Category Archives: Life Stuff

May 6, 2011 · 8:06 am

20,000 Hits Under the T, and Joe

You, me, and TwT have made it to 20,000 hits. The blog was started twenty-two months ago with no certainty of where it might go. During this time, I think I took about 20,000 hits myself! OK, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic, but a lot of shit happened – let’s be honest. Yet somehow I made it here, to another turning point between one set of life decisions and another, past the 20,000 hits and onto the next ones.

I’m in the eye of another storm – a pleasant but slightly stressful one (as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not very good with change, even though I invite it constantly). Things are chaotically being thrown all around me, and I’m just trying to keep centered and hold on to my Panama hat. For starters, as we all know, I’m moving from the Upper West Side to my first non-UWS home in NYC: SoHo. You know, it’s funny moving downtown. It’s like moving to the opposite side of your hometowm – mine just happens to be NYC (and it’s the only hometown I’ve got). I’m about to take the GREs, which I thought I’d never ever have to do and would somehow get away without every seeing a standardized test again. The hardest part was realizing what happened to all that math I studied so hard throughout high school and during my freshman year of college. As I was telling a friend yesterday, my brain really feels like an out of shape muscle right now. I got it from a slow walk to an awkward jog, and now I’ve got a reasonable pace, when it comes to my math abilities, but I’m definitely not in sprinting form yet. Hopefully I should be there by the fall.

This is how my brain felt when I started studying for the GREs. Sea Lion on the shore of Isla Espanola. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

Speaking of, I’m about to go back to school for — if all goes according to plan — what will be five straight years of intense classes without A SINGLE summer vacation. Brutal, right? No more rendezvous in Buenos Aires whenever I want. No more last-second trips to sleep on a friend’s floor for a week in Brussels, or hop on a plane to a friend’s family’s home in Kona, Hawaii, or convincing anyone to fly to Central America for a week or two, or being a “YES” person when it comes to trips and expensive meals. But you know, I really am excited for this “other” path I’m on now. Thank goodness I got all those trips and international romances out of my system, because only now, after experiencing more than I would have ever imagined I might in my early twenties, am I ok with giving all that up.

Some of you might not know this, but since January, I have been volunteering at two different physical therapy/sports medicine and rehab facilities here in New York. I signed up partially because I needed some volunteer hours for my eventual Doctor of Physical Therapy application, and partially because I wanted to be 110% SURE that this investment of time and LOTS of money (breathe Rachel, breathe!) is going to be worth it.

I’ve got to say… I walked into the volunteering with only a vague idea of what to expect and what I might get out of it. I was nervous before the first day, realizing that there was ever-so-slight-a-chance I could still change my mind, and I didn’t want to. But I hoped, if anything, my volunteering would at least confirm everything I was planning to do.

Well, it did more than that. Not only did I become more certain than ever that this is what I want to do, career-wise, but I got even more excited and more motivated. I love it. I’ve said this before, but it’s so funny how different and foreign the whole healthcare thing is from what I’ve been doing since I graduated, and yet how right it feels to be involved in some way. Working with people is fascinating, fun, exciting and inspiring. Through my PT Aide jobs, I have encountered such incredible and fascinating people! There’s been the professional female volleyball player, the ballerina who her PT describes as “the Black Swan” equivalent, the gay Irish speech therapist, the Argentine guy with back problems, the Polish man with a frozen shoulder, the teenager who wears totally inappropriate things to her PT sessions, the attractive male athletes, the marathon runners, the pregnant woman with backpain, the adorable arthritic Ecuadorian lady who speaks Spanish with me and bakes us zucchini cake every week… the list goes on and on!

Lonely George. The last remaining turtle of his species. Charles Darwin Center. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

And then there’s Joe (*not his actual name). One thing you learn quickly in PT, and I’m sure in other medical fields, is that everyone has a different response to pain and treatment — both physically and psychologically. The way each person deals with his/her injury on both those levels can vary incredibly. Much of my job has been working one-on-one with patients, either getting them ready for their treatment, helping them after their treatment, or showing them how to do certain exercises and self-care measures for when they are on their own. I deal with ice, heat, e-stim, laser probes, foam rollers, mats, BoSus, thera bands, exercise balls, ramps, weights, and all that good stuff all day long (in case you were wondering). But one thing that always changes is the individual, and you have to adapt to each one as you go. For me, that’s one of the most fun parts of this job: just seeing the way people are different, and making sure each one feels comfortable, safe, strong and hopeful.

A lot of the time is spent motivating the patient to push themselves, get through their exercise challenges for the day, and/or generally measuring their progress and capabilities (while having conversations over just about anything – so fun!). Everybody has such an interesting life story, and they always want to know mine. It’s funny, because when you talk to people, you really get to see that everyone has been through SO much… Ups, downs, loves, frustrations with the world… Most people are also willing to open up very quickly, which I respect and appreciate. I get lots of unsolicited advice about life, actually, which is great (hehe), and I surprise people when I tell them that I am not fresh-out-of-college, that I’m changing careers, and that I have traveled to a lot of different places. They are also intrigued by my family’s background, which is fun to talk about.

But the best experiences are when you get to work with people like Joe.

Joe is 82. He is about 6’4”, totally grey and old in some ways (on the outside), quiet, respectful, and sweet as can be in that silent, reserved, peaceful sort of way. He is a musician and an orchestra conductor (the office I work at is right by Lincoln Center, so we get lots of performers). Joe is also an avid runner and has been his whole life.

I see many patients just out of surgery, with crazy scars (I love scars!), swollen joints, extreme pain, and a list of complaints. Joe had both hip and ankle surgery on the same day. He aces every single exercise and strengthening activity I give him, and he never complains – not even a little bit. Not only that, but some people take months or even years to get back for a run after a surgery, and Joe took weeks. In addition, he runs every day. He is 82, I repeat. And, without a negative comment, a complaint, or a frustration, he tackles every challenge ahead of him and succeeds with flying colors. He has an incredibly strong mind, and he is determined to get back to running 8-10 miles per day.

Joe is an inspiration to me, and to the other patients. He is one of those people who –without trying to be an inspiration at all– quietly shows everyone else that we are capable of whatever we set our mind to (at least with the proper preparation and care). After working in PT for a few months, you finally get to see patients make extreme progress and take steps towards a new chapter — the one that begins after their pain has ended.

At first, I loved the PT Aide-ing because I was finally able to be useful and work with people in some helping capacity, be trusted in that way, be an authority (at least they think so!) on how to help. But when you see a patient who can barely lie down on the treatment table on day one riding the stationary bicycle so hard you have to slow them down on their last day of treatment, you realize what it’s all about; that feeling, that smile, that moment when you witness someone who has overcome a difficult experience… THAT is what makes me so happy and so excited to suffer through all the science classes I’ve got ahead of me right now.

Joe is one of the reasons I cannot wait to be a part of this field. I knew I would feel this way, and for years I tried to brush it off because who wants to spend five years without summers in school when you’re supposed to be getting married, thinking about having babies, buying a house and making a great salary (allegedly)?! Well, my work with Joe is done, and I’m about to begin school. But the other day, Joe’s physical therapist told me he was asking about me. He told her that he wanted to thank me, because my work with him really helped and he felt great and was running 8 miles a day again. What did I do?! I’m not sure I really deserve the thank you, but that gesture, that thank you, is why I’m doing this. The truth is, Joe is the one who should be thanked.

A large wave off the coast on my last morning in the Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

But where am I? This weekend, I’m moving, for real, into my new apartment. I take the GRE in ten days. I go back to school in two weeks. Everything is uphill right now. Nothing feels easy.

Then I remember Joe. And if Joe can run 10 miles after hip and ankle surgeries at age 82, I think all of us can, in our own way.

Cheers to the next 20,000 hits. And THANK YOU for the first 20,000.

6 Comments

Filed under Healthcare, Life Stuff, New York City, Physical Therapy, Uncategorized

April 27, 2011 · 8:59 am

SoHo Za-Za-Zoo

I headed downtown with reluctance, ready for another disappointment, tired of searching, but – as always – with a twinkle of hope in my increasingly cynical New Yorker eyes. I was beginning to resent swiping my Metrocard at the entrance to the subway, for it only led me onto a train of disappointments.

