...

There's always an end.  But the end is always the beginning of something else.  The periods we write into our lives are always provisional, in one way or another.

One Day...

So I was literally one page into the novel One Day (now a movie, which I haven't seen but my friend recommended the book) and already hit thought provoking, smile bursting, travel topic gold. It was like it was meant to be. And of course the next thought in my head is always, "I have to blog this." So here is the travel bit.... (I'm sure there will be more :) )

"Travelling,' she sighed. 'So predictable."

"What's wrong with travelling?"

"Avoiding reality more like."

"I think reality is over-rated,' he said in the hope that this might come across as dark and charismatic.

She sniffed. 'S'alright, I suppose, for those who can afford it.  Why not just say, "I'm going on holiday for two years"? It's the same thing.'

'Because travel broadens the mind,' he said, rising onto one elbow and kissing her.

(I find it interesting and somewhat irritating that I've had this same conversation with myself)

But, then it got better. Right after the travel banter between the two main characters, the female one ponders her future; bridging the strange canyon of graduating college (top of the class no less) and emerging into that "individual adult life", where everything is suppose to be figured out. Right? This one, this one really got me thinking, and reflecting, and feeling so attached to this book, these characters in only a few paragraphs. Oh, the trepidation of the twenty-something. Usually these kinds of contemplations are a bit corny and overused but honestly, this one hits the nail straight on the head, and pretty forcefully too. Enjoy :)

"We should get some sleep."

"What for? Nothing tomorrow. No deadlines, no work..."

"Just the whole of our lives, stretching ahead of us," she said sleepily,...feeling a ripple of anxiety pass across her shoulders at the thought of it: independent adult life.  She didn't feel like an adult.  She was in no way prepared.  it was as if a fire alarm had gone off in the middle of the night and she was standing on the street with her clothes bundled up in her arms.  If she wasn't learning, what was she doing?  How would she fill the days?  She had no idea.

The trick of it, she told herself, is to be courageous and bold and make a difference.  Not change the world exactly, just the bit around you.  Go out there with your double-first, your passion and your new Smith Corona electric typewriter and work hard at...something.  Change the lives through art maybe.  Write beautifully.  Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things.  Love and be loved if at all possible.  Eat sensibly.  Stuff like that.

My sentiments exactly....

To love a place.  To hold it so dearly that one aches at the memory of it.  Are we not most fortunate?

Rainy Days

Another rainy day, and as I sit here with my steaming cup of tea, mindlessly gazing out of the window at the wetness beyond, I can't help but smile and reflect on all the rainy days I have experienced. The Dutch Downpours that truly connected me to the phrase, "it's raining cats and dogs" but honestly, it was more like cows and horses; coming and going quite frequently I was always sure to be caught unawares and unprepared, but hey, anything to make those absolutely stunning tulips grow. Or the fresh, clean rain of Sweden. Or the sparkling raindrops of Germany, the gloomy storms of England, the chilly wind-swept showers of Austria, the warmer sprinkles of Italy. Each rain smelling unique depending on the type of ground it touched - gravel, concrete, grass, dirt, ancient, modern. Or if I was lucky enough to be catching whiffs of it through open windows instead of soaked to the bone (because I yet again forgot my umbrella since I grew up in San Diego).  I LOVE rainy days, the good ones and the bad, and even more so since my memories of them are so geographically different, special and loved. I will never forget all those times sitting in coffee shops, or bars, in Oslo, Paris, Amsterdam, London, Berlin, waiting out another storm, creating moments that haunt me on rare rainy days in San Diego. So thank you rain. You cleanse the world as you cleanse my soul, and force me to take a moment to remember the blessings I have.

Safe, and hopefully some rainy, travels!

Writing: Best Outlet for the Soul

I have much to say on this subject but as it is a bright & beautiful Sunday, I don't feel like thinking much nor being on the computer. But I did find some wonderful quotes from the current book I am reading (the third book in the Wicked trilogy) about writing and thought I would share in lieu of my own rambling thoughts.

"She was thinking of white paper and dark ink, and the difficulty and danger of scoring a page with lines of ink, to make it sing, if it could."

"And her appetite to write was countermanded by a dread of being read and recognized."

"The circular page of the moon in the water - words written in water are sure to wash away, and the moon itself no wiser....What words she had thought to write on the face of the moon were washed away form her as she submerged, trying to disturb no one, nothing."

"Regularly, I ask blank paper, and in all my life I've never known magic writing to appear on its blank surface."

Reaching for the Sky, and landing on the stars.

