Day 10,001-ish: Morning Commute

I'm not sure what you do on your drive into work. Or when it is, or even where it is.

But I'll tell you one thing: I do not love leaving my house at 7:07 - meaning I have to wake up at 6:06 - just to get to work around 7:27.

NOT MY CUP OF TEA.

It's actually quite boring once I wake up enough to appreciate the morning commute in its full regalia. So boring, in fact, that I am going ahead and writing this post half way through the day, sure that nothing that follows could possible bore me quite so much.

Let me tell you about it.

First, the sun is just barely coming up, so it's shining right in my eyes. Like, so directly into my eyes that it's impossible to see all the pink and yellow and purple surrounding it. Silly sunrise.

Second, all along my road are SUVs and vans and other evidences of family life, and wouldn't you know it? There's the school bus. So many little coats and hoods. I am assuming their are children inside, but I really have no proof of that. There are big coats too, and I assume those are parents, and they are far more boring, so far more relevant to this entry.

Third, the traffic. I was so bored this morning, that I took the time to imagine what the traffic looks like from above. Do you think we look like ants all in a row? Or more like spiders because we move so fast? Or maybe we look like praying mantises because we are all so bored.

Forth, there are always people running around when I'm driving to work. Now, I don't pretend to know their reasons, but I can only surmise that they must have the worst - or else most boring - lives, to feel the incessant need to run when there is nothing chasing them, and no prize at the end. Running I believe is the epitome of boredom.

But I have to stop now, because when I got to work, life became so vibrantly interesting, that it no longer fits the theme of this series.

My Boring Life, Day 10,000

Sometimes I look back at my blog stats and realize a trend: the times that I have the most "hits" tend to be some of the hardest times in my life. And all that time in between - was that just my boring life?

Well, call me crazy, but I am going to try something.

I am going to start writing about My Boring Life.


Starting with today, because why not.


Today we start with...

The DMV.

Do I even need to say anything else? Seriously.

I did manage to see some interesting things tho, and have at least two amusing interactions.

1. They set up a mirror next to the backdrop for the photos. Presumably they pretend to care that people don't necessarily WANT their I.D. photos to look like mug shots. Who knew. 
2. At least 5 (obviously different) ethnicities represented in a group of ~30.
3. 3 different languages being spoken.
4. Nervous teenagers trying to convince bored driving instructors why they deserve to be legally allowed to manage instruments of death. 
5. A little girl running around talking to everyone except me. She just stared at me, shaking her phone screen protector til it made a weird rattling noise. Until I shook a paper at her and she asked me, "Why are you shaking that paper at me?" Not one to be disarmed from my typical sass by a 3-year-old, I replied, "Why are you shaking your thing at me?" She looked at me, scowled, grinned, looked around like she got caught, and ran away.
6. All the bored-looking tellers/clerks. How do they not literally die of boredom every single day?
7. An old man trying to graciously figure out a self-service renewal machine. Poor guy..
8. My teller getting the idea to eat powdered donuts before and act crazy during his next review. Do I make anyone else feel like doing cocaine, or is it just him??

There you have it. My Boring Life. Day more-or-less 10,000.

In other news, no one did cocaine in the making of this blog post, and I am now a legal resident of the State of Wisconsin.

Yay?

The Familiar Puzzle Undone

There has been a puzzle sitting undone on my coffee table for almost a month.

Normally, a 1000-piece puzzle would take me a week to finish. Normally the colors separate themselves before my eyes – the shades become clear, the shadows compliment beautifully. Normally the shapes stand out on their own – the corners pointing themselves to their destination and the curves winding their way into their partner pieces. Normally the patterns seem to draw lines across the whole and through my mind – edges forming natural borders and each individual piece forming a distinct part of that easily-recognizable and easily-creatable whole.

Normally.

Yet somehow, this time, the puzzle sits; the colors blend, the shapes meld, the patterns swirl slowly into an ambiguous clutter of cardboard and empty spaces.

It has been a long time since I have been in once place for so long.

My days used to stand out – each one strong and colorful – replete with new face, new foods, new feelings, and new places. My thoughts used to flow simply from one to the next, pointing themselves along the lines of each new subway track, flickering hopefully and colorfully with the landing lights at each new airport. My feelings used to curve palpably from highs to lows and back again – uninhibited, each forming an easily-recognizable part of the Whole that was me.

But nothing is “normal” anymore.

I see new faces every day. But each day leads seamlessly into the next with the same coworkers, the same neighbors, the same bus drivers, and even the same bus passengers.

My thoughts now flow on countless levels – each project, person, and now-familiar place creating deeper and deeper furrows into my aching mind.

My feeling struggle ceaselessly against the rising tide of a life that is become so familiar that it forces me to dig deeper in order to go where I have never been before.

