Category: Adventure

  • Journeys All The Way Down

    Goes into the post office to mail home some books… 30 minutes and 90 stamps later ^^

    Once, a great guru came to a small village. 

    He gave a long speech and held forth on many subjects, and he claimed that the world rested on the back of four elephants. These, in turn, stood on the back of a turtle.

    After the wise man had finished talking, an old woman came to ask him a question.

    “Guru-ji,” she said, “You say the world is held by four elephants, which in turn are standing on the back of a turtle. But I want to know, what is the turtle standing on?”

    The man’s eyes sparkled as he answered, “Why, it’s standing on the back of another turtle.”

    “But what is that turtle standing on?” asked the old woman. 

    He smiled and said, “Madam, it’s turtles all the way down.”

    The above is an amalgamation of a dozen versions of one of my favorite philosophical tales (variously attributed to Eastern and Western lore). It comes to mind today as I slowly, dare I say reluctantly, pack my things and prepare to leave Cape Town.
    Why, I’m not exactly sure, but I think its suggestion of infinite yet symmetrical unknowns appeals to me in this moment of transition.
    As I clear out the fridge, eating my last grapefruit, savor my last coffee at my favorite cafe, enjoy a last (unseasonably hot) afternoon at Clifton Beach and write a “last blog post” before shipping off to my next destination, I seek a clever way to avoid the “lasts” altogether.
    An enigmatic symmetry and circularity have entered into my travels lately. Returns and revisits abound, and endings, more often than not, prove to be intermissions.
    And so as I peer into the infinite unknowns ahead, I suspect there is more circularity in my future. Journeys bending and spiraling in on themselves in unexpected ways.
    After my last coffee, I go to the post office to mail home a few notebooks’ worth of extra weight. Thirty minutes later, I leave behind a medium-sized envelope impressively plastered with 90 stamps.
    The scenario is comical and exaggerated; together, the post office teller and I systematically paste rows of stamps onto the package.
    I’m reminded of other boxes and envelopes I have shipped from other locations—usually filled with items whose monetary value falls far short of the cost of shipping. (Of course, you can’t put a price on memories.) Often accompanied by absurd postage situations.
    Circularity and symmetry.
    No “lasts” in sight.
    If I were to ask a wise man to surmise my future, I think I could guess at the conversation:

    “What comes after today?” 

    “It’s another journey ahead for you, of course.”

    “And what comes after that journey?”

    “Why Madam, it’s journeys all the way down.”


    Journeys all the way down…

    ***

  • Kindness as an Act of Radical Subversion

    Where I don’t hitchhike. (C’mon, I’m not crazy!)
    “I haven’t told anyone this yet—not even my business partner,” said Jack.
    Two pairs of bluebell eyes stared at me gravely—Jack’s, and his infant son’s. Our Jeep sat in Cape Town traffic at the edge of the City Bowl.
    Well, their Jeep, to be precise, since I was just the friendly neighborhood hitchhiker.
    Jack’s secret? I’m not going to tell, of course But it had to do with life choices and changes and quitting one job for another.
    Traffic began to flow, and the lush greenery of Constantia Nek blurred outside, then transitioned to cityscape as we entered Cape Town proper. Jack is hardly the first stranger to tell me his life story—nor, I suspect, will he be the last.
    When a hitchhiker enters a car, we enter into a tacit agreement with our driver. We are storytellers, listeners and, most of all, amiable company. We may not offer gas money, but the goods we trade in—words—are far more valuable.
    “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Jack mused as we neared my destination (Jack would continue on to the airport to pick up his wife), “it’s like you’re my unofficial shrink.”
    Yes, we’re that, too.
    As I found my way around during my first weeks in Cape Town I often walked or hitchhiked to get from point A to B. (I’ve since moved into the city, and do less of both.)
    When I walk, I make a point of meeting the gaze of each person I pass (their responses are alternately inquisitive, friendly and mildly hostile), smiling and saying, “hello.”
    When I hitchhike, I introduce myself and make conversation. Those with whom I temporarily share that journey meet my gaze, smile and respond in kind.
    In the past couple months, I have met a fellow Bostonian, a Singaporean family, a young surfer and an aging contractor—just to mention a few. Each one unique. Each one kind enough to stop for me. Hitchhikers are rare these days, though my local friends tell me they were once common.
    What does all this have to do with subversion?
    I will explain.
    In a world that expects the worst, I believe offering the best of ourselves is a fundamental act of radical subversion.
    In a society that sees mal-intent, hate, danger and selfishness everywhere—with or without due cause—what is more rebellious than goodwill, love and selfless support of our fellow human beings?
    I enjoy all manner of privilege and bias in my experience of kindness—as some will be quick to point out. A young white woman? Oh, yes, I enjoy more than my share of privilege.
    This fact is somewhat irrelevant, in the context of this discussion, however (although I will freely accede to its verity). For while none of us controls what the world gives to us—hate, or love; malcontent, or goodwill—each of us decides what we offer in return.
    Rebellion, sometimes, is a broad smile.
    Subversion, maybe, is the wide open arms of anyone who chooses love and trust in this crazy world.
    And in that case, what is more radically subversive than acts of kindness? What is more rebellious than accepting that kindness—with an optimistic smile?