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month which means I have to talk about CR4TS. Actually, I am surprised i haven't mentioned Camp before, especially since it's such a priority and passion in my life. I guess I never realized the connection between camp and traveling. But 3 weeks out of the year, I travel to a magical place. A place unlike any other. It's like being over the rainbow, walking along the yellow brick road into the Emerald City.  Like entering the wardrobe and coming face to face with Naria, and all her creatures.  Like opening that umbrella and being swept among the chimney tops of London.  Camp makes dreams come true, and produces the brightest stars.  Yes, the Eiffel Tower is a sight worth seeing, as every hour it lights up the night, reflecting silver and gold jewels in the flowing Seine below. But I've seen better. I've seen a child battle leukemia while smiling under a mask of face paint.  I've seen children go through chemo and still have enough strength to play dodge-ball.  I've seen siblings let loose with laughter after months of waiting in the shadows.  I've seen pain and sadness, as well as love and hope.

As an 8 year veteran, the map of camp is embedded in my heart.  Easily I can close my eyes and allow my feet to follow my instincts, the well-worn and familiar paths I see but once a year.  Unlike the winding alleys of Rome, I never lose my way.  I know every face and name, every story and song. As in all travels, exhaustion is a foe to watch for; nothing ruins the experience of a journey like exhaustion, especially when that adventure deals with energy filled kids. Oh these kids! They have dealt with so many hard-hit blows, surviving all of them with such grace and beauty.  It continually brings tears to my eyes.  I want to bandage them all up and take them home, spoon feed them happiness and laughter, faith and hope.

Throughout any travels, meeting new people is a large part if the experience, it is what makes the memories stronger, more vivid.  Nothing beats human interaction. And camp provides that in droves.  Like hitting the jackpot at the penny machine.  They are the reason I come back each year.  The reason I came back from Europe when I did.  I had to be at camp.  No exception. Period. I yearn to watch them grow and learn and live.  It's a pure and beautiful thing.  No sunrise in Sweden can match it.  Okay, it might come close. But traveling is so much more than transporting yourself to other lands, across borders and bodies of water.  It is also an emotional and spiritual transformation and journey.  Another baby step to learning about the real you.  Camp may be in my neighborhood geographically, but personally, it is one hell of a trip.  The best ones should render you speechless, where frustration begins to build as you search for the right words to explain what you experienced, felt and saw.  No one can truly understand what you have been through unless they themselves have been down the same road.  After coming back from Europe, I found it so difficult to relate to my surroundings.  All of a sudden, my world, my perspectives, were so much bigger, deeper, more cultured.  Camp is the same.  It's a club, society, family; all bonded together by a shared experience.

After writing this, I can't believe it has taken me so long to see all the connections between traveling and Camp.  Especially the way I feel about both, desperately in love.  And the interesting/ironic thing is, Camp is the only thing holding me back from packing and heading into another international adventure right this moment. Maybe I should start working on that "two places at once" thing...

So with 6 days left in this month, take some time to appreciate the smaller experiences and moments that are created in every day life.  Like childhood, laughter, skipping, picnics, bedtime stories. Camp makes a difference.  And you should too, whether in your hometown or another.

Safe and smiling travels!

More Food for the Traveling Thought

Sometimes it is the most random of books that I read that I find the most enlightening phrases and quotes about traveling. These are from Beach Music by Pat Conroy. Ok, so not a random book, but one not of my generation. Actually, I fell completely in love with this author and his ability to story-tell. As a lover of writing, I easily came to grips with how far off my talents lie from him. Writing and reading for me, evoke the same emotions as traveling. Entering a new world, new culture, meeting new peoples, not knowing exactly where you will end up physically, emotionally, philosophically. Anyways, before I get carried away, some excerpts...

The artfully hidden subtext in those first years was that foreign travel was worth every discomfort and foul-up, but took a radical toll on the spirit.

It only takes Rome about ten minutes to make you forget you have ever been anywhere else on earth.  In Rome, every step you take has been taken by a caesar, a pope, or a barbarian before you.  Every step carries you over a dozen civilizations, layered like shirts in a drawer.

For me memory was the country of the usable past but now I began to wonder if there was not also a danger to unrememberance.  I had recently become acutely aware that mistranslations, mistakes of emphasis, and the inevitability of a flawed interpretation could lead to an imperfect view of things.

Think on that :)

Strings of Words

I am not sure why I am so into this right now (check posts below), but for some reason I have been collecting quotes, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, songs, from every type of medium, that strike me. And usually if it causes me to pause, creating that disconnected-from-the-world eye glaze, it has to do something with travel. It might be directly correlated with traveling, crossing borders, finding oneself, or it might abstractly remind me of some feeling I had when abroad. Often times it is about love. But whatever the reason why (and sometimes I never go too in-depth to find it), these strings of words have affected me, and thus, end of here.