And I wonder – how is it that so many people have only ever lived this life?

The slow suffocation of familiarity that calls me to work ever harder to find the thrill of the New that kept me alive as each colorful piece fell into its own curves. Would I never feel the slow ache of the Old, had I never felt the explosive rapture of the New?

So I think to myself that perhaps those who have learned to love the faces of their familiar lives, are the wise ones afterall.

But the puzzle remains undone - full of palpable empty spaces.

Writing About Writing: When the Words are Lost

The last three months have been a glorious torture.

I want to write. I NEED to write.

But for the first time in my life I am overwhelmed by the immense impossibility of expressing what is inside. I come home from work, full of thoughts, fears, hopes, experiences, and like that twelve-year-old child unable to wield a paint brush to her own satisfaction, I stare at my fingers as they lie numb on the keyboard. I NEED to express all of what is inside – if I keep it there, it will destroy me. But the words won’t come.

I start to write, it feels like sweet release. But then.

The thoughts tangle. The feelings drown out the words. Like long strands of colorful thread that I cannot seem to isolate, my words become knotted and undistinguishable. A thought here, a feeling there. An anecdote that leads only to a loose end and a profound realization that turns back into the chaos with no resolution.

Writing for me was always the art form that allowed me to makes sense of everything. I could never seem to say all that I needed through painting, and drawing only seemed to stunt the progression of my thoughts. Music made me cry because I felt so much, and expressed so little. And dancing was simply never enough.

But writing!

With the words flowing from my heart through the filters of my questions, musings, and surprising conclusions, I captured the world! My mind cleared, my heart stilled, and the world became knowable; expressible.

And now, as I sit staring blankly at a vacant screen, my mind and heart raging but my fingers still, I wonder if I will have the stamina to push through this unexpectedly severe and profoundly painful setback. The colors and threads blur and run together forming a swirl of grey. A threatening cloud.

What if my last and most sacred form of self-expression is simply – gone?

Letting the Words Escape

The Journey Back

It’s been a couple years since I really wrote anything.

No journaling. It’s better to let those feeling come and go than to memorialize them for future me to re-feel.

No personal emails, letter, cards, or even postcards. What could I possibly have to say?

No blogging. (But you knew that.) No revealing myself. No letting the inside out.

Writing for me is a uniquely personal art. Whether it’s a birthday card, an academic essay, or a blog post, I ruminate creatively for some time before attempting to let the words escape, capturing them forever in words as black and white as they are colorful. The words I write are the gifts I give to any reader who should stumble upon them, a product of my thoughts, experiences, beliefs, and heart.

And when that heart was broken, overwhelmed with a pain that no words can begin to describe, I fell silent. I felt silenced. I felt unworthy to open my mouth - to pick up my pen – scared that those words I used to love sharing would be poisoned. Haunted by the knowledge that anything pouring from my heart would be blackened, evoking a response of suffocating loss that, unbeknown to the unsuspecting reader, echoed the very depths of my broken person.

So I stayed silent.

For two years.

Learning the internal lessons of unprecedented loss.

And learning to once again deem my words worthy of expression – even those words tinged with brokenness. Because who among us is not at least a bit broken?

Crossing the Summit

Now the words have slowly begun to return.

And with them came the fear. The fear that no one would accept them. The fear that I had lost my skills. The fear that I would never succeed in their proper expression. The fear that no one would notice.

The fear that someone would.

See, I told myself I was waiting until I found the right subject, the right medium, the right audience. Should I update my personal blog or my travel blog? Serious or amusing? English or Spanish? Should I write for my friends or try to gain an internet following?

But all of those questions served to cover up my real fear. My fear that if I wrote, no matter the topic, venue, or reader, I would shine through. Me. In all my brokenness. And that people would see.

Me.

See me. My life, my fears, my inconsistencies, my dreams, my failures, my heart, my loss.

Me.

And the fear is legitimate. When I write, I write with my heart. If people want to see, they will see. Everything.

But I am done being afraid of that.

Where the Journey Leads

Who knows?

What I know is that I am ready to start writing again. About me.

No more separating my personal and travel blogs. Traveling is an integral part of who I am, and who I am defines my traveling, so from now on, I will write from my heart. Whether the topic is work, culture, dinner, family, or mountains, I will write my words, and you will be able to find them here.

Where the Journey Starts

With gratitude.

My heart is overwhelmed with gratitude for all the people who have followed my wanderings this far, and I cannot wait to continue the journey with you all! Also, for all the experiences I have been able to gather – not everyone has the chance to really live, and you all know I’m taking my chance and running with it. And finally, I am so grateful for all of those who continuously give me hope by their kindness, honesty, and patience.

