-07:002015-06-10T05:00:00.062-07:00The Belly of the Whale: A Long, Hard Journey into Greece - Part 2(Continued from <a href="http://onethouwords.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-belly-of-whale-long-hard-journey-to.html">Part One</a>)<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, and we're still looking for the train. So this was the delay Ticket Mistress had mentioned. Jay and I checked our watches nervously; the 40 minutes we had for our Sophia connection were dwindling fast.<br />
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When it finally showed, the train was a half hour behind schedule. Jay's sprint to the bank had long since been declared pointless, and we found ourselves unable to relax for the entire three-hour journey. At every stop, we stress-ate museli (our only available snack) and checked our watches against the original timetable: ten minutes in Sophia... eight minutes... six...<br />
<br />
At the very last stop before the final haul into town, the train stopped for some reason I'll never know because I don't speak Bulgarian. The local passengers looked unfazed and stepped lazily off the train for a cigarette while Jay and I continued to grit our teeth and clutch at our watches in useless pacification. By the time we got rolling again, we knew it was too late; sadly we watched our connection train time come and pass on our respective minute hands.<br />
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"Well, I guess we'll rent a car..." Jay-the-man-with-the-plan began.<br />
<br />
"Nah-ah-ah, we can't lose faith yet! If this is any indication of Bulgarian timeliness, there's a chance the next one's late as well..."<br />
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By the second grace of God/Buddha/the universe that day, I was right.<br />
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Jay and I had exploded onto the platform and raced along the Sofia station, which was (of course) under construction and confusing as hell. When we finally found the departure board, we located the train and determined it was indeed delayed 20 minutes.<br />
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"But where's the platform number?" wondered Jay.<br />
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Just as we asked this, a Bulgarian man with a holey smile and what seemed to be an airport lanyard and badge approached. In broken English, he asked us where we were going and if we had tickets.<br />
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"Thessaloniki, Eurail," I replied. "Reservation?"<br />
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"You have Bulgarian money, yes?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
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"Reservation."<br />
<br />
He marched us toward the ticket booth. As we rushed along, he asked for our Eurail passes. I made eye contact with Jay. We still didn't know who this guy was and the last thing I wanted to do was to hand him my $700 pass to freedom. As Jay hesitantly offered his, I focused on the man's feet, wondering how quickly I might grab his ankles should he try to run away. Instead, he turned toward the ticket booth.<br />
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"Two to Thessaloniki! Eurail! Reservation!"<br />
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The ticket lady looked minorly annoyed at the interruption, but otherwise unconcerned by the man's request. Maybe he did work for the station after all. I relaxed. Slightly.<br />
<br />
Tickets in hand, it was back to the platforms. The man --we'll call him Thing 1 -- lead us up to an awaiting train, where I expected he'd ask for a tip and leave. Instead, he asked us to stand just shy of the other passengers, beside a man with a similar dental problem who was holding EuroTour pamphlets. Our numbers were now matched, and these guys didn't seem to be going anywhere soon. My uneasiness increased.<br />
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When the train was connected for boarding, Thing 1 and Thing 2 lead us up the stairs and to the compartment specified on our tickets. I hovered at the door, unwilling to go inside with both of them in there, but when they took my backpack to store on the overhead shelf, I followed it into the compartment, not wanting to let my belongings out of my sight.<br />
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Once we were all inside, the Things did the only thing left to make me 100% uncomfortable with this situation: they "demonstrated" the ability to lock the compartment door and close the curtains. Holy shit, I thought. I'm an idiot, and this is where we die.<br />
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Not wanting to stick around for whatever robbery, battery, or violation was about to happen, I screetched "WC! WC?!" and pushed past Thing 2 toward "the bathroom." Once out, I raced to the conductor at the edge of the car.<br />
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"Excuse me! Hello? My boyfriend is in that car with two men. I think they might be dangerous. They want money. Please help?" I clutched at the man's arm and tried to drag him away from the door. He looked at me as if I were an irritating fly.<br />