    You may choose your own acts of subversion, make your own revolutions, but this—kindness, trust and love—is the revolution I want to be a part of.

    ***

  • Next Up, Cape Town: Meeting the Voice of Intuition

    Chapman’s Peak, near one of my possible next homes.
    The flights are booked.
    Philadelphia —> NYC —> Amsterdam —> Helsinki. Short pause. Helsinki —> London —> Cape Town.
    Don’t ask. Flights, once booked, are very difficult to reroute.
    Why Cape Town?
    Summer.

    Why else? Well then, summer, right time zone for work schedule, visa on arrival, not Europe (I’m at the end of my 90-day limit for Schengen Zone), ocean, low cost of living, mountains, city…
    But actually, none of that really, truly answers your question: Why Cape Town?
    Yes, those are all reasons why it’s a good choice, yet my choice did not stem from them. Rather, Cape Town felt right, and the rational reasons followed.
    Too “woo woo” for you? Consider this: Whenever we have a decision to make, there is a part of us (call it intuition, gut instinct, whatever you will) that knows the “right” answer before we do. We can arrive at it by logic, or we can skip the winding road and hop straight to our destination—what feels right is right.
    You argue, but this is how drug addicts, hedonists and psychiatric patients are made—acting on impulse. I counter, impulse is not the same as intuition. I sat with my decision to head to Cape Town for nearly two weeks before buying tickets. I reconsidered all my other options, gave logic its chance to sort through the possibilities. But my intuition didn’t waver:
    Warm air, ocean tides—a chance to learn to surf, finally!—and hiking trails, even horses, and then all the things a city can offer: a blank slab of the unknown where you can inscribe the next months of this adventure word by novel word.
    It should come as no surprise that the unknown and my intuition are particularly enmeshed. What feels “right,” more often than not, is what appears shrouded in mystery—the yet-to-be-revealed of a new culture, new community, new dance, new sport, new path, new chance. 
    Of course, that is my “what feels right,” and I neither suggest nor expect it should be the same for another.
    It is only interesting, and instructive, to note where our intuition points us, time after time.
    When we hold a question in our mind’s hands, turning it this way and that, asking where, who, what, when and, most of all, why—what is the first voice to answer, and what does it say?
    Hello, intuition, nice to meet you!

    Cape Town, you say? I trust you.

    Trust. Jump. Fly. Photo Credit: Toni Toreno, Cambodia.
    ***

  • Traveling Light: “Only What I Can Carry” Photo Project

    Traveling Light: “Only What I Can Carry” Photo Project

    Saturday, October 3rd, 2015. Helsinki, Finland.

    [This is only an excerpt from a longer piece about this project written for elephant journal. For the full story please click here.]

    The afternoon sun is kissing the tops of the pines surrounding my friend’s house, and I am packing.

    I’ve had an idea in my head for months now, and seeing as I’m in no hurry for once, this seems like the perfect opportunity to realize it.

    I’ve been living out of my purple, 60-liter Osprey backpack for just under a year now. This is the second time I’ve done so, and I can pack in 10 minutes—15 tops—when needed.