So please enjoy!

"I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere. I want it more than I can tell." -Beauty & the Beast

wanderlust    -n
      /a great desire to travel or rove about/

I know it's time to leave/but you'll be in my dreams/tonight   -Lady Antebellum

"that if I then had waked after long sleep, will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming the clouds methought would open and show riches ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again."   -The Tempest




     

Quote of the Moment

"I had probably seen it a hundred times, but do you think that I can recall it now? This is how memories are, what seems so clear and unforgettable at one moment vanishes like steam the next."




(Found this quote utterly and perfectly fitting; to this blog, traveling, life.  It leaped off the page and took over my thoughts. )

June 28th, 2011

Yes it is not june 28th anymore. (I am a little behind) But figured I needed to write a little blurb for that date anyways.

2 years ago I returned from abroad. From adventure, from unforgettable life lessons, from what life is suppose to be. You are probably thinking, "really? get over it." (At least one of you is) And I tell you this, I wish I could. Okay not completely. But sometimes I really wish I could stop thinking about being back there, stop wishing time could reverse, stop hoping I was there now. There are those moments I get such vivid memories of certain places, situations, feelings. And it aches. That is how traveling is suppose to make you feel. How passion is suppose to make you feel. And I love it, and hate it, as I sit here at my desk in San Diego, knowing that in 1 month it will be 3 years since I left for that glorious journey through Europe.

My how time flies. And only on anniversaries such as these do I really start to wonder what I am doing. Where am I going. When do I start. I am young, with nothing to tie me down (well financials aren't really all that secure), soon would be a pretty perfect time to begin another adventure, don't you think? The ball's in my court as they say and right now I am stuck at the free throw line, staring down that basket, gripping that ball, listening to that clock tick seconds away. I have so many options yet no clear direction on which path to take, which chapter to begin. And while I sit, pondering life's many questions and my own place in it, time moves on. Just need to put one foot in front of the other. And sooner or later I will find myself where I am suppose to be. Or at least, close enough to it. :)

Safe Travels my friends.

Hello airport, long time no see.

So here I am.  Less than 24 hours until my first plane ride in almost 2 years.  Last time I was on a plane was my journey home from that incredible adventure I call study abroad.  I went from being on a plane every weekend for 11 months, to not even stepping foot inside an airport, let alone a plane, for 2 years.  I could have flown a lot sooner, I used to in fact for holiday breaks, but unfortunate events in my 4 day trek home prevented me from even thinking about planes.  I can't believe I haven't written about this story before.  It's quite a good one and loaded with travel tips, warnings and "Thank Goodness That Wasn't Me" statements. (Hopefully I can do it justice as it has somewhat faded from my memory).

So there I was.  Packed and not ready to go home back to the U.S.  The first leg of my journey really set the tone for the rest of the trip, but only do I realize that now.  Hindsight can be a bitch.

Walking away from my room in Flogsta with 1 huge rolling bag, 1 small rolling bag, 1 backpack, 1 over the shoulder bag and my computer bag.  Needless to say I was loaded down.  Plus I was wearing my peacoat, leather jacket and sweatshirt in order to make more room/less weight in my luggage; of course it was warm that day. I made it to the bus stop.  Awkwardly got onto the bus.  Awkwardly got off the bus near the train station. Walked the rest of the way to the train station with short rest breaks in-between as my arms, back, fingers and neck were already hurting.  Bought an earlier ticket to Arlanda Airport thinking I would be there in plenty of time, not realizing that I was not getting on the Arlanda Express (a train meant for travelers with luggage) but the regular train until I saw stairs leading up to the seats. Really this wouldn't have been a problem, actually those trains are cheaper, but with over a 100 pounds of luggage, it was a huge problem.  Made it onto the train while sweating up a storm and shaking my head at myself. I mean, how many times had I taken the train? Arrived at Arlanda, exited the train, made my way to check-in knowing I'm was about to get hit with massive amounts of overweight fees.  Yet to my surprise, I didn't manage to just have heavy bags, I had a bag over the over weight. So then I found myself out of line and next to the trash can sorting through all my bags, creating an overflow in my computer bag and backpack in order to create less weight.  Back in line, back on the scale to reveal I had barely made the cut, and I forked over the cash (knowing this would happen 2 more times before I reached America).