After searching uptown, where I thought there would be more apartments available and for better prices, the realtor with whom I had been apartment-hunting sent me photos of a small SoHo apartment with black brick walls. SoHo? I thought. Yeah, right…

Cherry Blossoms and Sky. Central Park, NYC. (Taken by Blackberry)

The idea of being within walking distance of NYU seemed impossible, so I hadn’t been looking downtown. I looked at a couple Brooklyn apartments (some day, I do think I will end up in Brooklyn if I am still in NYC…), but, in order to get the benefits of cheaper apartments, you’ve got to go deep enough into Brooklyn that the idea of hopping on a train one to two times a day (for science labs, NYU events, using the NYU gym — whatever) buffs the sparkle of Brooklyn down to a dull muted tone. There is a lot of appeal to living in Brooklyn, but I guess this just wasn’t my Brooklyn-year.

I headed down to Canal Street on the 1 train — my loyalty will always be to the 1, no matter where I live — to meet the realtor in front of the SoHo walk-up. While black brick walls aren’t my thing, my quest for the right apartment was becoming thoroughly dehumanizing, and I had to give something different a chance.

SoHo is way too cool and hip for me — I’m a comfort girl. SoHo is like the pair of cute shoes that I figure I should own, but never actually wear because I’m much more comfortable in my Upper West Side-esque flip-flops, alpargatas (actual ones from Argentina, such as these, NOT Tom’s – side note: did you know these currently very popular shoes are Argentine gaucho shoes that Argentines have been wearing forever? Notice the Argentine flag on every pair?), and flats. SoHo is chic, fashionable, designer, white tablecloths. I am sporty/casual, low-maintenance, reusable water bottle, and second-hand table right now.  But I am also something else: open-minded. I had to at least see what a SoHo apartment could look like.

We met downstairs. I immediately felt this neighborhood — the SoHo-Tribeca border with Chinatown and Little Italy just a few blocks away — felt totally not me, in a good way. I’m an uptown girl at heart, but if I could live on the corner of Guanguiltagua y Arosemena Tola en Batan Alto (my Quito address – yeah, I had to carry an index card around my first week), I could probably handle this change of scenery too. South of Houston isn’t South America — what’s the big deal, right?

Bridge in Central Park. NYC. (Taken by Blackberry)

On the corner of my potential future block: a cute Mexican restaurant. SCORE. Also on the block: a mini-supermarket, a pizza place, a cool lounge, and a modern Chinese-comfort food restaurant. All great things. I also like it when buildings have names. This one did. But I’ve stood hopeful outside a building many times. This momentary optimism was usually quickly shut-down upon ascension into the potential digs. According to the photos, this apartment had black walls. That’s a big no-no for me! But I knew that a little paint could fix that — the black walls, at this point, were not a deal-breaker.

We entered the red and white, tiny, tiled lobby. Good vibe. We headed up to the third floor – good: fourth floor or higher apartments were deal-breakers to me (knee trauma), and second or first-floor apartments usually meant noise, garbage, cold, or darkness — all deal-breakers. (I told you, I know what I want.) The staircase was wider than other ones I had seen. I liked this: good for carrying my bike up and down. We got to the door. It had a good number. I walk in, quickly evaluating the tiny but cute kitchen, which opened up into a decent little living room, and that’s when it happened: I smiled.

The apartment is completely imperfect — the kitchen is teeny-tiny, but it is an actual eat-in with a big window: score. The bathroom is in two parts: a toilet in one end of the apartment, the shower at the other end (hehe — this would “not” make sense better if you could see it). They call it “European-style” — yeah, yeah, whatever. The walls were NOT black! Much to my happiness, the apartment was full of light, the brick walls are painted white but in a really nice way. The light fixtures were antique-style, not the usual upside-down glass bowl with a cluster of dead bugs at the bottom. The floor was being redone, the closet space was great, the views were actually nice (enough) and — most importantly — despite all it’s minor imperfections, it was the first apartment that I walked into and felt HAPPY.

After a whirlwind of cashier checks, lease-signing, paperwork and the nightmare that is moving-logistics, I have a new apartment to call home, beginning this weekend. It’s going to be a quirky place to live, but – if anything – it can be “that quirky SoHo apartment with the weird bathroom that I lived in during my twenties.”

As you can see, I may come off as a perfectionist with unreal expectations (OK, I really hope I don’t but I think that is how the previous realtor I was working with might describe me), but really, I just know what I want is out there, and I’m willing to take a little longer to find it. Of course I am also willing to compromise, and I’m not expecting everything I am looking for to come in one perfectly tied-up package, but the important thing is finding that place that makes you happy, despite its imperfections. And really, the imperfections are what make my new home special.

A mid-April stroll through Central Park. NYC.

Every apartment brings with it a new set of memories, life experiences, ups and downs… I’m excited to find out what SoHo has in store for me. Within the next three weeks, I have to pack up all my stuff, move it all downtown (along with furniture in three different locations), unpack, set up wireless, set up cable, set-up furniture and LIFE. I also have to finish studying for the GREs, take the GREs, get my new NYU ID, figure out my new life, and begin school for the first time in six years. There is actually even more going on, which I’m not blogging about… Just trust me when I say I’ve got my hands pretty full right now.

But outside, the cloak of winter has been lifted and the cherry blossom petals rain over the cement. A new season, with a new apartment, and a new chapter full of possibility is about to begin. And the black walls have been painted over in white.

3 Comments

Filed under Life Stuff, New York City, Uncategorized

April 13, 2011 · 10:08 am

The Quest for Apartment Za-Za-Zoo

I interrupt your wanderlusting to share with you the dreadful non-adventure that is the NYC apartment hunt.

I can’t help myself. I’ve got to write about the fruitless quest for the perfect (trust me, “perfect” is a very loose term in New York City real estate lingo), affordable (herein lies my first major problem), apartment (or excuse for one) to spend the next two or more  years studying.

Finding an apartment in NYC is like the apartment-Olympics; ANYWHERE else in the world, you are competing at the high school or maybe intramural college level. In Manhattan, it aint NO joke. It’s as tough as it gets. Yes, it’s rough out there, people. We take a lot of shit in this town, because it is fantastic. Or at least, at times like this, we have to keep telling ourselves that.

In Manhattan (yes, Williamsburg, you count), it’s not about what you get, but what you don’t get. A deal? Let’s just get this overwith: you won’t get one of those. Roaches? Meh, maybe. But if you don’t have cockroaches, you most likely will have mice. No mice? Congrats! Bedbugs for you. Don’t even get me started on the bedbug conversation… If you’ve never checked out bedbugregistry.com, now might not be the best time to do so, as bedbug infestations are predicted to be the worst — by far — beginning this June (so help us all).

View from the outside of a beautiful, spacious apartment I loved... with a history of bedbug infestations.

If you get a great layout, you sacrifice natural light. If you find an apartment with many windows, it is most likely on the first floor which does you no good. The cheapest apartments are on the top of fifth- and sixth-floor walk-ups — a deal breaker for the girl with a bad knee. When you finally find the dream home you were looking for, you’ve got a drummer with daily 9pm band practice in the room directly above your bedroom (but you don’t find this out until you’ve already moved in). No matter what you find, apartment-wise, you can never predict your neighbors, or their hobbies (opera singers: check, drummers: check, barking dogs: double-check)… and they are EVERYWHERE. Like, within a foot of your home in every single direction.

Apartments in New York are lose-lose situations. We just accept that. The trick is to find some WIN in that loss. It’s a delicate dance of sacrifices.

I’ve gotten lucky with apartments in the past. Wait, scratch that.

My first Manhattan apartment was on 80th and Amsterdam — a neighborhood that has now become incredibly yuppy (a recent New York Times article called it the new “suburbs of Manhattan” because of all the blossoming young families of finance advisors and lawyers who can afford the ‘hood). But in my defense, it was an opportunistic move; a friend from college (shout-out to SK!) had moved out a year earlier, and even though she had found a replacement, her roommate now needed to move out too. So, I got in touch. I had been to a party or two at her place, and knew it was exactly what I was looking for, although a bit more expensive that I was hoping to find. That said, the cost of not having to search for a roommate or apartment in New York (brokers fees, crazy people, questionable supers galore) made the extra monthly cost worth it. I could slip right in.

Well, when I say I was excited to move in to my first Manhattan apartment and out of my parents’ place, where I had been living and saving money for travel and life for two years, that would be an understatement. I was feeling empowered, grown-up, and beyond ready to finally be independent in NYC. I felt so strong that I decided I could move into the 5th-floor walk-up without any help (pssh, boyfriends  – who needs them?! Fresh out of heartbreak, I didn’t!). I wanted to prove to myself that I could manage without anyone’s help, even if it meant my quads would be burning by the fourth or fifth trip up the steep, pre-war stairs.