    Today, though, I take my time to fold my clothing into neat piles and gather every last small belonging into a compact square in the center of the floor.

    I’m not exactly sure why, but taking stock seems important…

    The more I travel and the longer I wander, the better I understand how much I need, and how much I am able to carry. (And still, always, it is too much.)

    More and more, too, I recognize the difference between need and desire—the meaning of priorities. I don’t need even half of what I choose to carry with me. I do in fact need my laptop for work, and maybe a few changes of clothing and some warm layers.

    But my practice poi? Small bag of jewelry? Pretty shirts, oversized headphones and red lipstick? Indulgences and whimsy—and I know it…

    What I keep—I recognize I keep out of attachment, not out of necessity…

    This is only what I can carry.

    Some of it I need; some of it I want, but if it’s too much weight or doesn’t all fit, something has to go.

    This isn’t for everyone; hell, it may not always be for me. Nevertheless, this is a viable way to live, and—I believe—a powerful exercise in living simply.

    I hope these images might inspire you to try the same—even if it’s only for a walk around the block! 😀

    [This is only an excerpt from a longer piece about this project written for elephant journal. For the full story please click here.]

  • I Want to Do All of the Things

    This is not a bucket list.

    I wrote this list a few weeks ago as the realization dawned on me that, without exaggeration, I want to do “all of the things.”

    There is not a country I wouldn’t want to visit, a language I wouldn’t like to study, an art or dance I wouldn’t want to learn or a food I wouldn’t want to try.

    Whenever someone shares a story of adventure, I listen carefully—not only out of friendly curiosity, but also out of a vested self-interest—making mental notes for the day I can follow their trail, or blaze my own.

    In the invigorating—and overwhelming—rush of ideas that tends to accompany an “I want to do all the things” epiphany (it’s not my first) I decided to try something new.

    I decided to write it all down.

    This list is a work in progress. I have surely forgotten things, and will doubtless add other ideas I haven’t even thought of yet. The list of places on the left is woefully incomplete, and I know I’m missing something major… no matter.

    One thing is certain, however: This is not a bucket list.

    These are not things I’m hoping to do some day in the future, before I “kick the bucket”; rather, these are (all) things I want do do now. Tomorrow. Next month. As soon as possible… It might take a decade or five, but I’m starting yesterday.

    My list includes the following items:

    • Travel the TransSiberian (or TransMongolian) Railway
    • Go to Argentina to study Tango—and Spanish
    • Go to Brazil to study Capoeira—and Portuguese
    • Travel across a country by horseback
    • Join the circus (learn a circus skill first)
    • Travel through Poland and Eastern Europe with my grandmother’s suitcase.
    • Chase the Northern Lights (I tried last week… no success)
    • Hike the Long Trail (VT)
    • Climb some tall mountains
    • Find a way to contribute—anywhere… everywhere.

    That’s just a few.

    Is it an extraordinary privilege to be able to look at every single item on this list as a real possibility? Absolutely yes. Am I still searching for the right way to be of service as I pursue these passions? Of course—although, since starting work at elephant journal I feel more assured of that side of things.

    Perhaps most importantly, why? Why do I want to do/try/learn/see all this?

    Why the tireless pursuit of adventure?

    A little secret: There is no why.

    There are secondary reasons—to learn, understand and grow are all real and valid motives. But they are secondary. The primary “reason why” is formless.

    Because.

    Adventure, travel, wandering, journeying for me have always been (and may always be) a raison d’être. A “why” unto themselves.

    That is, I do not wander because ______, or travel to _______; but rather, when in movement, when in the pursuit of adventure, I have no need of why’s.

    I do not wonder why I am here, what I should be doing or what my purpose is… I simply am.

    And so I want to do “All of the Things,” because so long as this list (and its much longer mental counterpart) are close to my heart, my wings beat of their own accord. Existence, then, is its own end—and that is every thing.

    So… what’s on your list?
    ***
    [I’ll be in London now through (almost) the end of October. Checking in after 2 weeks in Helsinki, Finland, which were so packed with adventure I haven’t had time to write about them yet! Much more to come on that very soon.]