This seems like a fitting way to start. Maybe my heart isn’t so black after all.

Backpacking: A Practical - and Humorous - Definition

The first time I heard the term "backpacking," I thought it referred to mountain men roughing it down the Pacific Crest Trail with a backpack the size of a medium-size adult complete with a tent, gallons of sun screen and insect repellent, dehyrdrated meat substitutes, and enough water for a week.

It dawned on me a bit further down the road that my assumed definition was a bit off.

And that I had actually been backpacking for years without realizing it. 

(Talk about an ego boost! I felt pretty cool for a few minutes.)

When you think of backpacking, what mental image do you get? Are you in my camp, with the unshaven mountainmen and their weathered packs, or do you see a sunburned college freshman on summer break trying to hitchhike across Europe with their 45L Osprey and Chacos?

Or maybe your mental image is a rag-tag group from the US, Chile, Uruguay, and Holland carrying enough boxed wine for a weekend... Or maybe that's this image.

A relatively new term, "backpacker" and "backpacking" are not in official dictionaries yet, but thankfully Urban Dictionary and Google have some wisdom to share.


Backpacking: "Traveling around with your backpack on your back." 
Backpacker: "A person who travels or hikes carrying their belonging in a backpack."


As it turns out, I've been "backpacking" since I was about 12: all those family road trips, college weekend getaways, spontaneous visits to the parents'... And it had nothing to do with dehydrated biscuits or sunburned hitchhiking. (Or boxed wine, unfortunately. Thanks for everything, Chile and your cheap, delicious wine!)

After a few months of using the label proudly, however, I started feeling that this definition of backpacking really does not do justice to my form of traveling. Because for serial backpackers, it's not just a method of carrying our stuff - or lack thereof.

It's an ideology - a lifestyle. 

Last week, as I prepared for a panel discussion of backpacking - in which the panel consisted of me, myself, and I - I asked me and myself how we should define "backpacking." (Myself responded by asked me and I the same question again, but in Portuguese..) How could I sum up my entire lifestyle and the ideology that inspires it in a few simple words? (Words I know in Portuguese, no less..)

After much self-examination, typing and erasing, I came up with the following definition:

"Going to new places and spontaneously doing new things that scare you, knowing that the excitement, experience, and knowledge you are gaining are worth any potential discomfort, risk, and sacrifice. With your stuff in a backpack, naturally."

(A terrible translation would go something like... Indo por outros lados, fazendo coisas novas espontaneamente que te deixa com medo, com certeza que a empolgação, experiencia e conhecimento que você ganha valem tudo o desconforto, risco e sacrificio. Levando as coisas na mochila.." Portuguese-speaking readers, please forgive my feeble attempts!)

Where did I get that? Let's take it phrase by phrase.


"Going new places..."

The whole reason we backpack is to explore. You can backpack in the same place your entire life if you like, but the goal is generally to step out of the ordinary and into the new.

If you get lucky - or step far enough out of your ordinary - you might encounter an enchanted place where the Andes come alive - where the wind sings you to sleep, the clouds wrap you in icy warmth, the rocks watch over you at night, and the grass wakes you...wispering the heart-wrenching stories of centuries of Incan lives, lived and lost.

"...spontaneously doing new things..."

Backpacks leave your hands free.

I mainly take advantage of this to scroll through cheap-flight apps and practice whichever language Doulingo suggests for the day.

But seriously.

Although for many of us, our backpacks weigh more than we do, take half a day to pack and 15 minutes to situate so we can walk without collapsing, (I may or may not be speaking from personal experience here...) the idea is that we can be ready for anything and everything in little time and with minimal effort or planning.

Hands-free traveling FTW!

"...that scare you..."

This is a bit of a niche in the backpacking community. It is entirely possible to backpack without ever attempting anything that scares you.

But the beauty of being ready to leave at a moment's notice is that you can do anything you want and never see any of the witnesses again. You think I'm being sarcastic? The things no one you will ever meet have seen would tell you I am entirely serious right now.

The perfect time to try things you never had the courage to try before.

Guess who was scared as sh!t to get up there and try to sing Adele?

"...knowing that the excitement, experience, and knowledge you are gaining..."

There is no thrill like knowing you are the first white person to ever attend an annual local event, there are no words for the love you feel when you show up in a new place and a total stranger hugs you simply because you are a fellow solo traveler, and there is no teacher like the real world - a world more real than you can possibly imagine rolling your cushy suitcase along the air-conditioned and stylishly decorated hallways of LAX or Incheon (International Airports).

It's not about the impression you leave, it's about the life you gain from each new experience, each new place.

"...are worth any potential discomfort, risk, and sacrifice..."