I did the move in flip-flops, because it was a gorgeous day and I was young, sturdy, and in my eyes, unbreakable. Now, it’s one thing to walk up five steep flights of stairs over and over again. It’s another thing to do it carrying as much as you are physically capable of holding during each trip up. When I say I did this alone, I should add that I didn’t have a bed or dresser yet, my parents stuck by the car downstairs, and I had a rowing friend bring over a table she wanted to get rid of. I eventually had a couple teammates help me carry my Ikea and West Elm furniture up in pieces, which we then sat on the floor and put together (adult Legos), which was SO much fun. I actually love building furniture (side job?!).

Nevertheless, I must have completed at least 20 trips up and down those stairs. I’m no mathematician, but I probably walked up over 100 flights of stairs while carrying around 30-50lbs of stuff on many trips up. That’s a lot. But when it was all said and done, I couldn’t have been happier. I was in my first apartment, I loved it, and that suppressed (do to lack of funds and stability) domestic side of me was ready to pounce on the possibilities of my new home. Exhausted but thrilled, I finished the move off right: with my rowing teammate (the table-donator) and a couple margaritas at the bar downstairs. It was the perfect start to summer.

Three weeks into my brand new one-year lease, while rowing 3-4 times a week and running almost every day I didn’t row (I was planning to race again for the first time since college, and as always, wanted to rip it up on the water), disaster struck. I dislocated my knee, could barely walk, and found myself in so much pain I kept blacking out as I walked on my suddenly bad knee. A few x-rays, a couple MRIs, and three disagreeing doctors later, I realized I was in a tough spot. I could barely walk, let alone go up five flights of stairs, but I refused to give up my new independence so quickly. Instead, I decided I could hop on one foot up the five flights of stairs, and the staircase was narrow enough that I could slowly get down it using my upper body to lift myself between the wall and the banister, and lower myself several steps at a time, while keeping all weight off my right knee. It was a hovering technique, and it almost worked.

A couple weeks of this, and I knew I was screwed. I had to move right back into my parents’ place, leave my new apartment (which I still had to pay for), and wait until I was healed enough to get back in there. My roommate would pack me some clothes and bring it down the stairs for me, and I’d hobble with a roller suitcase back to my parents’, in my sunken, new, injured reality. Thanks, life.

I moved back a month later, definitely prematurely. I continued my hopping up the stairs and hovering down, to the best of my abilities, plotting each day so that this up and down procedure only needed to be done once. It wasn’t long before my good knee started getting mad at me, and one day, while getting my breakfast ready for early morning physical therapy, I nailed my forehead on the sharp corner of a new shelf I had installed, giving myself a small concussion. I half-passed out in my towel, and had to lay on the floor of my kitchen until the nausea and stars stopped twinkling overhead. I’ve had brighter moments.

My year in the fifth-floor dream apartment in the perfect neighborhood didn’t quite pan out the way I had hoped, but I got through it. Sadly, I was forced to move because my knee just wasn’t healing (the last thing anyone with a knee injury should be doing is walking up and down five flights of stairs daily, often more than once). For apartment number two, I required an elevator, which usually shoots the rent right up.

Thanks to the economy crashing, and sudden panic amongst the New York landlords, I snagged an incredible apartment twenty blocks further north, with an elevator! I was prepared for a long hunt, but this was the first apartment I saw, and I knew it was the one. I took it, without a second thought, and it was — although I hesitate to use the word — perfect. I reluctantly hired movers to get my furniture from the fifth-floor walk-up to my new, cheaper-and-easier-to-access 4th-floor digs, and, yes, with the help of a wonderful boyfriend (who would fail to last until the next move),  the transition was smooth. I was in this place to stay, I could only hope. The biggest issue was that, like clockwork, every night when I finally got into bed, the thumping of a pedal, the strumming of an electric guitar, and the low off-key notes of a 20-something guy having band practice would cause my bed to vibrate. But eventually, I was able to make peace with the guys who played the drums above my bed. It was a New York miracle.

I had so many good times while living in that apartment. When one romance ended, another one began. It was a fantastic, albeit tumultuous, year. But, when the second relationship fell apart, I was offered a job in Ecuador, and it was clear that I was going to have to give this gem of an apartment up. That decision still haunts me a little, but it was the right one at the time.

Now, I’ve got to find myself a new place. I knew it would be difficult, but the options I have seen so far are just depressing. Not only has confidence in the economy suddenly spiked, causing the highest rents the city has seen in a few years, but there is also less than 1% vacancy in New York City apartments. That means people are desperate, landlords can raise rents, and any apartment you see has several other applications already in the works. If you don’t act immediately, your crappy option for an apartment is gone. So, what about the good ones? The “perfect” apartments? Well, apparently they are no longer out there. Yippy.

So far, I have seen apartments with barely any windows, beautiful teaser apartments that have a history of bedbug infestations, and construction sites with no walls, sinks, or floors installed yet that already have applications in progress. Every apartment that comes close to being something I can work with has a deal breaker, such as bedbugs, one bedroom with no windows (that does NOT qualify as a bedroom, ya jerks!) or hardcore construction going on directly outside every window. In other words, there is a reason all these apartments are vacant. And in NYC, finding an apartment that works is like striking gold; you don’t give that up for nothing. Right now, all I’m getting is the scraps.

Actual apartment I saw yesterday, available immediately for $2400. This is one bedroom. The other one didn't have a window.

Sigh. It’s brutal, people. This apartment hunt is making me question why I love NYC so much. It makes me want to live anywhere but here. Every year, I get closer and closer to wanting to live elsewhere. I fantasize about having a home or apartment in any city but this one, and I know I could find something that works for a fraction of the cost that I have to pay here. I have to stop myself from thinking about this reality because it is painful, especially in moments like this. Whatever you do, do NOT tell me how wonderful your place is and how little you pay for it. And if you have a porch or terrace, you must remain silent. Bottom line: I KNOW, ok. I know! And I don’t want to hear about it. [See other posts for why I love NYC. I should probably re-read those right about now…]

Because I am going to be a student, I am not very flexible on the cost. This takes me to new depths of despair. Because I have a soul, I am not flexible on the amount of windows and natural light. Because I am a New Yorker, I know what is out there — I know what each neighborhood means, in terms of apartment,  atmosphere and accessibility. I’ve seen it all, at this point, and yet the only thing I haven’t seen is a place I could or would want to live for the next year or two.

The gloomy view from another apartment I saw yesterday. $2300/month.

It’s pretty depressing. I’m feeling a little deflated with the whole search process, but finding an apartment is like finding someone to love: some people are willing to settle, some people think “I can work with this if I just change one or two things around,” but I’m not looking for a fixer-upper. I am looking for it, the apartment that I can fall in love with, the one that clicks (I’ve felt it before), the one that becomes my home — the one, above everything, I can trust with my new life. I need an apartment that gives me the za-za-zoo when I walk in. It’s got to make me happy, and be zen. I might be picky, but I’ve seen enough apartments (and yes, had enough relationships) to just be at a place where I know what I want. I’ve felt the za-za-zoo before, and I need to feel it again. As discouraging as this search is right now, I know my future apartment is out there. Until I find it, I just can’t see myself settling for anything less.

And so the hunt continues.

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Filed under Life Stuff, New York City, Uncategorized, USA

March 25, 2011 · 8:28 pm

My Life As A Peony

As the news of another close friend getting married arrived in my inbox this week, I couldn’t help but wonder: How are all of these people’s lives THERE when mine is HERE?! Six years ago, “these people” — my best friends from college — and I were in the same exact place. In fact, I was ahead of the crew with a serious relationship of two years that showed no major signs of wilting. Emails like these — the “Guess what? We’re getting MARRIED!” emails — are like state-of-your-life grenades that get randomly detonated throughout one’s twenties, just to keep some of us feeling like we’re never 100% on track to becoming a “true” adult. Not yet at least.

Orchids from The Orchid Show at the Bronx Botanical Gardens. March, 2010.

Don’t get me wrong: I am so happy for my friends and so excited to be a part of every wedding that I can be (can’t you tell?! HA. N0, but, for real). I am sincerely excited and in awe of my friends’ happiness and I am amazed how grown up they all are (seriously – I’m just impressed!). But it gets me thinking of course…

What does it mean to be “full-bloom” in life, anyway? Who’s to say one person’s bloom is better than another’s? Why does everyone pay so much more attention to the bloom than the blooming process? Alright, alright. I know. And I do the same.