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"My boyfriend! Help? Assistance?"<br />
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The conductor waved his hand at me and stepped off the train toward some other passemgers. I marched back to the compartment in fury, fearing what Jay might have endured in my absence.<br />
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I arrived to find him unscathed, but showing the Things his wallet, now empty of the little Bulgarian money we bad left over from that morning.<br />
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"That's all I have," he said, cool as a cucumber. "Sorry."<br />
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I, on the other hand, piped up like a feisty piglet, thrusting myself into the compartment.<br />
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"OKAY, OKAY, YOU'VE HELPED US ENOUGH. THANK YOU. GOODBYE."<br />
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The Things left without further comment. I locked the door. I looked at Jay.<br />
<br />
"They took 7 lev. He wanted 20, of course, but that was all I had."<br />
<br />
So the whole experience had cost us what we probably would have tipped the guy anyway. I felt nauseous and stupid.<br />
<br />
We confirmed from some other passengers that we were indeed headed to Thessaloniki, and the train headed out a short time later. Slowly but surely I began to breathe normally.<br />
<br />
"I really thought we were going to die back there."<br />
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"I know. I was on high-alert too," Jay assured me. "Was that like a... pseudo-mugging?"<br />
<br />
"Basically. We were pseudo-mugged by a Dr. Suess character..."<br />
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"I'm so hangry..."<br />
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"Are we really on this train right now?"<br />
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"Is there any more museli?"<br />
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"We're going to Greece. We're getting the hell out of Bulgaria."<br />
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"I wish there was a dining car..."<br />
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"That toilet on the last train smelled like a pet shop. Maybe this one will be better...?"<br />
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We were delirous, but we were alive. Seven hours later we would take an affordable ride from a kind taxi driver to our angelic Couchsurfer hosts' apartment. They'd order us midnight gyros and talk about the wonders of Greece. We would sleep off today's nightmare in the comfort of an Ikea futon. And I would write this all from a beach in Santorini, overlooking the Agean Sea.<br />
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-73787942287419627262015-06-09T05:00:00.000-07:002015-06-10T00:03:22.708-07:00The Belly of the Whale: A Long, Hard Journey into Greece - Part 1In Joseph Campbell's Monomyth (more widely known as "The Hero's Journey") there is a point where the hero is hurtled into the dangerous unknown; where he must face his fears in order to further his quest. This point is known as "The Belly of the Whale."<br />
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Jay and I reached our whale belly on June 4, 2015. It started at the Pavlikeni train station, in Bulgaria. It ended (as things do) over two glasses of red wine on a Santorini beach. In between there were fleas and pseudo-muggings, delayed trains and delayed planes, lost items and missed meals... and there were also some bona fide gaurdian angels. But I'm getting ahead of myself here....<br />
<br />
Let's start with the fleas.<br />
<br />
Out of respect for our well-meaning hosts, I must acknowledge how tidy they were. They swept their kitchen after dinner every night. They didn't hoard unnecessary items. They did laundry often.<br />
<br />
It didn't change the fact that there were fleas living in the basement of their rental house. And those fleas found me. And in the course of two weeks, they bit me 41 times.<br />
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Three days into our stay I noticed a constellation of tiny red dots around my ankle, which hadn't been there during our train ride from Bucharest. There was another, smaller collection on my other ankle. The next morning my lower back started to itch, and I found seven more identical bites there. By this time I'd spotted what looked like a flea jumping around on the bed, so we decided to shake out the sheets and let them fry in the hot sunlight outside. Jay also took a vacuum to every surface of our room.<br />
<br />
This was more of a treatment than a remedy. Over the next week, I woke up to flea bites on my shoulders, ankles, forearms, hands, upper chest, BELLY BUTTON, and (to my great horror) in a neat little arch across my left breast. These were delivered in spite of my new pajama situation, which included full-length leggings tucked into tall socks, a sleep bra under a camisole under a long-sleeved shirt (which was itself tucked into the leggings and safety-pinned across the v-neck), and a satchel of lavendar stuffed down my cleavage. It was 85-degrees here during the day; I don't need to tell you how many of those layers were unnecessary under a sheet and comforter, not to mention how geeky I looked.<br />
