New York City can be a lot of things — cold, frustrating, exhausting, lonely, grey — but it never gets old, even to a native New Yorker. After spending decades living in Manhattan, a visit to my hometown can still feel exciting, invigorating, new, and perhaps above all, inspiring.
Over the past few weeks, during an unusually long break between classes, I have had the opportunity to explore my hometown in a new way. This time, I have been the visitor (complete with having to crash in other people’s apartments due to a renovation project at my parents’ place), and in many ways, I have felt like a tourist. When new opportunities enter your life in an old city, things get shaken up — it’s a good thing. A great thing, actually.
This shaken-up (not stirred) version of NYC that I am seeing is particularly well-timed, as I am pretty sure that I will be returning to Manhattan for graduate school this summer. I have mixed feelings about going home. As is usually the case, there are pros and cons to this move (I am really enjoying life in Boston! Maybe I’ll be back some day…). But, in the end, after evaluating the logistics and the life goals, attending this particular program in New York just feels like the right decision. All we can do is make “right” decisions to the best of our ability as we go, so that’s what I’m trying to do. Eventually, you just have to make them turn into right decisions.
While I want to list all the awesome new places I got to explore (including a bar built into an old NYC carriage house where I sampled the best Manhattan I have ever had — when in Rome, right?), and the cool things I have been doing during my visit (listening to The Moth storytelling in Williamsburg, and attending a five-course chef tastings in Soho, to name a couple highlights), I thought I’d just share a few images of NYC from my trip. Over the last few weeks, this uptown girl spent a lot of time in a downtown world, complete with multiple walks around the WTC site, sky-high views of the entire city, and an early morning stroll by the Hudson River, with the pink of a new day bouncing off a surprisingly pretty NJ backdrop.
My relationship with New York City has been long, and it has had its ups and downs. But I feel like we are now moving into a new phase of life together; we’ve both grown up a lot, survived our own trials and tribulations, weathered our own storms, and risen up from the wreckage of lessons-learned. NYC is an old friend — one I know so well that it sometimes frustrates me, but one that also knows exactly how to make me smile when I need it. And no matter how many times I go to New York, or how many years I live there, it still manages to take my breath away. So NYC, I guess you could say we’re still going strong. This post is for you.
Upper West Side Street
Manhattan view looking north from downtown.
Skyscrapers. NY, NY.
Southern tip of Manhattan, Freedom Tower to the right.
Freedom Tower up close. NY, NY.
Totally Normal. West Village, NY.
Spices. Chelsea Market, NYC.
One Star and Sky. Time Warner Center window.
Columbus Circle. NY, NY.
South Street Seaport, post-Hurricane Sandy. NY, NY.
The best-case scenario when writing a Travel Wish List is to already be checking off one of the destinations. For the first time in a couple years, I can say that this is exactly what I am doing right now! But my list is long, and the more places I check off, the more I seem to add. Such is the nature of wanderlust. To use a biological term, wanderlust is a positive feedback loop: the more I satisfy it, the more wanderlust I produce. It is this insatiable hunger to explore the world that keeps TwT going, so let’s dive right in and see where we’re all trying to go (at least geographically) this year…
Today, I am asking you to share your 2013 Travel Wish Lists. Please list, as a comment, up to 5 of your top destinations this year. Or, if you want, you can say where you went in 2012 and what was your favorite place.
Love in the snow. NY, NY.
Just to get everyone warmed up, I will begin:
1. MEXICO. Yes, I have been to Mexico before. In fact, the last time I was there, I spent a month traveling alone around the Pacific Coast as a co-author for a Frommer’s travel guidebook (which makes me feel pretty cool to say — did that really happen?! Check THIS out for proof – bam!). But life was so different then. Mexico was so different then. Needless to say, it’s time to go back. You’ll hear more about it all when I return… (YAY YAY YAY)
2. MOROCCO. This country never seems to leave my list, regrettably, because I haven’t gone yet. What’s a girl gotta do to get to Fez, Casablanca, and Marrakesh?! Every time I see photographs of Morocco, my heart skips a beat and my mouth starts watering. (This is a normal response, right?) Although it might be a wait, I already know this wait will be worth it.