Abreviated list of potential discomforts, risks, and sacrifices:

• no bed to call your own
• mosquitos
• not liking the local food
• travelers' diarrhea (It's as bad as it sounds.)
• public restrooms (Not even going to get into it.)
• missing important events at home
• running out of money
• going the wrong direction on a bus/metro line
• subsequently being more lost than you even knew was possible
• not having WiFi to get you unlost
• inability to communicate with the people around you (to get unlost, or for any other purpose)
• terrible internet connections
• being sick in a hostel (the worst, THE WORST)
• oppressive heat
• unusual and over-powering smells
• misunderstandings with people you left behind
• meeting soul friends ... and saying goodbye the next day
• giant cockroaches (seriously, Brasil?!)
• dehydration - because who knows what water you can drink safely?

I bet you can't guess how I know about those things...

It's an oddly bittersweet experience to leave someone behind, and leave a giant piece of your heart with them.

"With your stuff in a backpack, naturally."

About 6 years ago I was sitting in a dorm room with one of the coolest friends, and he said something that inspired me more than I could begin to realize in the moment: "By the time I graduate, I want to be able to fit all of my stuff into this trunk." (Queue motion at the black, hard plastic, sticker-covered trunk set up as a dinner table between us.)

My exact thought: "Impossible."

For me, anyway. 

(Time has yet to tell if it is possible for him. Also, if you're reading this...you know who you are. Thank you. So much. Love always!)

But I was wrong. 

Anything is possible.

Because here I am, my life in my giant blue backpack, risking all of that discomfort and making all of those sacrifices, because, well... Who hasn't dreamt of giving it all up to meet soul friends, to hear the Andes' stories, and to see the sun sink into the Pacific waves only to rise from the Atlantic swells?

Viva Andahuaylillas

The sun was hot on my back as we sat and discussed the world’s problems and possible solutions. The plaza was nearly empty except for us. Every few minutes a child would run through late to school, or a motortaxi would buzz by in a loud but lazy fashion. I’d walked through that plaza countless times by day and night, it was always tranquil and beautiful with a dignity that only centuries of history and life can bring.

When I walked through with my friends we greeted everyone we saw - police officers, shop owners, children. My “cara de gringa” shone out from the crown and people watched us everywhere we went wondering “Who is she? Why is she here? And who brought her here - is he Peruvian? A tour guide?” But they never ask me. They smile shyly and respond quietly to my greetings.

When I walk through alone they stare even harder, and sometimes they whistle.

But today is different.

Today as the Andean sun beat down on my shoulders I realized that I was not alone. That across the plaza, centered around the church and a few vendors selling their artisanal products, there were a couple vans full of white people. They walked slowly from their vans, boldly labeled “Servicio Turistico,” to the church, back to their vans to fish sunscreen or cameras out of their backpacks, and then on to the vendors to haggle their way to the cheapest price possible.

Did they even know that half way across the Plaza, we were sitting, observing? Did it cross their minds that their was more to the scene than the church and the vendors? Did they even consider the fact that they were the only people in cars, the only people in that corner of the square, and that they only saw 100 square feet of our marvelous little pueblo?

Did they wonder what else is here?

As my sun burned cara de gringa watched them wander their 100 square feet like little rats in a cage, I felt overwhelmed with two emotions. Sadness and gratitude.

Sad for the tourists who would never really see Andahuaylillas. Sad for the residents who would never get any of the money that the tourists had paid to come to their town and see their church. Sad for the tourists who think they are getting to know the Peru that I am still barely discovering after months of slow and steady exploration. Sad for the residents who think that all gringos do is come, take pictures, pay the tour agency, underpay the artisans, and leave.

But grateful.

Grateful that out of the all gringos, I was the one sitting away and observing. I was the one who knew what the plaza looks like under a full moon. The one who knows where the police station is and where to find gelatinas and fried chicken. The one who they all stare at because I’m not at the church taking pictures.

Grateful that with time, they have slowly begun to accept that I am here. Grateful for those who shake my hand and welcome me to their town, their lives. Grateful for the respect and dignity I am learning from them. Grateful for the beautiful sunrises and breathtaking stars that I experience every day in their little slice of paradise.

Grateful for the comfortable room I have that has a window facing east so every morning I am treated to the sun shining warmly on my face. Grateful, even, for the shower that only has cold water, and the bathroom that is a hole in the ground. Grateful for the crooked ladder and the noisy, smelly chickens who live below me.

Grateful for the chance to learn Quechua in exchange for teaching English. Grateful for the opportunity to exchange a few kilos of organic potatoes for fresh fried chicken. Grateful for the kitchen I can use to make tea in the morning and cook dinner for my friends in the evening. Grateful for the fresh air, the picturesque mountains, the cold breeze, and the hot sunshine.

Grateful for the chance to live the adventure of a lifetime.