One second I’ll be reading my email, getting revved up for the next two years of being an undergraduate science student again, and the next thing I know, I am being jolted into someone else’s life-time-frame and feeling like I must have done something completely wrong or gone way left when everyone went right. I get this sudden overwhelming spark that tells me I’ve veered off-course and while some people are thrilled and excited to see it, some are worried about me. For the record, I’m not worried about me! It’s like I’m a puppy jumping around in a field, trying to play in the great unknown, and then I run myself across an invisible fence and get sparked, which would be society trying to tell me No, no silly puppy. Just go back in the house where it’s safe. Sometimes I feel like my deck has been shuffled one extra time, and maybe my cards are turning up just a little more jumbled than the rest. Am I the outlier? I can live with that. (Annnnd then I realize I am in the majority, afterall. Weird how the prevalence of certain announcements can play tricks on the hard numbers, which are actually working in my favor.)

Then I’ll come across something like this YouTube video that my friend Allison (ex-intern at Viva Travel Guides) created of our trip to the Cotopaxi Province of Ecuador (you can watch it again at the link above, or read about this trip through my previous post, Pain in the Cotopaxi. And for all who may have wondered why my back hurt so much during that six-hour horseback trek, well, turns out I compressed a thoracic disc. Why am I not surprised?!) After watching this video and getting a quick rush of nostalgia (I’m such a sucker for nostalgia), I go… OH yeah, THAT’S where I’ve been… And do you see me complaining? NOPE. (Just to be extra clear, this post is me NOT complaining. Hehe.)

An imperfect orchid. Bronx, NY. March 2010.

At the risk of sounding like I’m trying to make myself feel better (which, I kind of am doing – oops) about not being one of those “real” adults with jobs and fiances before thirty (as we are supposed to do, apparently), I think about horseback riding up a volcano in Ecuador and how awesome it was (uhh, minus the back pain). A salary would be fantastic, of course, but that will come later (panic panic panic). Maybe I’ve had some speed bumps on the ride to my thirties, but when those speed bumps come in the form of zip-lining through cloud forests in both Ecuador AND Costa Rica, and dipping my toes in the water of many seas… it aint so bad to take a detour.

Ok ok, here it is: The truth. I will admit with my little tail between my legs that I want all that — the love, the engagement, the I DO, the commitment to one person, the family, the salary, the blah blah blah that we’re all supposed to want… EVENTUALLY. I’d take it right now if it was right. But, while I want it (I do. I really do.) I’m glad I didn’t get it at the cost of all this. Please tell me you understand what I mean.

Gardenias. If you could only smell them... Bronx Botanical Gardens, NY.

When I watch this video from my trip to Cotopaxi, I can’t help but smile. I am genuinely so, so happy I had the chance to live out all these adventures I’ve had in my early- to mid-twenties. I feel so lucky. The past six years, I got to swig life down in giant, uncertain gulps. I may have suffered a bit of indigestion here or there, but man has it been (mostly) delicious so far. Sometimes I can’t believe all the incredible places I got to travel, all the kisses that were kissed (oh boy have there been some good kisses), all the unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime experiences I was able to accumulate and share. I know that when I get there, to that place where it feels many of my friends have already gotten and to that place I still believe in with all my heart, all of these experiences will become an even bigger gift; not only will they have made me who I am, but they are also the experiences that – back then – I didn’t know that, now, I wouldn’t be able to live without.

On Sunday, I go to Puerto Rico for a week. It will be the last travel adventure for who knows how long? My new priority is school, but don’t you worry! I will tell you ALL about Puerto Rico upon my return.

Waterlilies. Bronx Botanical Garden. March 2010.

Maybe, as it turns out, I’m just a late-bloomer in life. I mean, I’m 27, not currently in a serious relationship, I don’t have a graduate degree (yet!), I’m attending seven weddings this summer and none of them are mine (ha!), and I’m just not putting all the pretty little pieces together the way the world seems to want me to do it.

But peonies are one of my favorite spring flowers. And, just like me, they are late-bloomers. Does that make them any less wonderful than the orchids or daffodils that come out first? I don’t think so. They’re all beautiful once they’re in-bloom; each flower just has to bloom on its own time. Only then do they smell the sweetest.

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Filed under Life Stuff, Uncategorized

March 9, 2011 · 9:19 am

In Case You Were Curious…

I’m not going to lie: as fun as contributor month has been (thank you so much to every single person who contributed their time and words to TwT!), I miss you guys. Big changes are coming my way… However, I knew not much would happen during February, so I figured I’d do a little hibernating while you all shared your own adventures, and I allowed my new plan to brew.

This worked out perfectly. I know I’ve been a bit vague, but now I’ll explain what I am up to… And don’t worry: I’m off to Puerto Rico at the end of the month so a spurt of wanderlust will be injected back into TwT! CAN.NOT.WAIT.

Three men at the rose garden. Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina.

But first, a little background…

My mom used to tell me about how, as a little girl, I was always very cautious. Whenever it was time to make a big decision, like what instrument I was going to play or how safe a rickety wooden bridge was to cross, I would stew in my thoughts as long as it took until I decided the instrument was the right choice for me (yes, I played the flute for TWELVE years – don’t hate), or the bridge was safe enough to cross. Once I made a decision though, I went for it whole heartedly.

In the playground, while my older sister would run recklessly up to the top of the biggest slide and tumble down it however she had to in order to prove she was fearless and brave (unsurprisingly, she ended up being the co-captain of the Radcliffe/Harvard women’s rugby team), I would stand at the bottom watching her make all the first mistakes. That was the one nice thing about being the second oldest of five kids; I always had one person who could test out the waters before me. I’d let her go a few times, and I’d watch other kids go up and down as I quietly observed. Once I realized it was safe, and possibly even fun, only then would I be ready to make the risky journey to the top of the slide. And it was thrilling. The way down was always easier, of course.

Once I committed to something, be it a slide, an instrument, a sport, I was 100% committed. I have always been this way. Although now, I’d say I’m more reckless than ever. Not reckless in the sense that I haven’t evaluated how bad things could turn out, but reckless in the sense that I know I’ll be ok: I’ve been through enough to know I can get by with a few extra scars and bruises. But most of the time, it’s not that simple; some of my biggest disasters have been my most profound learning experiences. It took getting knocked down quite a few times to learn that one.

Hammock ropes. Tumbaco, Ecuador.

I love a challenge and I love proving to myself that I can handle something a little crazy — like waking up at 5 am all four years of college to row in the Maine (brrr) sunrise, or taking on the terrifying opportunity to choreograph a 15-person dance my senior year of high school for the biggest school production of the year (when I felt like a completely awkward dancer myself, and I HATE being on stage). That said, I still find myself sometimes sitting back, quietly evaluating the risks involved in very big decisions before I jump in. But, just like when I was a kid, whenever I finally decide to go for something, I am fully committed to it and will do whatever it takes to achieve/fight for my new goal. Whether it’s deciding to start a blog, committing to a whole lot of work, or allowing myself to fall in love… ah yes… I become a part of the decision, 100%, and I jump.

Well, I’m onto my next challenge! Beginning on May 23, I am becoming a student again. I just got accepted to the NYU Post-Baccalaureate Pre-Health Studies Program and I will be committing to two years of straight up SCIENCE classes so that I can eventually apply to become a Doctor of Physical Therapy. I AM SO EXCITED.

I know, I know. It sounds crazy, random, quarter-life-crisis-y, or whatever you want to say. But what many people might not know, is that I have been sitting back, looking up at this slide for a very LONG time. Before I went to college, I thought I wanted to be an ER doctor, a surgeon, or a writer. I got to campus, went to the pre-med meeting my first week of freshman year, took one look at all the courses I would have to take if  I went pre-med (Biology, Chemistry, ORGANIC Chemistry…), then took a look at all the other courses offered (Cosmic Sexualities, Archaeology of the Hellenistic World, Ancient Greek Medicine, Latin American Testimonio, Mozart: The Man, The Myth and The Music, Dance, and Art, Science, and the Mind) and just went… NAHHHHH.