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As the bites persisted, my sanity waned. Specks of dirt on the bed seemed to jump to life in the corner of my eye. Crawling sensations on my upper body had me turning on the light to inspect myself. I swore I could hear them planning their next attack. By the end of our stay, I thought I might ask to sleep on the floor of the kitchen.<br />
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On our last night in Bulgaria, I took to the pantry to defend myself. I found a clove of garlic and ate the whole thing raw. I cut the top off a lemon and rubbed the juice all over my arms, torso, and face. I came to bed smelling like a dinner salad, but (spoiler alert) I didn't endure a single bite that night.<br />
<br />
That same evening, as I was on my way to the kitchen, I noticed small furry shape in the darkness jet across my path and into a crevice in the stone staircase beside me. I didn't think anything of it until I woke up at 2:00am to the sound of something skittering across the plastic casing of the couch beside our bed.<br />
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"Jay..." I whispered through the darkness, "Do you hear that?"<br />
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Jay sat up in reluctant confirmation and grabbed our lamp off the nightstand. In the shadows, the couch continued to rustle. Jay gave it a prod with the light. Nothing. He shifted the couch. Nothing. At last we realized the skittering noise was coming from the stone just behind our head. Yep, there were mice running through the walls.<br />
<br />
We rolled over and went back to sleep, willing tomorrow to gallop apace.<br />
<br />
I woke up at 5:30am and hopped out of bed instantly. About 4 hours later, Jay and I were seated at the Pavlikeni train station, having breakfasted and bid goodbye to our hosts and the fleas, dreaming of the black sand beaches that lay only hours ahead.<br />
<br />
The day was busy, but simple enough: We'd catch a train to Sofia, where we'd have a 40 minute layover to find a quick dinner and purchase tickets for the daily train into Thessaloniki. There, we'd spend the night with our first-ever Couchsurfing hosts and fly into Santorini the next afternoon.<br />
<br />
For a beautiful 15 minutes on a train station bench, this plan appeared fool-proof.<br />
<br />
We had attempted to purchase a reservation ticket with the Bulgarian-speaking ticket mistress upon arrival at the station, but she assured us our Eurail passes would serve the same purpose. The train wasn't due for another hour, so we'd settled on a bench to pass the time.<br />
<br />
About 20 minutes into this hour, Ticket Mistress was back with an espresso mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She continued to speak Bulgarian to us with admirable faith in our comprehension (which in reality was nonexistent.) I heard something about a delay, Jay heard something about a ticket, and eventually we cobbled together we would in fact need to purchase the reservation to Sofia. So I pulled out my Visa...<br />
<br />
"No visa. No card. Cash only."<br />
<br />
Of course it was cash only. We were in the middle of no-man's-land Eastern Europe. As our meals and lodging had been provided by our Work Away hosts, we hadn't bothered to take out any Bulgarian lev. Jay held up a Hungarian bill and a euro note, at a loss. I glanced around for an ATM.<br />
<br />
Jay went back in to the office with our guidebook dictionary. I didn't know it at the time, but he was on the phone with Ticket Mistress' daughter, who was hurriedly translating English directions to the nearest bank. As it happened, the bank was about a mile away.<br />
<br />
Jay yelled something of this to me as he raced out of the station with the euro in hand. In our pile of luggage, I began to panic. I considered standing up and shouting about our predicament to the passengers around us. Maybe one of them was Hungarian and would exchange with us? I had an adjustable diamond-looking ring on my finger... could I fib a honeymoon sob story? Or maybe we could do a clown routine... or Shakespearean monologues? Something told me that even Jay's best Macbeth wouldn't earn us 15 lev in 30 minutes.<br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes later, and about five minutes before our train was due, Jay came sweating and panting back onto the platform. He'd sprinted the mile and back, and was clutching a fistful of Bulgarian cash -- quite literally our ticket out. I made a big show of kissing him for this, and felt the urge to cry and thank a God I never knew I had. We got the tickets. We looked on for the train.<br />
<br />
To be continued....<br />
<br />
<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-56194411135255463722015-06-09T02:00:00.000-07:002015-06-10T14:25:56.509-07:00A Natural High<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-67635746881916291942015-06-08T15:46:00.002-07:002015-06-08T15:46:40.227-07:00Work Days in Pavlikeni<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-64009317510337245052015-06-07T05:00:00.000-07:002015-06-07T06:27:05.004-07:00Bulcherrya<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the more delightful surprises from our stay in Pavlikeni was our hosts' cherry tres. It seemed fate granted us this treasure, forthey'd just barely ripened when we arrived, got better each day we worked, and faded by the time we departed.<br />