The flight to London was smooth (yah!) but I truly learned the meaning of "cotton-mouthed" as I almost didn't get access from the customs official to enter their country due to my lack of presenting my ticket to my flight in 3 days.  Thankfully they allowed me in, as I ran down to the luggage carousal, and with what troubles I already experienced, I left the huge bag at Heathrow until my return (more cash) hoping that would lessen my troubles.  Off to my hostel, which took an hour on the tube, to only find that they had placed me in an all male dorm. As it was 10:30 PM, I asked, "as long as it doesn't go against your policies, I don't care staying in that dorm.  My train leaves in the morning, I won't even be here that long."  So no sleep that night as I shared a room with 7 males.  Next morning, took a train to York to stay with my friend, had a fabulous time.  3 days later, trained back to London in order to tube it back to Heathrow.

And the real chaos begins. All tubes to Heathrow are closed. The farthest you can go by tube is to Paddington Station where there is an overhead train that takes you into the Heathrow underground station, which I found by complete chance and made by only 4 minutes (something has to go right amongst such bad luck).  Go to the terminal where I left my bag, found it was not the same terminal I would be flying out of (sweet), so I had to go back onto the Heathrow underground with my massively heavy bag that I got back WITH NO WHEELS (super sweet). Fun right?  Finally I get to the right terminal, check-in, pay more fees and safely make my way to the waiting areas with 30 minutes to spare before boarding. Not even sure what to do with myself at that point, don't even manage to take off my 3 jackets I'm wearing or attempt to sit down. Sadly, the fun doesn't end. I load the plane, wondering why at take-off time the plane has about 7 people.  Apparently I was not the only one affected by the tube closures and the take-off time has been postponed due to travelers still arriving at the airport. I think "that's nice" but once 2 hours have gone by before we take-off not really so appreciative as this is an 11 hour flight and I have already sat for 2 hours now before that. As I settled into my middle seat, luckily by really nice people, we are at the head of the runway, all cleared when suddenly we are turning back. Yep. Someone is too ill to fly and must be taken off the plane and their luggage searched for below. At this point, with all my fabulous luck, I was not surprised.  So I order another wine and wait another 2 hours while crazy people get themselves situated. (If you have been counting, that is now 4 hours of sitting added to an 11 hour flight.  Fabulous.)

 Now we are ready. Again. This time we do take-off, are airborne and flying smoothly towards LAX. You thought my story finishes happily there.  Oh no.  Since we were delayed 4 hours in London, the terminal we were originally suppose to fly into was changed and therefore another terminal was opened up for us, however, the information was relayed until after we landed in the old terminal meaning we had to take off, fly around LAX and then land in the new terminal whereupon our landing, a flight attendant hit the activate emergency slide button causing the door to be stuck along with all of us on the plane. You are probably thinking, "is this for real?" And I can tell you with an exasperated sigh, "yes." There are two doors on an airplane but apparently we can only use one to load and unload the guests.  Like it would have been hard to just bring the stairs and we can walk down through the other door. I just shake my head and take my seat while we wait an hour for someone to unstick the door while preventing the slide from fully taking form. So final count, 4 + 11 + 1 = 15 hours on a plane. My luck did get better from there as customs was smooth sailing and my baggage (still without its wheels) was first and I was out the door, seeing my family for the first time in 11 months and (unfortunately) in a car for 2 hours.  But I was on my way home.  And the journey was complete.

The next day I was taken ill with exhaustion (surprised?) and mentally saying sorry to all those celebrities I made fun of for being hospitalized for exhaustion.  There really is such a thing and it sucks.  I never knew my body could hurt so badly without being internally ill (aka vomiting).  I would rather have mono again.

Isn't traveling fun?

Safe travels!

Home is Where the Heart is

A very popular phrase, and one I used quite frequently when abroad, is "home is where the heart is." Simple, endearing, vague.  

People would ask if I ever got homesick, and my answer was always a smiling but firm, no.  I missed the sunshine, I missed my bed, I missed my dog, and occasionally I missed my family, but home? My actual house?  I never saw the reason behind missing something that would always be there.  No matter how far I went, my home in San Diego would always be exactly on the same longitude and latitude, it wasn't going anywhere.  I was free to roam with confidence while my home remained, waiting for my return, perhaps not in the same way as I left it but close.  But that's not what this post is about really.  It's about creating a new home, leaving a piece of my heart far from my house in San Diego.  But again, I haven't quite reached my point.