I made a very conscious decision that first week: I decided, instead of taking any courses I HAVE to take, I was going to go through college taking whatever the fuck I WANTED to take, and — although this decision is about to bite me in the ass — I have absolutely NO regrets. I loved EVERY SINGLE COURSE I took in college (yes, even Integral Calculus) and I got to study abroad in Barcelona! I know I was a TRUE liberal arts student because, the second I graduated, most people were concerned for me. Hehe. I mean, I was a Spanish major with a triple minor in Archaeology, Art History, and Asian Studies, but I could only declare one minor so I chose Archaeology — my favorite. What the hell kind of career does that get ya? I like to think it made me an, um, interesting person.

A crack in the bridge. Mindo, Ecuador.

While most of my fellow 2005 graduates are getting engaged (ok, maybe it just FEELS that way) and have JDs, MBAs, and close to MDs already, I am going back to school…as an undergraduate. Yep. My curriculum for the next two years goes something like this (did you know, btw, that there are many more pre-reqs for a DPT program than the med schoolers have? Yeah, me either.):

BIOLOGY 1, BIOLOGY II, BIOLOGY LAB

CHEMISTRY I, CHEMISTRY II, CHEMISTRY LAB

PHYSICS I (oh yes, I just said PHYSICS), PHYSICS II, PHYSICS LAB

DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY AND/OR ABNORMAL PSYCHOLOGY

STATISTICS

ANATOMY w/ LAB, PHYSIOLOGY w/ LAB or a combined 2 semester of ANATOMY and PHYSIOLOGY w/ labs

And…

Either ORGANIC CHEMISTRY, BIOCHEMISTRY or EXERCISE PHYSIOLOGY.

I’m actually supposed to also take an English composition course. Can you believe that I have never taken a college-level English course?! There has got to be a way to dodge this one… I did like five of these courses, but they were in SPANISH! I’ve been a writer/editor for the past six years! I’ve co-authored two guidebooks! Please tell me that counts!

Me 16,000 ft above sea level, next to Ruminahui Peak. Cotopaxi Province, Ecuador.

So, as you can see, the next couple of years are going to be a shock to my system. Folks, I have not taken a science class in 10 years. I have not been in school for nearly six years. I have no idea what’s going to happen to my brain when I walk into my first 700-person physics course, but there’s only one way to find out. I’m about to get my ass completely kicked by science, and a part of me cannot wait. For most people, spending the next few years studying science and going to labs is the last thing they’d ever want to do. For me, the last thing I ever want is to wish I had…

I will spare you my thoughts on my impending and overwhelming financial doom, which may or may not have caused a recent mini meltdown (my first, so that’s a good sign!). That’s definitely for another post.

Today, I just wanted to share with you all the bottom line: I am on a whole new career path, in healthcare, and it is so liberating to finally say YES I CAN DO THIS after years of brushing it aside for adventures and income (ha, barely). I was beginning to think it was too late, and trying to give up on this path, but then I realized it is so NOT too late! Who says it’s too late? Fuck THEM. (Sorry for all the cursing this post… I’m apparently fired up!)

I realized in Ecuador that I absolutely love writing, and I will ALWAYS write, but maybe I didn’t need a boss to tell me how and when to do it; maybe I didn’t want to depend on publishing during this day and age. Maybe travel writing was the absolute coolest thing for me to do in my early and mid-twenties, but I got traveled-out, ran out of money, and realized it was too unstable for the life I want to live now. (Juan the Amoeba wasn’t much help.) I will write because I love it, not because it is my job, and now I will also work with people in a helping capacity just like I’ve always secretly wanted… I am not afraid to be the first Travel Writer turned Doctor of Physical Therapy, and I do plan to combine both eventually. Watch.

I just hope you stick by me as I transition. So far, I am volunteering at two different outpatient physical therapy places, and I am absolutely loving it. Being in healthcare is like being on a different planet for me… but I can honestly say it feels more right and more at home to be on this planet than being in a cubicle and putting on the corporate “show” ever did.

I mean, let’s be honest: I am looking up at one big fucking slide… But this adult Tavel, well she’s not the kind of girl who gets too scared to go for a wild ride. Not anymore.

26 Comments

Filed under Healthcare, Life Stuff, Uncategorized

February 19, 2011 · 9:41 am

A Foggy Day in Galveston, Texas

Not all travel is glamorous. Not every trip seeks adventures and “the exotic.” Some trips are more rough around the edges — not because one stays at a hostel or camps in the woods. Not because we buy fancy outdoor gear for “roughing it” and take a guidebook along with us into the controlled unknown. Some places ruffle our feathers just enough to make one feel uncomfortable; it’s a welcome feeling, one that those eager to learn about the world actually seek out.

Today’s guest blogger shares her experience on an alternative spring break trip to Texas, post-Hurricane Ike, and explains what it feels like to go from an excited college kid ready to help, to a volunteer scraping mold and decay off of the walls of what was once someone’s home, sweet home.

A Foggy Day in Galveston, Texas

By Katie Woods.

It was a foggy day in Galveston, Texas, but the other student volunteers and I were smiling and laughing.  We were clad in hazmat suits, which made us feel like clunky spacemen on a mission.  But we weren’t headed to space.  We were about to gut a small house that had stewed untouched since Hurricane Ike hit Galveston about seven months prior.  Flood waters had ravaged the neighborhood we stood in, leaving it full of empty houses and overflowing dumpsters.  But my friends and I were taking photos of ourselves and goofing around.  For the time being, we felt good.

Overturned house in Galveston, Texas. Photo provided by Katie W.

We were in Galveston for Emerson College’s Alternative Spring Break (ASB). Rather than go on our own vacations, we decided to apply to build houses, feed the hungry, or clean beaches.  In 2008, a freshman, I went on my first ASB trip to Waveland, Mississippi, to work on Hurricane Katrina relief.  And then I was hooked.

Since then, I have journeyed to Galveston and Cedar Rapids, Iowa for flood relief.  This year, after months of working on the trip-planning, fundraising leadership team, I’m headed to Pensacola, Florida to work on wetland restoration, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.  Each trip is a unique, perspective-altering journey that is incredible to experience but difficult to describe. But I’ll try.

House in Galveston, Texas. Photo by Katie W.

Let’s go back to that house in Galveston.  Before Hurricane Ike, it was inhabited by an elderly woman.  We volunteers didn’t know much about her, but on that monochromatic day, we took her personal belonging from her home and set them on the curb, turning this woman’s life – her photos, her fish tank, her little statuettes – into a pile of water-rotted garbage.  We’d all gutted houses before, but only when they had already been stripped.  Then it was fun – tearing into drywall, hammering toilets to pieces.  But this house had a personality. Soon into the job, we stopped goofing around.  We needed the hazmat suits to protect us from the extreme mold in the house.  Two students squeezed a soggy, stinking mattress through front door. Bugs scurried across the walls when we removed pictures from their nails.  The refrigerator – unopened for months – sloshed dangerously as we carefully lugged it outside.  Even through our masks, we could smell the decay.  We were utterly silent.  On the front lawn, I approached one of my friends who was standing totally still, looking stricken.  She pointed to the grass, where the body of a cat lay flattened and gray.   No one joked.

Debris in Galveston. Photo by Katie W.

I describe this day not because it was sad – which it was – but because it will never leave my memory.  I frequently imagine who this woman was, where she ended up living, what has become of her house now.  These are things I’ll probably never know.  This woman, or whoever lives on the property now, will never know me.   But we’re connected somehow.  And the other volunteers and I, while laughing about the frustration of a particular patch of drywall or while holding back tears to avoid steaming our goggles, all formed a bond of our own.  We grew closer to members of our college community while serving a community miles and miles away.  We experience a side of life and a type of work that was utterly different than what we – aspiring filmmakers, writers, and actors – did in our normal school-week.

Gutted house in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Photo by Katie W.

There is no way to quantify the impact that service trips have.  Sure, this many houses are built, this many pieces of trash are cleared.  But the links formed between people cannot be measured.  When my Waveland group went out to dinner in a local restaurant one night, a middle-aged couple approached our table.  Teary eyed, the woman thanked us for being there, for not forgetting them, for helping though we didn’t know them.  Alternative Spring Break teaches people to care and reminds others that they are cared for.  It puts life into perspective.  And that’s something wonderful.

Photo of Katie Woods during ASB trip.

Katie Woods is a senior at Emerson College, earning her BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing.  She is the Student Coordinator for Alternative Spring Break through the Office of Service Learning and Community Action.  Her favorite place to travel is the redwood forests of Northern California. You can help her and the other volunteers go on this year’s trip by donating here.