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The gift of picking fresh, organic fruit right off the tree was something we looked forward to everyday, and I've never tasted better cherry crumble, pie, or jam! (Yes, our hosts were chefs. Yes, they made all three.)<br />
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-20075034491448606452015-06-05T22:34:00.000-07:002015-06-06T22:35:22.661-07:00Rain on the Porch (Day 76: Pavlikeni, Bulgaria)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-73103364099837659182015-06-03T22:24:00.000-07:002015-06-06T22:24:26.779-07:00Roommates (Day 75: Pavlikeni, Bulgaria)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-10460098390761457972015-06-02T04:02:00.002-07:002015-06-02T04:02:49.962-07:00The Only Picture We Took in Bucharest (Day 71: Bucharest, Romania)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-79596052201042546522015-06-01T07:00:00.000-07:002015-06-01T09:19:50.007-07:00Letters from Budapest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Traveler,<br />
If you want to impress your friends, tell them that Budapest is actually two cities. As inevitable perplexity wrinkles their face, mention that it is also properly pronounced "Buddhapescht," thereby escalating their perplexity into full blown shock and awe. Your legitimacy is all but assured when you explain that the Danube river separates what the plebeian masses call "Budapest" into both Buda and Pest.<br />
However, be advised. Should you sling these factoids around in the company of Europeans, you will sound merely like a pretentious tourist who took the time to read the introductory pages of his or her guidebook. So please, take heed and investigate the nationalities of those present before offering these insights. Your reputation will thank you.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
Budapest<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear Traveler,<br />
Please be advised, should you be arriving from a grand romantic city, garnished with monuments and gargoyle frosted buildings on every block, you may consider lowering your expectations of me. You see, any city when in direct juxtaposition to Vienna will seem drab and fatigued by comparison. Additionally, this effect has been exacerbated in recent months by the popular opinion that Wes Anderson derived his aesthetic and whimsy from my streets which is not the case.<br />
When you step off of your train, I implore you to reserve your judgements until you have spent some time with me. I guarantee that you will not regret it.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Budapest<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
I understand you have rented two beds in a twelve bedroom dormitory. Does this mean that you like to party? I can only imagine it does, for who in their right mind would endure a 12 bed dorm sober? As my night life scene is certifiably top notch you shouldn't have any problems. If you have doubts, ask one of the girls down the hall, who, by her own declaration, is still drunk. I have faith that she will vouch for me.<br />
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Cheers!<br />
Budapest<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
I apologize. I did not realize that you aren't a party animal. In that case, I am pleased to hear that your 12 bed dormitory was only occupied by you and your companion. How fortunate! However, do not expect that to last.<br />
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All the best,<br />
Budapest<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
Did you enjoy my magnificent Parliament building? Yes, I think it is perfectly placed too. All those sharp, stalagmite steeples and domes cresting out of window dimpled ridges. Perfectly contrasted by the gentle Danube and roof scaled hills rising from the opposite bank. It is quite a pleasant walk, I think, along the river and under those great bridges? I do hope you enjoyed it.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
Budapest<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
Ah, I hear you have discovered the magnificent quality and irrationally inexpensive prices of my restaurants. "M," the eatery you have found, is indeed superb. Were I not a city I would dine there myself. But yes, whole baked Hungarian trout accompanied by a savory pancake stuffed with roasted vegetables, joined by an oversized glass of white wine chosen by the server. Welcome to Budapest my friend!<br />
<br />
Bon appetit,<br />
Budapest<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
I am astonished that, for the second night running, you still claim a 12 bedroom dormitory to yourself. Very unusual, but serendipitous. Unfortunately, tonight you will likely have company, so you had best lock up your belongings.<br />
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Best,<br />
Budapest<br />
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<br />
Dear Traveler,<br />
Oh dear! Yes I am sorry, my currency is a bit confusing for foreigners. How much was it you withdrew from your account?...100,000 Forints?! Jesus... Pardon me, but you are either shit at math or weren't paying attention. That's $400 buddy. Hope you didn't overdraw.<br />