  • Through the Bazaar: My First Nepali Journey

    Tashi Delek (“Auspicious Greetings” Tib.) from Nepal, officially!
    It would be difficult to exaggerate the toll that being sick took on my first week’s experience of Nepal.  Having gotten some kind of food poisoning day three, I spent the following five days deluding myself that I was recovering, when really, sleep-deprived and on an involuntary starvation diet, I could barely function.  The daily 8am-6pm classes and meetings didn’t help either.  Finally admitting defeat, I went to the doctor Thursday afternoon, and a day of antibiotics later (yesterday) I had enough energy for our first free afternoon in Kathmandu.
    Danny, one of our teachers, led our group of 21 SIT students through a series of streets, intersections and ‘rotaries’ from the Garden of Dreams (more to come on this another time) to the Bazaar in Old Kathmandu.  Passing through Tamel, the tourist district, very quickly, I noticed not one, not two, but ten or fifteen stores selling nothing but Toby Pants.  Toby Pants, for those who don’t know, are technically harem pants, but can also refer to a range of styles of colorful cotton pants, which, no matter what milieu I find myself in, always seem to be unique to me.  So imagine my excitement to find so many on one street! Striped Toby Pants, billowing Toby Pants, wide-legged, trimmed with woven ribbon, Toby Pants in every variety.  Toby Pants I hadn’t even known existed.  I had to return.
    Racing to follow Danny down crowded alleyways, I didn’t quite keep track of our route, but I vowed to find my way back to the pants street.  At the center of the Old City, I learned that our “drop-off” assignment was to find our way back to our homestays in Boudha (pronounced Bodha), located at the Northeastern edge of Kathmandu, after exploring the city as much as we liked.  Thus released, I immediately set off first to wander the Bazaar, and then to locate my pants.
    I wandered through the Nepali bead market where ropes of bright green, red, and yellow glass beads glittered in the sun.  Women in equally bright saris sat on the ground in some of the stalls to examine certain strands.  The space between stalls proved too narrow for the volume of people wishing to visit them, and I had to shove my way out, or be shoved.  I quickly walked through seemingly endless alleys piled with T-shirts, sneakers, underwear, and other clothing of little interest.  A few stalls stacked with fabric and shawls I sketched into my mental map.
    Slightly lost, I found my way back to the open square where I had started, at the center of which stood an enormous table covered by towers of scarves.  I set out in the opposite direction, towards Tamel.  I knew I had taken the right street by smell.  At the first intersection, fruit: rickshaws loaded with baskets of bananas, pyramids of fist-sized pomegranates, neat piles of red and green chilies, juice carts with pre-cut pineapple.  At the next intersection, the distinct smell of fish emanating from a hidden location; at the next, cumin and coriander wafting from sacks of spices.  When I took a wrong turn, I retraced my steps and sought out the right scent—there’s the cumin; I’ve been here before.
    At every intersection stood small stone stupas, shrines, some with metal carvings of Buddhist and Hindi deities.  Red powder for puja, too.  The spaces around these stupas served well enough as traffic circles, and every narrow street and alley accommodated two-way traffic.  Motorcycles asserted their supremacy, honking loudly, while pedestrians, bicycles carrying 10-foot ladders or bamboo poles, and rickshaws ambled on indifferently.
    Toby Pants Street, when I found it several wrong turns later, was everything I had hoped it would be. 
    Satisfied, but tired and ready to return to Bodhanath, I made my way to New Road, where, theoretically, I could find a bus.  Considering the size of Bodha’s stupa (more to come later), I was surprised at how many people had never heard of it when I asked directions—I don’t think my pronunciation could have been that bad!  Those who understood me continually directed me farther down the street to the correct spot to wait for my bus.  The minibus to Bodha did arrive, and the stick-thin fare collector directed me to a seat that had not existed a moment before.   The fourth to squeeze onto a three-person bench, I at least had a seat, which is more than could be said for the next ten passengers to press on.  We lurched through traffic at maybe ten miles per hour, and since I could not move my arms, I took the opportunity to count passengers.  At its fullest, this minibus (offering perhaps twenty seats on a good day) held thirty-five!  An appropriately crowded conclusion to my bustling introduction to Nepal.