After leaving my heart, soul and adventures in Uppsala, Sweden I returned home, to readjust, reevaluate and recommence reality.  Needless to say, things were not the same.  As I lived abroad for a year, searching, exploring and changing, things at home did as well.  I began to realize how deeply a place affects, influences, changes, grips you, but only once one leaves that beloved place can the affects be seen and truly felt.  But then again, the affects become even more pronounced when a return trip takes place.  I loved home, I left home.  I loved Sweden, I left Sweden.  I returned home and reconnected with it, exploring all the nooks and crannies I used to visit.

But what about my return to Sweden?  Or should I ask when?  My 3 year anniversary of when I began that journey is swiftly approaching and it makes me ponder.  When do I return?  When do I solidify the fact that I was actually there?  That the dream was actually real?  Because right now, as my memories slowly lose their vividness, I feel disconnected from what I experienced, saw, touched, smelled, ate, drank, climbed, swam, walked, kissed; maybe it really was a dream.

Even thinking about returning to a place that has deeply affected me - emotionally, spiritually, physically, mentally, subconsciously - that has changed me inside and out makes me nervous, smile and want to cry.  Everyday I relive those 11 months in certain flashbacks, sparked by blue, cloudless skies, hot dogs on the grill, puddles at dusk, sunburns, wondering was I really there?  I do watch the Travel Channel on somewhat of a daily basis, maybe it has infiltrated my thoughts, maybe I made it all up.  But no, only one flip through my scrapbook and I can confirm my presence in Europe.

I did walk the busy streets of London, look out over the Seine from the platform of the Eiffel Tower to the banks of Montmartre, pray amongst the polished marble in St. Peters Basilica, set a flower on a grave at Sauchenhausen, drink a beer (or 2) in a Scottish pub, gaze at an original Van Gogh in Amsterdam, sing from a mountain in Salzburg, found a home in Uppsala.  And someday I will experience it all again, obviously in a very different manner, and be changed once more, transforming continuously into the person I am meant to be.  But man, I can't even fathom it, that return trip.  Standing in front of the Notre Dame and feeling deja vu.  Snapping a photo of the Barcelona coastline and comparing it to that first trip, the one I took 10, 20, 50 years before.  Taking the train across Switzerland and knowing some people will never see these landscapes in their lifetime. Watching the sun never set on the horizon in Sweden and feeling at home.  My heart beats faster thinking about those past adventures, and quickens its pace even more thinking about the future and that ever so mysterious return journey.

Miss Jane Austen

"My dear, dear aunt," she rapturously cried,"what a delight! You give me fresh life and vigor.  Adieu to disappointment and spleen.  What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! What hours of transport we shall spend! and when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything.  We will know where we have gone - we will recollect what we have seen.  Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation.  Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers."


                                                       - Elizabeth Bennet, Pride & Prejudice

Like wine for Italians, it's in my blood...

My grandparents are travelers.  And even that may be an understatement. They have gone to more than their fair share of countries and have stepped foot on almost all the continents. So it turns out that my love and passion for traveling and cultures was always going to be a matter-of-fact.  When I was younger, my siblings and I were constantly receiving postcards in the mail from all over the world.  It became a sort of joke to ask, "Where are they going next?"  "And how soon" would be the follow up question. Amazingly, that hasn't really changed after 30 something years.  Each new adventure for them was another burst of excitement and anticipation for me. My dreams filled with places I couldn't spell or find on a map.  I wanted nothing more than to join them, to begin my own exploration and fill the pictures in my mind with images seen with my own eyes. Australia, African Safaris, gothic cathedrals, river boats...

I was lucky enough to have a family blessed with the means for vacations.  They started small, visiting different states, hitting up amusement parks, and as we got older, the plane rides got longer, the names of places more foreign.  No matter where we went, 5 hours to Mammoth Lakes or a cruise ship to the Caymans, I found awe in everything.  I wanted to learn, see, explore and experience. And with each vacation, each stop, my yearning for more grew.  My travel palate could never be sated enough. Pure truth spoken as here I am, a year of European explorations under my belt and still I am thirsty for more, all, everything! Thanks grandparents for such an expensive and time-consuming addiction. No really though. Thank you. Because of them, and my year abroad (which in truth, is because of them), I want to go, get out, leave.  Again. I'm thinking maybe London, or perhaps Munich or Vienna. My grandparents met, fell in love and got married abroad. Romantic? To the utmost. However, instead of falling in love with a person when I was in Sweden, I fell in love with a country.  Many in fact. But I am getting off topic.

Though my grandparents won't see this post, I felt no travel blog could be complete without an acknowledgment to the ones that started it all.  And for me, that would be LeeRoy and JoAnn Knutson.
A couple who would wish you nothing but safe travels!