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Best of luck,<br />
Budapest<br />
<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
My friend, you can pick your jaw up from the floor. Yes my breakfast establishments are of a similar caliber to your dinner experience, and just as cheap. And yes, apple pie is a perfectly acceptable meal to start one's day.<br />
<br />
B<br />
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<br />
Dear Traveler,<br />
How were you not aware of my miraculous baths? And I mean "miraculous" in the Biblical/magical sense, because you will undoubtedly feel touched by a higher power. Each of the some 30 odd pools you are free to enjoy spring directly from the bosom of Mother Earth and are heated and cooled by her restorative embrace. I know you are weary from months on the road, but the steam rooms, saunas, water jets, water falls, mineral baths, and whirlpools will breathe new life into you.<br />
I personally recommend dipping in a hot bath or sitting in the sauna (70 degrees Celsius preferably), then into a frigid bath (18 or 20 degrees Celsius) and back and forth. The sensation is unparalleled I am told.<br />
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Enjoy!<br />
B<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
Really? You're eating at M again? Well, I suppose, who can argue with grilled sea bass with spinach and prawn ragu and a poppy seed parfait with cherry compote (aka, ice-cream cake)?<br />
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Bon appetit...again!<br />
B<br />
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<br />
Dear Traveler,<br />
You finally made your way to Buda! Isn't it regal? Yes this is where the castles, and statues, and churches are hidden away. I'm sorry you only found it on your last day! But if it is any consolation, watching the sun set from the ramparts atop Buda is a must do. That and crossing one of my bridges after the sun has gone down, and I am gilded in gold, purple and silver. That is when and where I am at my most stunning, and I am pleased you didn't miss it.<br />
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Yours,<br />
B<br />
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<br />
Dear Traveler,<br />
3 nights, and 12 beds to yourself. Well done.<br />
<br />
B<br />
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Dear Traveler,<br />
As you leave, I am glad you saw me at my most vulnerable. The 20th century was hard for me. Fifty plus years under two separate tyrannical and genocidal regimes has its toll, and I am still trying to recover. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, no? And I am a living example of that cliche.<br />
Thank you for meeting me, and sharing in my story. I will see you soon.<br />
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Yours forever,<br />
Budapest<br />
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-39021297822154667652015-05-29T11:41:00.000-07:002015-05-29T11:41:39.935-07:00Vienna Waits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With every journey comes an opportunity for personal reflection. I've learned new things about myself from even the most mundane car rides across Washington state, and every time I'm above the clouds in an airplane, I gain a new perspective (both literally and figuratively) on my life. Perhaps it's the moments of inevitable boredom that unleash our minds to deeper reflection, but there's something about traveling that unveils truth. Even beyond those we find within ourselves, there are lessons to learn about the world in general which in turn will shape who we are.<br />
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While I'd never classify myself as a "go-getter" (I've spent much of my life working past an anxious state of mind, decided indecisiveness, and erratic self-confidence), I've always been impatient for personal success. It may be a trait of many perfectionists that we expect instant results but punish ourselves for not getting things right the first time around, which anyone will tell you isn't a very constructive way to live one's life. In any case, it has never been easy for me to sit still while the rest of the world is seemingly "getting on with it."<br />
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This is what I love about travel: It simultaneously puts your life in freeze frame <i>and </i>puts you in a position to see that, like it or not, life goes on without you. Facebook is the most standard reminder of this fact: whether you're in Tahiti or Timbuktoo, someone's getting married, someone's having a(nother) baby, someone's "booked it!" and someone else has just polished off #omgthemostamazing waffles at a #bestiebrunch. It's old hat by now to suggest Facebook offers less connective comfort and more evidence that our lives aren't measuring up to everyone else's, but still I find myself in need of the reminder that it's not a race, and <i>it's okay.</i><br />
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It's okay to feel simultaneously and incongruously left out and petrified by the wedding photos and engagement announcements plastered across Instagram. (And it's also okay to share these feelings with your boyfriend.)<br />