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Filed under Contributor, Life Stuff, Natural Disasters, Uncategorized, USA

February 15, 2011 · 9:32 am

Peru, Bolivia, and a Nonexistent Basement

Living in an Andean country has its challenges. Remember my little friend, Juan the Amoeba? Well, I just want to announce once and for all that he is 100% DEAD. I already suspected he had evacuated the premises, but now I know for sure. Juan, you and your family will NOT be missed!

Then there was the coup attempt, several attempted robberies, and the simple fact that living in a South American country — no matter how beautiful, no matter how sexy it sounds — isn’t always that easy. But sometimes the challenges have nothing to do with what’s happening on the “outside”; they spur from the personal choices we make, and the struggle to both give and take from these decisions.

Well, I’m not the only one who has tossed her hands up in the air, given up the comforts of home and taken on an adventure in the Andes. Today’s guest blogger, Julie, shares her honest mixed feelings about a deep-seated desire to uproot herself from both her American and Danish homes, while acknowledging that sometimes there’s nothing quite like watching a football (no, not soccer) game at a Massachusetts bar with old friends, and blueberry pancakes.

Contemplating Life and Moving into my Parent’s (nonexistent) Basement

By Julie.

In two weeks I’ll be finishing up a 7-month stay in South America, of which I’ve spent 3 months in Peru and 4 months in La Paz, Bolivia, working for a microfinance organization as part of my master’s studies. What a perfect time to do some REFLECTING! There’s a lot of stuff I could reflect about – the expectations I had before leaving and how the reality has matched up, what I’ve learned about the world of international development (and perhaps what role I want to play in it), how I’ve grown professionally or personally…

International dance festival a few hours outside Puno, Peru. Photo by Julie.

To provide some background – I grew up in the States, but a longtime fascination with my mother’s native Denmark lured me to the other side of the Atlantic at the age of 21. I have been based there ever since (approaching 5 years). On top of this, I am pursuing a career in international development, so naturally, I get these questions a lot: Where do you want to live when you grow up? Where are you going to settle down? Even if other people weren’t asking me, I wrestle with these questions on my own. And even if I told you right now where I thought I would end up, my answer would probably change tomorrow. Not only am I torn between the choice of living in the developed or developing world (where the work is naturally more interesting), but the Denmark vs. America choice also factors in.

These last 7 months have reminded me that there’s something truly special about being abroad, the people you meet and the friendships that develop (when I say being abroad, I am not including time spent in Denmark, though that is special too…in a different way). One of my all-time favorite social scenarios, one I encountered both when I backpacked through South America and again now, is being out to dinner with a huge group of people from all different countries, where I haven’t known anyone for longer than a few weeks or months (in the case of backpacking, it was more like hours).

Preparing Juanes (a traditional Amazonian dish) at a friend's grandmother's house in a small village down the river from Pucallpa, Peru. Photo provided by Julie.

That being said, a recent trip home to Boston for a friend’s wedding reminded me of a very different type of social interaction (or togetherness), one I definitely didn’t value enough during my angsty teenage years. I’m referring to the time spent with the people that were there to witness the sweatpants and matching turtlenecks, the mini-backpacks, and the braces and bushy eyebrows.

My “sheltered” upbringing in a small suburb of Boston always pushed me to seek opportunities away and abroad, but in my older (eh herm, wiser?) years, I’ve really come to appreciate the phenomenon of “this person has known me my entire life.” And holy crap there’s something comforting about spending a Sunday afternoon, tired and knowing you aren’t your most attractive nor coherent self thanks to the champagne in the bridal suite at 4 am, watching the Patriots game at a bar and realizing the people sitting in the booth with you know you better than anyone and don’t really care that you sort of look like crap. I’m not joking when I say that the week home left me thinking it was time to call it a day with all the traveling and move into my parents basement. (A decision slightly complicated by the fact that we don’t have a basement.)

Clients from the organization I was working with in Peru gather for all-day workshop. Photo by Julie.

After a week of battling snowstorms and catching up with friends, it was time to get back to my life in La Paz – the one that, during the previous week home, had felt like a distant dream. A distant dream that I questioned how badly I wanted to return to, knowing there were just a few weeks to go.  And on my first weekend back I managed to see every one of the handful of friends (I now realize) I’ve gotten so close to since getting here in early November.

That’s another thing about being abroad – these types of processes are mysteriously accelerated. I think it’s something about everyone being in the same position, strangers in a new country, and maybe we have more in common to begin with if we are in fact both drawn to living in La Paz.

Side note: There is something unsatisfying about writing a post about the friends I’ve met abroad and referring only to other foreigners (and mostly Americans). But unfortunately it can be difficult to meet and develop a relationship with the locals, especially if you are in a place for such a short time. And while I have met many Peruvians and Bolivians that I’ve gotten close to, this time around, the lasting friendships seem to be with Americans.

Coroico, Bolivia. Photo by Julie.

The underlying point about friendships old and new is simply that the existence of one reinforces the value and importance of the other and vice versa. I wouldn’t be happy if I only had friends I’d known short-term and I can’t imagine I’d be happy if I’d never met anyone new after my childhood. The same idea can be applied to the more general “being home” vs. “being abroad.”  I’m probably more capable of appreciating and enjoying time spent at home because I know that the abroad and the adventure is out there waiting for me, and I’ll be getting back to it soon enough. Likewise, I am better able to enjoy time spent away because I know there is a home (and delicious blueberry pancakes) waiting for me.

It reminds me of a very cruel and unreasonable ”would you rather…?” I once heard: Would you rather be in your home country and never be allowed to leave it or be outside it and never be allowed to return (but free to travel to every single other country in the world)? This presents a tradeoff that would make living a satisfying life very difficult for me… so I’m grateful that the chances of ever having to make this decision are very slim!

The view of the Illimani, taken from near Julie's office in El Alto, Bolivia. Photo by Julie.

So in the spirit of making grand statements about how the last 7 months have impacted me (in addition to the thing or two I’ve learned about microfinance), I’ve learned an important lesson about the life I want to live: Though I don’t know what country I’ll end up settling down in, I’ve identified the balance I’ll have to achieve if I want to be happy. So my next step? The simple and straightforward (ehrm?) task of achieving that balance.

Julie visiting with a borrower outside Cochabamba, Bolivia. Photo provided by Julie.

Julie is the sister of Tavel’s friend Erik from Bowdoin, and while the two have yet to meet in person, for years now they have enjoyed a Facebook friendship that has quietly blossomed into a blogging friendship. You can read more about Julie’s South American adventures on her blog, Julie’s Kiva Adventures.

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Filed under Bolivia, Contributor, Life Stuff, Peru, Travel

February 11, 2011 · 7:45 am

Love and The Journey

There is one day every year that forces many to look their love or lack thereof square in the eyes. This is a post about both a journey across the world, and the love that can come with it, or get left behind. Long-distance love is a journey in and of itself — one I know all too well.  It’s the kind of journey you don’t buy a ticket for; you stumble across it by accident, and it doesn’t say whether it’s going to be a one-way or a round-trip, but you inevitably find out at some point along the way because you just can’t resist its mysterious lure to an unknown place…

Sometimes you say goodbye to a person, you leave them behind for a journey on your own, but even after you’re gone you feel their invisible presence, like static electricity, like a good or bad ghost — it’s hard to really tell. But one thing’s for sure: no matter who gets left behind, no matter how far away you go, your heart — with all its beautiful stories and scars — well, it always comes with you. Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.

But I didn’t write this post.

I will let today’s TwT contributor, Mara, take it from here.

Love and The Journey

By Mara, with thanks to TwT for the space to share words from my journey!

Digging new potatoes while WWOOFING. Photo by Mara.

I am living in New Zealand. And I am here because of love. Not love that is sprinkled like fairy dust, but love that spoke to me when I was on the floor wondering how I’d ever get up. Or love that somehow found me, miraculously, one among the crowd.

My journey in New Zealand began last November in Auckland with my boyfriend (B.) and a car we bought and called Hermione—a name I later happily discovered means patron of travelers.

Bark Bay, Abel Tasman National Park. Southland, NZ. Photo by Mara.

Our trip started in Northland and by the time we covered ground in Southland and arrived to Christchurch, we drove 3,500 km. It sounds ordinary, writing it like that. But it was a journey that for me had begun years earlier.