3. NICARAGUA. More rugged than Costa Rica and less put-together and idyllic than many of its fellow Central American countries, Nicaragua is one of those up-and-coming travel destinations that is starting to enter the conversation just after everyone concludes that they’ve already been to Mexico, Costa Rica, and maybe Belize or Guatemala. For example: “blah blah blah…Where can we go that is not too expensive but feels exotic?… [looking at a map]… What about Nicaragua?…[ambiguous silence]… Are people going there these days?” Yes. Yes, they are. You just haven’t heard about those trips… YET.
4. COLOMBIA. Two of my friends from Ecuador recently did a trip to the Caribbean coast of Colombia, and the pictures were so beautiful that it physically hurt my heart. I felt immediate guilt for not taking that trip I ALMOST took when I moved home from Ecuador [my advice: don’t let yourself live with “trips you almost took” — GO every chance you get]. Google “Tayrona” or “Taganga” to find yourself in the same, painful predicament as me. Colombia is super hot right now (like, hip/popular/cool/trendy), but I’ll take it even when it gets lukewarm. I might even prefer it that way.
5. TANZANIA. I remember being in the third grade and hearing the word “Tanzania” for the first time. Even just the sound of it made me curious… My teacher talked about Tanzania with such passion. She showed us images of its people, its animals, its landscapes, and I think that might have been when and where all my wanderlust began. Since the third grade, I have been saying that I want to go to Tanzania. How and why is it that I am STILL saying this?! Tanzania — you and I will meet some day. And when that day comes, there will be fireworks between us. I can already tell. Be ready.
GREAT. There’s my list. Now it’s YOUR turn!! Cheers to at least some of these travel dreams coming true this year. Happy 2013, everyone!
It’s an exciting time in the land of TwT. Usually, I associate “exciting” with travel, adventure, novelty… But for now, it takes on a different form. Something I’ve worked so many years to feel is finally settling into my system. A chaotic decade of exploration, both within myself and as far away from myself as I could get, is touching down on a runway and I’m peering out through a small oval window with a twinkle of excitement and anticipation. I am so grateful, so happy, so relieved, so… inspired, I guess you could say… to take on the challenge of grad school, and to have the opportunity to do so. I know that a lot of people say “now the real work begins,” but they have a different idea of what that “real work” is. For me, working hard is working hard — I can do that. I want to do that. What’s more difficult has been figuring out what, who, where I want to pour my heart and soul into in order to want to work that hard for something.
El Morro. Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.
The “what” (as well as the who and where) is being constantly answered as things evolve in my life. But this moment that I am in right now is just full of hope, excitement, and humility for me. One year ago, this moment felt almost impossible to get to. Two years ago, I was sailing on a catamaran in the Galapagos Islands, as far away from school as I could get. Three years ago, I was horseback riding on the beach in the Dominican Republic. Four years ago, I was in physical therapy for a knee injury, and flying to Sint Maarten to live out my own personal romance novel (whew, and it was a good one!).
Ghost tree. Rome, Italy.
I know that having a blog and announcing acceptances to grad school probably doesn’t seem very humble (I think many of us struggle with this desire to share happy moments without “flaunting” them as Facebook so temptingly allows us to do), but it is really me just trying to wrap my head around the happiness I feel right now, and me hoping that my story somehow inspires someone else’s story (or perhaps that’s overly optimistic? I think NOT!). This is a time in my life that I have worked so hard to get to. It is a place that seemed farther away than any country I’ve ever visited. There has been so much beauty in the learning where I want to go, and also a lot of difficult confusion as I slowly untangled the lining of a hopeful quest to hook some answers. But now it’s time to feast on my catch. And, as always, I am a HUNGRY girl!
Galapagos Iguana. Ecuador.
I know there are a lot of things throughout our lives that bring on this type of euphoria (engagement, marriage, promotions, babies, work achievements, awards, rewards, friends, travel, love, family, etc.), and I see them happening to other people all around me. So, as 2012 comes to an end, I hope you all have gotten to enjoy and experience this euphoria in some form over the past year. And if you haven’t, 2013 is about to begin. Based on what has happened to me over the past year, I can genuinely tell you that I believe anything is possible this upcoming year, especially if you’re willing to work hard for it. Half the battle is just deciding what we want.