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It's okay to watch your college friends carry on with life in a way that you know will eventually separate you; it's okay to feel nostalgic for the days when this outcome didn't seem possible.<br />
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It's okay to watch your comrades land dream jobs and dream roles and do generally dreamy things and wonder what the hell you were thinking putting your life on hold to ride trains and attempt conversation with people who don't speak a word of English.<br />
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Of course it is. After all, all roads lead to Rome, right? Or was it Vienna...?<br />
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When Jay and I took the sleeper train from Italy to Austria, we were placed in different compartments for the journey. Upon waking alone in my tiny bunk, I turned on some music to keep myself company until breakfast. The first song to come up from my shuffled iPod library was, coincidentally, Billy Joel's "Vienna." As the train rocked along, I let the song wash over me, and its lyrics began to stand out with a greater poignancy:<br />
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<i>Slow down, you crazy child</i><br />
<i>You're so ambitious for a juvenile</i><br />
<i>But then if you're so smart</i><br />
<i>Tell me, why are you still so afraid?</i><br />
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I've always been curious why Billy Joel chose Vienna to drive this song's message, and though the artist himself has his own explanation, it wasn't long before I began to see reasons for myself. For one thing, it rests on the north-east tip of the ever-magnificent Alps. Even more apparent, though, is the Baroque opulence and artistic history oozing from its streets. It isn't hard to imagine the likes of Mozart and Klimt exercising their genius here. Like many European cities, there's an encouragement toward taking time for life's intrinsic pleasures; cake, coffee, and good conversation. It echoes Joel's plea to "slow down" almost perfectly.<br />
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Throughout this trip I've been wrestling with lots of "Where do I go from here?" and "Who am I? vs. Who do I want to become?" and "Am I doing this life thing 'right'?" I think anyone is apt to do this in the midst of empty time (and perhaps an empty wine glass...) But the further I travel and the longer I meditate on the questions above, the more comfortable I become with not having the answers. And the bizarre thing about embracing uncertainty is: you suddenly want to <i>act.</i><br />
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No, I don't mean act in the <i>acting </i>sense (though of course for me that's an apt definition) -- I'm talking about starting projects, getting moving, marching fearlessly forward without a compass.<br />
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<i>Slow down, you're doing fine;</i><br />
<i>You can't be everything you wanna be before your time</i><br />
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It's normal to feel the compulsion to "find yourself" while traveling. We all want to return "a changed (wo)man." Yet I can't fathom the amount of times I've said "I'm going to do this everyday when I get home!" only to find myself quickly settled back into the same old habits. So while part of me knows these feelings may fade the second my nose directs itself back into a day-planner, I'm taking stock of them now....<br />
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The impulse to take my parents out to dinner, just to learn more about their lives before parenthood. The desire to walk weekly through my favorite park. The new peace I feel at the thought of cleaning out my old bedroom. The urge to drive in a car with sunshine and music and the people I love. To take myself out to coffee for nothing more than the simple joy of me-time. To plant things. To bake things. To dance.<br />
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<i>Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true.</i><br />
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Vienna was waiting for me, it seems, to realize an age-old conundrum: that life is both long and short. Time evades us even as we revel in the beauty of any given moment. The best we can do is search for the thing that makes our soul soar and serves another in its wake.<br />
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The rest will wait.<br />
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-39063893905124366472015-05-27T21:01:00.000-07:002015-05-27T21:01:19.969-07:00Work Away #2 - A Home in the Mountains (Day 65: Feltre, Italy)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-45277726798072475642015-05-26T08:00:00.000-07:002015-05-26T08:00:05.831-07:00Ten From The Dolomites<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-27151321019921547332015-05-25T07:28:00.000-07:002015-05-25T07:29:33.624-07:00A Comic Situation: Hiking in The Dolomite Mountains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It turns out that amidst an unlimited collection of other creative skills, Jay's been harboring a talent for comic art. He whipped these up after an excruciatingly long hike in Italy's Dolomite Mountains, which we took at the persuasive insistence of our second Work Away host.</div>