And it was a journey designed with a fork in the road. When we booked our tickets, I knew B. would return to New York City after a few weeks. I’d stay in New Zealand for an undetermined amount of time. To write. To be. To find the space I needed and that eluded me in New York. To let me really soak in my life. And to maybe find direction towards work that really feels like “Yes!”

Crater Lake, Tongariro Alpine Crossing. Northland, NZ. Photo by Mara.

I still don’t know why that decision was so simple to make, because even what’s simple is not always easy. It was the start of something perhaps so predictable, but still unseen.

When B. and I met, love followed—as easy as breathing and as familiar as knowing.

But then, love always involves a leap, entrusting yourself to someone else. So, my faith was blind. Our love would stay strong. What distance would take away, love would transcend.

Mt. Cook reflection. Lake Matheson. Southland, NZ. Photo by Mara.

And then, recently, there was a moment just as I was waiting to turn in a line of traffic that it entered my mind—just one question. It was easy, the way doubt slipped in: would our love survive the journey?

One question to release the flood gates for all others. Is love transportable? Is love durable? Is love enough? Is love renewable?

If everything begins and ends with love, I had not considered finishing this journey with our love not still thriving. But how had I made that presumption? What had told me to take that chance?

Tongariro National Park. Northland, NZ. Photo by Mara.

You see, I had to first become the person who met B., because once I was lost and without love for myself. With work and in time, I became that person who loved herself strong enough to both choose love and leave a life in New York for the journey that would diverge in New Zealand and converge again in New York at some future point.

Mara sitting in a rock. Coromandel Peninsula. Northland, NZ. Photo provided by Mara.

Now my time in New Zealand is nearly over and soon I’m going to Indonesia. Though I’m getting closer to home, I’m leaving the last place our love physically touched the ground. What I must do out of love for myself, and what I must do out of love for B. are sometimes seemingly at odds, though I know the bigger picture blurs these relatively tiny movements, the daily decisions.

We speak and we write, and most days our love carries the vast ocean and time between us, but there are times when it feels strange to be so focused on me, and also a committed part of We. And that is where the faith, in all its obscurity, comes and takes my hand.

Faith inherently is blind, but in it I know that wherever the day or doubts might stray, love—transportable, durable, renewable love—is enough. Love has been my source and sustenance, and in it, anything is possible on my journey.

Mara jumping. Lake Matheson, Mt. Cook. Southland, NZ. Photo provided by Mara.

Mara worked with Wall Street investment analysts to incorporate environmental, social, governance issues into investment strategy, until she realized she needed to give her voice to the issues she cares about. Having deferred graduate journalism school, Mara now travels, writes and curates words in an eponymous blog–:mag:. Of all the magical places in the world, Mara loves to be anywhere where she could stay…just a while longer. For more from her journey, check out Mara’s blog, http://magwriter85.wordpress.com, or follow her on Twitter: @maragrbenick.

4 Comments

Filed under Contributor, Life Stuff, Love, New Zealand, Travel

February 7, 2011 · 10:00 am

Two Trips to Africa

Today’s post takes us to Africa… twice. It is written by my friend Geordie. Now, I went back and forth on whether or not I should keep the first paragraph in because I feel silly and maybe even a little embarrassed posting it (gah, thanks G!), but… Geordie wrote it (not me – I swear!) and he intended it to be posted, so I will just leave it there and say thank you, G, for your kind words. Sorry to anyone who reads it and rolls his/her eyes… Just pretend it’s not there I guess. Or, just know that I have some pretty amazing friends.

Wait! I just realized that the last time Geordie contributed to TwT, it was the exact same time last year… Here is his post, Gone to Dogon Country, from February 6, 2010. Cool.

My Two Trips to Africa

By Geordie

Tavel once saved my life. No, not in the literal sense (although that would have been pretty amazing) but in an extremely important figurative sense. I will not take up any more of your time than necessary with this totally sincere panegyric, nor will I spell out in painstaking detail the improvements in my life for which Ms. Tavel is responsible. Suffice it to say that her keen emotional intelligence, her compassion, and her uncanny knack for finding just the right way to say just the right thing (“Focus on people, not your thoughts”), has made her one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I shudder to think where I might be right now without Tavel, and that is only a slight exaggeration. But enough of this. On to the exploits.

I am going to try and do a difficult thing in this post. And that is to combine a very serious subject with one that is not quite as serious. I have my reasons for doing this, and I will trust you to trust me on this one. And I have faith it will work out, so perhaps I should just stop talking.

Mopti, Mali (December, 2003)

Picture, if you will, a young man of 20. He is spending the year in Africa on his junior year abroad. It is Christmas vacation, he is travelling in Mali, and he finds himself on Christmas day with scarcely a penny to his name (the only ATM machine in the town being broken). That evening he is boarding a boat to Timbuktu (yes, THE Timbuktu), for which he has bought a five dollar ticket which entitles him to a concrete bed under the stars. With his final few francs he purchases a thin blanket for himself and his platonic female travelling companion. The temperature that night is frigid. They are sleeping on the concrete upper deck of a ship. To have purchased a bed would have been more expensive and shamefully less adventurous. Still, it is very cold. He eventually abandons his companion (thus depriving her of his body warmth, only later does he realize) and eventually finds warmth on the floor of the second class bathroom with Ayn Rand’s The Fountain Head for a pillow. It is miserable to be sure, but what a story! That morning, he goes up on deck and sees the entire sunrise — total darkness, merging into streaks of pink and purple before finishing as a vault of brilliant blue sky. All of this while floating down a river that seems lost in time, surrounded by men in robes and turbans lounging on giant burlap sacks. Even as the sun is rising he scribbles frantically in his black moleskin notebook, trying to capture every moment of this glorious experience.

Kigali, Rwanda (January, 2011)

Picture, if you will again, this same young man, now a robust 27, standing in Kigali, Rwanda. The mission is different this time. He is not here for pleasure, nor is he here for adventure. Or if it is adventure it is certainly of a different sort. The young man is now a PhD candidate at a large Northeastern university. This  university has agreed to pay for this young man to travel to Rwanda in preparation for his future writing (dissertation, journal articles, books, who knows?).

Kigali Rwanda. Photo by Geordie.

Traveling to Rwanda is a difficult undertaking, and not just because it is far away and getting there is tremendously expensive, but because of what happened there. The more time the young man spends in Rwanda, the more he speaks to people about what happened, the more he visits the different sites where the massacres took place… He feels something changing, or rather something becoming more the same… Well what?… It’s hard to put into words. It’s just one of those things. One of those things that’s hard to explain. And one of those things that he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to explain. That is his job, he realizes, trying to explain, understand, that thing he feels that feels impossible to explain.

Dogon Country, Mali (January, 2004)

The adventure for this young man continues. Timbuktu is one and done. There was a camel ride, eating with his hands out of a communal bowl while squatting outside a hut in the desert. He met a group of other tourists on the ferry, and now they call themselves the “Timbukcrew.” He went on a camel ride wearing a blue turban.

 

Geordie in Tumuktu, as seen in previous post. Photo provided by Geordie.

But Timbuktu is done. Now they are in Dogon country, a beautiful part of Mali, except they are there with a lying, cheating Malian guide, who grows angry at us for not giving him more money. He flecks my face with spittle as he admonishes us for our lack of understanding. He is not a cheat, we are simply ignorant. Since no one else in our group speaks French, it is I, the French major, who gets shouted at the most. However, despite the yelling and its mind-numbing unpleasantness, we can’t deny that Dogon country is beautiful — simply gorgeous. Like the American southwest, except with whole villages built into these enormous hillsides, blending in seamlessly as if the huts had risen organically out of the earth.

Geordie in Dogon Country, as seen in previous post. Photo provided by Geordie.

I sit on a mountain ledge, our trip completed, looking out over this flat, endless plain. My god, I think, as I look out, My god. Life. Everything. Life is so complete right now. It is everything right now. I’m in the moment. I’m here. I’m in Africa. Incredible. Just simply f’in incredible. Sure, later, there’s a trip to the police station because half our group won’t pay the guide, and sure there’s a 50 hour train ride back to Senegal (my home during the year abroad) where enormous, loquacious women take up all the seats in our compartment and where I have no bed, a trip (the train ride) that feels less adventurous and more just plain shitty. And then when we get back to Senegal I get really sick, and eat almost nothing for a week. Did I mention during this whole trip I was missing a front tooth? But it was glorious. Simply, simply, simply glorious.