Friends take pictures as we rise to the peak of Pichincha Volcano, a thousand feet above the second highest capital in the world, Quito, Ecuador.
Thank you for the continued support and for joining me on this freaky trip we call “being twenty-something,” through the motion sickness of getting tossed around by life (remember Juan the Amoeba? I DO!), and through the euphoria of seeing some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen (and felt). THIS right here — this smile, this hope, this satisfaction, this gratification that I feel — THIS Is what it’s all about. This is what we’re all living for. These moments don’t come along every day (sometimes they take years to go get to, echem) so cherish whatever form of it you have right now.
And before I get WAY too cheesy, happy freakin’ holidays, people.
Well this is kind of crazy. I’ve been wanting to be right here since the day I decided to switch careers. I’m still processing the overwhelming happiness (and RELIEF) I feel now that I have officially been accepted to graduate school. I can honestly tell you that I have never worked so hard, been so humbled, been so discouraged and yet so determined to achieve something in my life. And now, after checking that email I’ve imagined and hoped to receive for years, the one that begins with: “My warmest congratulations on your accepta…” it has all paid off. Folks, I’m doing this. It is FOR REAL now.
Pink church and limes. Salta, Argentina.
It is hard to express what this means to me but — well, obviously — I’m going to try. At 29, with my twenty-something journey coming to a perfect culmination and a new thirty-something journey beginning in a new place next fall, I can finally take that deep breath that I have wanted to take since the moment I graduated. I remember walking around the quad, sweating in the sun with my graduation gown dangling all around me. I was surrounded by best friends with the weight of that moment finally hitting me for the first time — the realization that I DID IT. I didn’t know the next time I’d feel that way, but knew it might be years — whatever those years would be. I drove away from college holding my boyfriend’s hand in the back of my parents’ minivan, trying not to get lost in a new world of unknowns, wondering where I was about to go with my life, and about to find out.
My journey to finding my career has been long, wild and challenging in every single way I can imagine and many twisted ways I could never have imagined. You all know the basic story — I graduated, got my heart broken, commenced soul-searching, listened to my gut and heart all along the way whether it led me to dark dangerous corners of third world countries or to unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime romances in the Caribbean. I almost moved to Holland. I almost moved to Chicago. I almost fell off a rocky cliff in Ecuador. I almost wrote a book. I almost went to graduate school for an MFA in creative nonfiction. I almost moved to Spain to do a Masters program through Middlebury College. I almost applied to get a MSW. I almost took a crash-course in architecture at Harvard (yeah – I bet you didn’t know that!). I almost did a lot of things. I almost didn’t take this risk… But then, I did.
Let’s backtrack.
In March 2010, I announced to the TwT world that I was going to pull a little switcheroo in the career department. (You can read the post “In Case You Were Curious…” here.) I won’t get into the whole story of why I decided to become a PT because I just wrote 13 personal statements about this subject, and frankly — I have run out of mojo. I remember writing this post, and feeling a little nervous to tell people about my decision to switch from travel writing to becoming a doctor of physical therapy, thinking people would assume I was in some sort of confused quarter-life-crisis when, really, I was finally less confused than I had ever been.
Two girls pose for me during a walk on the beach. Cabarete, Dominican Republic.
Making the decision was half the battle, as I had secretly struggled with my seemingly out-of-nowhere interest in PT since I strained a ligament in my back during one crew practice at Bowdoin. I had to miss the last races of my college “career” (yeah — the most fun ones) and ended up in PT instead. That is when I first learned about the field. By then, I was about to graduate without having taken a single science course and 12 courses were required to apply to DPT programs. I figured it was too late, but my interest in the field haunted me for years to come — through disasters like Katrina and the earthquake in Haiti. I felt the constant tug of healthcare, of wanting to help, of wanting to have a skill to offer others, and eventually became the patient myself (that really put me over the edge). I was literally living the dream: I went on just about every travel experience I had ever wanted, and exploring foreign places (and foreign people!) became my passion. Wanderlust filled all the crevices of uncertainty in my soul, and satisfied my curiosity indirectly — albeit, not completely.