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A little background to set the scene here: we left for this hike at 8:30 in the morning -- we returned at 5:00pm. There were some super janky bikes involved, which sounded like dying elephants when you clutched the breaks. (No helmets to offset this anxiety, of course...) We began our ascent around 10:00, and we continued at a continuous incline for 3 straight hours, with the slope only steepening as we moved toward the sun. The<i> rifugio </i>at the summit which was supposed to reward our toils with cold beer ended up being closed for the season. The steep descent almost wrecked my knees. There was cookie bribery. There were tears. There was an inordinate amount of sass coming from my side of the trail.</div>
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-9771525301820797222015-05-22T07:21:00.001-07:002015-05-22T07:21:56.310-07:00Into the Woods (Day 57: The Dolomite Mountains, Italy)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-53678151271214461642015-05-19T05:27:00.000-07:002015-05-19T05:27:16.887-07:00Venice Versimilitudes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If there's one thing you'll consistently hear when researching Venice, it's how "unlike any other city" it is. While Jay and I found this true for the most part (what other place in the world has more canals than sidewalks and isn't accessible by car?), simply confirming its indescribability hardly constitutes an interesting blog post.<br />
<br />
Instead, I thought I'd challenge myself (and Jay) to give an impression of this unique city with one of my most favorite rhetorical devices: analogy.<br />
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<i>[Disclaimer: No, this post is not 1000 words. Apparently Italy makes you lazy. Or rebellious. Or both.]</i><br />
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<b>TRANSPORTATION</b><br />
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<b>Attempting to navigate Venice on foot </b>is like working your way through Labyrinth without even David Bowie to give you a clue.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Taking a gondola in Venice </b>is like eating at the top of the Space Needle; nobody actually does it, but everyone kind of secretly wants to.<br />
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<b>Taking a bus in Venice </b>is like being the bagged goldfish carnival prize of a small child with a compulsion to shake things.<br />
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<b>SIGHTSEEING</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Using a map in Venice </b>is like trying to operate The Enterprise without Captain Jean-Luc Picard.<br />
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<b>The Piazza San Marco in Venice </b>is like Times Square in New York, but instead of TVs there is architecture and instead of Naked Cowboys there are pigeons.<br />
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<b>Bridges in Venice </b>are like bridges anywhere else; charming at first, but in ten seconds you're over them. (Puns!)<br />
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<b>Rialto Market in Venice </b>is like Pike Place Market in Seattle -- except if you asked a man to throw a fish here he might throw you into the canal instead.<br />
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<b>Strolling along the Laguna Veneta (with a scarf) </b>feels like being a Roman goddess evaluating her next bad-ass move.<br />
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<b>Churches in Venice </b>are like Christmas trees... at Christmas.<br />
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<b>FOOD & DRINK</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Having a macchiato in Venice </b>is like sliding into a bed of freshly-laundered sheets.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Avoiding pasta in Venice (okay, in <i>Italy</i>) </b>is about as conceivable as avoiding fried food at a county fair.<br />
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<b>Deciding to eat pizza in Venice for the third night in a row </b>is THE BEST IDEA YOU WILL EVER HAVE.<br />
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<b>Eating gelato in Venice</b> is like 1000 angels descending through the clouds, toying with your taste buds, and never staying long enough to deliver full satisfaction.<br />
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<b>Eating anything besides pasta, pizza, and gelato in Venice </b>is like <i>Dude, Where's My Car? </i>except "Dude" is the seductive Italian waiter and the car is your money.<br />
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<b>CONVERSATION</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Asking for directions in Venice </b>is like asking for condoms from the pope.<br />
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<b>Receiving directions in Venice </b>is like receiving a kiss on the cheek from Don Corleone.<br />
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<b>Being offered a plate of homemade spaghetti in the event you can't find your way after all in Venice </b>is like being made a Goodfella.<br />
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<b>Saying "Prego" in Venice </b>is like saying "I'm ready" in English, <b>but it feels like saying </b>"You have a big belly and I suspect there's a baby inside."<br />