Nyamata, Rwanda (January, 2011)

Most of the memorials in Rwanda are sites where massacres occurred that the government has since converted into memorials. In Nyamata, around 10,000 people went into the local church, in the vain hope that the killers would balk at committing massacres in a sacred space. I am standing outside the church with my group, listening to a guide tell us what happened. The Tutsis hiding in the church barricaded the door from the inside, she explains. Unable to break down the sturdy  metal door, the Hutu militia then used a grenade to blow open the door of the church. I should clarify that the people hiding inside were civilians (ordinary men, women and children) not soldiers. They were the neighbors, and sometimes also the relatives of the people trying to kill them.

In the door of the church you can still see the large hole blown by the grenade. You can still see the holes from the shrapnel of the grenade on the ground by the entrance of the church. We move inside the church, and the guide points out that there are also holes in the ceiling of the church because they actually throw grenades inside before going in to finish people off with guns and machetes. Inside the church are dozens of wooden benches covered with clothes of the victims. Just rows and rows of dusty brown tee-shirts, pants, hats, dresses…The church had formally shown exposed bodies but they had since been removed. One body, that used to be prominently displayed, now has its special crypt beneath the floor of the church. There is another crypt nearby where you walk down a narrow flight of stairs into a small corridor where there are bones and skulls arranged on a wooden platforms that are ten feet high. The effect of all of this is at one powerful and surreal. What you find most moving often surprises you. I got choked up looking at the blown off bottom section of the door. At a “Cornell” sweatshirt taken from one of the victims.

It’s also so overwhelming and so awful that your mind sort of shuts off. It wasn’t until I got back to the States that I could really process everything I’d seen (as much as anyone can ever really “process” seeing something like that).

 

Geordie with Rwandan Friend. Photo provided by Geordie.

While the rest of our group was wrapping up the visit at the church, I noticed that one of our Rwandan chaperone’s was sitting in our group’s van by himself. He was about my age and we had gotten friendly the day before so I decided to go over and keep him company. As soon as I sat down he said:

“I was here, you know.”

I was stunned.  “Here in the church?”

“No, no,” he said. “But I came by after it happened. I saw the bodies and everything, it was awful.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that must have been awful.” (What else can you say?)

“Yes,” he said, “It was awful. The bodies, the blood, everything, it was awful”

Rwanda has made remarkable strides since the genocide happened. The government, which is unfortunately far from perfect, has nonetheless done a remarkable job of keeping the country stable while allowing it to grow economically. When you arrive in Kigali today, you are struck by how clean and orderly it is (one of the governments new initiatives was to ban plastic bags). It is also a beautiful country, (Rwandans calls it “The Land of a Thousand Hills”) where you are almost always in sight of a lush, green mountain tops.

View. Kigali, Rwanda. Photo by Geordie.

Ahh, but methinks this blog entry is drawing to a close. Perhaps you are asking, so what of this young man (now almost 28) with whom you have shared the last few moments of your life? Well, he is back in the northeast, reading massive piles of books in French, thinking about past adventures, and figuring out how to do good in the world from his tiny corner of academe.

There we have it my friends. Thus ends my contribution to this blog which I have been such a fan of for such a long time. Another tip of the cap to Mademoiselle Tavel, to whom my entry owes its very existence, on so many levels. Hasta luego, compadres…

Geordie is in the first year of a PhD program in French Literature at the University of Pennsylvania. He attended Bowdoin with Tavel where he played squash, did improv, and watched ungodly amounts of French Canadian TV. His favorite place to travel is Africa, but he loves France as well.

If you want to learn more about the genocide, Geordie suggests Philip Gourevitch’s book “We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families”, the Front-line documentary “Ghosts of Rwanda” (available on Youtube), and, as a feature film alternative to Hotel Rwanda, the movie “Sometimes in April” which is also available on youtube.

There is also a wonderful charitable organization that helps orphans of the genocide. It was started by Geordie’s former college professor who got him interested in Rwanda. If interested, you can learn more about it and/or donate here:  http://friendsoftubeho.org/.

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Filed under Africa, Contributor, Life Stuff, Travel

February 2, 2011 · 9:50 am

Study Guide

By Jackie

It has finally set in: as a medical student, my days of enjoying life (too harsh?) and traveling may be gone.  At least for a little while.

I guess you could say I saw it coming. Last summer (my “last” summer), I took full advantage of my precious time off.  I spent a month in Honduras learning medical Spanish and shadowing in a local public hospital.  After a two-day return to the US, I hopped on a plane to France where I spent two weeks cycling around the Burgundy countryside.  I followed that with a week of speaking French with an Italian family in the Swiss Alps (I’m such a typical over-achieving med student, “enjoying” my summer to the max).

Hay Bales Photoshoot. Burgundy, France. Photo by Jackie.

Oh how those carefree days feel so far away!  Now, I find myself under a pile of textbooks and study guides gearing up for the dreaded USMLE Step 1 Exam.  With so much to learn and so little time to do it, life can get overwhelming.  Things like traveling, or really any kind of fun, often get pushed aside in the name of academics.  If I’m not careful, I can easily spend an entire weekend alone in my room studying; I’ve actually gone full days without any human contact (and I have two roommates).

Chalet. Verbier, Switzerland. Photo by Jackie

To mix it up and avoid going insane, I go to coffee shops to study.  In a way, it’s kind of like “micro-travel.” Although I remain relatively local, each coffee shop/study spot has something different to offer.  Whether it’s the view, the people, or the ambience, each place provides its own experience.

My home base is Pain du Monde in Corona del Mar.  It’s only a couple of blocks from my house and I know all of the people who work there.  A walk to PDM is my standard study break (and often the only human interaction I’ll get all day).  If I’m feeling particularly ahead of my study schedule (yes, this schedule exists – you don’t even want to see the Excel spreadsheet… it’s embarrassing), I’ll pick up a coffee and walk down to the beach for an extended breather.

Little Corona Beach. Corona del Mar, California. Photo by Jackie.

If it’s a beautiful day (which, let’s be honest, happens a lot in Southern California), I might go to Pacific Whey Café.  Sure, it can sometimes get overrun with snobby “OC” people and their kids, but its location, just off of Pacific Coast Highway, is unbeatable.  Any place where I can study and enjoy views of Catalina Island qualifies as awesome (even/especially if I feel like I’m in an episode of The OC).

Kéan Coffee in Newport Beach is more of a “cultural” experience.  Okay, maybe “cultural” is a stretch. Kéan is filled with emo hipsters (and the occasional Bible Study Group).  I go there when I want to feel indy/cool or watch other people trying to be indy/cool.  Plus, they roast their own coffee beans and it’s delicious.

Yellow Vase in Malaga Cove. Palos Verdes Estates, California. Photo by Jackie.

When I really need a change of scenery, I venture up to Los Angeles for mini study “field trips.”  Just last weekend, I discovered Yellow Vase in Palos Verdes.  The café is nestled back in Malaga Cove Plaza and as I approached it, I felt as if I had been swept off to a French village.  As I’m obsessed with all/most things French, I was instantly filled with joy at the sight of this place.  Then, a group of cyclists walked in and I had flashbacks to my summers cycling in France and I couldn’t contain my glee.  You guys, when you study all the time, you learn quickly to appreciate even the smallest chances at happiness. (Also, yes, I know.  Malaga is in Spain.  But this place felt so French.)

My absolute favorite place for studying/life is the Getty Center.  In fact, I love it so much that I demand that if you ever find yourself in Los Angeles, you must go.  On a clear day, you can see the ocean to your right and the rest of LA to your left.  Plus, you’re surrounded by gardens, beautiful architecture, and ART!  Visiting The Getty calms, inspires, and reenergizes me (all absolutely necessary for coping with the daunting schedule of a medical student).

The Getty from the Gardens. Los Angeles, California. Photo by Jackie.

Medical school is challenging and requires a lot of adjusting.  It pains me to forego important things like socializing, showering, exercising, and traveling (and blogging!) to study.  School consumes my life and it’s easy to get sucked in.  By venturing out, even if it’s to my local coffee shop, I am reminded that while my world may seem limited to pathology and pharmacology, everyone else’s continues around me.

Jackie is a second year medical student living in Orange County, CA. She attended Bowdoin College with Tavel and is a redhead.  Jackie loves yoga, coffee, and studying(?).  Her favorite place to visit is Paris (in the summer). Read Jackie’s blog, www.lamelookatme.blogspot.com, or follow her on Twitter @sassyjax.

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Filed under California, Coffee, Contributor, Healthcare, Life Stuff