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<b>MISCELLANEOUS</b><br />
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<b>Masquerade masks in Venice </b>are like roses in summer; everywhere, but who's complaining, really?<br />
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<b>The post office in Venice </b>is like the post office in any other city: full of long lines and huffy, frustrated people.<br />
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<b>Finding a public bathroom in Venice </b>is like catching the golden snitch in a game of Quiddich.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Side streets in Venice </b>are like every coffee shop in Seattle that is not a Starbucks.<br />
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<b>Shutters in Venice </b>are like flowers at a farmer's market; plentiful and always Instagram-worthy.<br />
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<b>Wisteria in Venice </b>is like ivy in England; capable of making just about anything picturesque.<br />
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(even me.)</div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Saying farewell to Venice </b>is like falling asleep on your dad's shoulder while he carries you home from the park.<br />
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<b><br /></b>inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-45034626909507744962015-05-18T08:58:00.005-07:002015-05-18T08:58:58.658-07:00Train Time (Day 48: Munich, Germany to Venice, Italy)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-38009168207484328442015-05-14T12:00:00.000-07:002015-05-14T12:00:01.492-07:00On the Train Through the Alps (an interlude poem by Jay)I want to read my magazine,<br />
To be metropolitan and politically keen.<br />
Germans, Austrians, and Italians<br />
(Oh my!)<br />
They will shuffle by,<br />
To see me<br />
Reclined,<br />
Knee crooked on knee,<br />
In a chair, in a compartment, in a car of a train.<br />
James Bond mystique with dirt under my nails,<br />
Unwashed hair and enviable brain.<br />
Citizens of the EU will crinkle their brows,<br />
"Americans are supposed to be loud..."<br />
But not I.<br />
Literature is my boon and information my drug.<br />
This is what I'll do while the world hums by.<br />
<br />
But before I begin or even take my seat,<br />
I bow my head in adolescent defeat.<br />
Staring out my window, chin in palm,<br />
Some fancy pants man,<br />
Sunglasses, iPhone, and earbuds on.<br />
How could I concentrate? My ego thrive?<br />
With a J. Crew mannequin in seat 45?<br />
<br />
So I pout and sulk.<br />
Clop together my toes,<br />
And try not to eat my sandwich.<br />
Because when the mind is preoccupied<br />
With being unoccupied,<br />
Naturally it thinks about lunch.<br />
<br />
I last twenty minutes.<br />
The sandwich is delicious,<br />
And leaves me full<br />
Of regret.<br />
Nothing left to eat.<br />
I don't feel like sleep.<br />
Fancy pants has ruined my day.<br />
<br />
Brushing flakes from the shoulder of my refracted reflection,<br />
Beyond the syncopated whips that were trees,<br />
And the slate roofed shores of quick currented fields,<br />
I spy<br />
The German Alps,<br />
Jagged and frosted,<br />
Crawling the horizon.<br />
<br />
Wide eyes shallow breath shaking fingers<br />
Forget fancy pants<br />
Forget politically keen and metropolitan<br />
The camera!<br />
Snapshots digitally pile<br />
Bills from a broken ATM.<br />
I'm sweating.<br />
I'm loud.<br />
Justifying an "I'm with stupid -->" T-shirt.<br />
Green.<br />
American.<br />
Indifferent passengers bounce in the hall,<br />
Ignoring my pointing finger, clicking shutter, and wheezing.<br />
What is wrong with you all?<br />
Look!<br />
Just to your right!<br />
Glaciers made those!<br />
With only time and patient wandering!<br />
But no.<br />
<br />
Fancy pants<br />
Sunglasses, iPhone, and earbuds on.<br />
Still.<br />
<br />
So I pout and sulk.<br />
Clop together my toes,<br />
Thinking about my lack of sandwich.<br />
Whips that were trees,<br />
Fields shored by roofs,<br />
Mountains crawl back the way they came.<br />
<br />
The horizon warps and nears.<br />
A shift of gears.<br />
A sustained whoosh,<br />
The train sucks at the air.<br />
Holds its breath,<br />
Then-sudden-<br />
With a collective<br />
Gasp<br />
And yawn<br />
<br />
Mountains<br />
<br />
Appear like dawn.<br />
Unreal facades against a too blue sky,<br />
Draped in white and granite and green.<br />
<br />
Through evaporated windows<br />
The great hands of the slopes,<br />
Cradle our breath in our throats,<br />
And hold our chins like our gaze.<br />
Mountains, train, passengers and me<br />
Thrum to the beat of one pulse.<br />
<br />
Fancy Pants<br />
Sunglasses and earbuds on,<br />
Raises his phone<br />
Snaps a pic<br />
Together we smile.<br />
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345686591270188728.post-16037028321338673272015-05-13T09:30:00.000-07:002015-05-13T09:30:01.370-07:00An At-Home Concert (Day 47: Munich, Germany)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />inspirsessionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00579184262738042591noreply@blogger.com0