Like I said, making the decision was the hardest part, but once I decided to commit to the two years of science pre-requisites just to be able to APPLY to graduate school, I knew there was no turning back. That is, until school started.
Look, I have always been a good student. I care about school, about doing well, about learning and feeling like I gave a class my all. In the past, this had always gotten me the grades I wanted, without really caring too much what they were (I mean — not in the pre-med sense of caring). But for the first time, much of my learning was about to become about the grades: I was in these pre-med classes to get good grades so that I could get INTO grad school. This was BUSINESS. And, for the first time in my life, that had never been so hard to achieve.
New Orleans, Louisiana.
After making the decision to pursue this academic adventure, I retaught myself some Algebra, took the GREs, and began classes that May. The first two pre-requisites I took were Statistics and Developmental Psychology. Those were fine. I did well, and they were a good warm-up for my brain since they were each one semester condensed into an intensive six weeks.
Then, the real challenge began in the fall with Biology and Chemistry — two subjects I knew absolutely nothing about. I remember sitting through the first few weeks of my Principles of Biology course (considered one of the weed-out classes at NYU) surrounded by 800 eager type A pre-med undergrads ready to prove they were better than me (see: Falling Into Science). I wasn’t just a fish out of water; I felt like a hipster in a 9-5 office job: this was just NOT my scene. While my friends were all getting married, I was getting homework — and not the kind that gets you a degree. It was rough, to say the least. The intensity, the pressure, the learning environment — there was nothing familiar about any of it, and I was completely knocked down within the first round of midterms.
For the first time in my life, my grades were everything. And for the first time in my life, they were the worst numbers I had ever seen. Luckily, all my med school friends assured me this was normal, and welcomed me into the pre-med world, which felt about as good as I imagine a fraternity/sorority hazing might feel. (And they were right — the grades didn’t mean what they looked like they meant before the curve.) Getting that first biology midterm back, and seeing the lowest grade of my life felt like getting my heart broken from a new angle. (See: Humble Pie Season.) This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! This wasn’t the direction I saw my “story” going!
Street in Brussels, Belgium.
I’ll tell you all a little secret. A few weeks into my dream-plan, I met with the post-bacc pre-med advisor at NYU because, if you got below a B on the first midterm, you had to. I had never ever HAD to meet with an advisor about anything. I was not that student. I was the other kind of student… the kind that met with his/her advisor and got lots of pats on the back for doing a great job!
I’m not going to lie: when I saw my first midterm grade, after sacrificing my whole life to do well in these courses, after putting more study time into these science classes than I had ever put into any course (or any semester) in my life (and don’t get me wrong — college was hard!)… I was crushed. It was one of those times when you realize that maybe you’re not who you thought you were, and maybe your dreams weren’t going to come true afterall. Maybe they were just a little too big. Failure is not something I do, or plan to do. But That first exam made me question everything. More than anything, it made me question who I thought I was.
I slept on it. When I woke up, I was determined. There was NO WAY I was giving up after coming this far. When I went to meet with my advisor, I was hyped up on adrenaline, determination, and confidence. I was in a hole I had never been in before, but I was going to claw my way out of it no matter what it took. I think that was the first time I really realized that there was not going to be anything easy about this journey to a new career — it was going to take more than “wanting it,” more than “working hard for it” — it was going to take blood and tears and true GRIT to get to the top of this hill (see: Hill Climb). Luckily, I had all those days of wishing I knew what I wanted, of feeling lost, of feeling driven but with nowhere to drive to help me suck it up and do this — for me, for what I had been through, for those days. I knew what I wanted now. It was hell getting here, so I was not going to turn around after one swift punch in the gut.
And the punches kept coming. I’ll never forget that meeting with the NYU pre-med advisor. I walked into her office, sat down, and couldn’t wait to tell her not to worry — that it had clicked! I had a steep learning curve, but that I learned the hard way that these classes were going to be unlike any other classes I ever took, and now I knew what I had to do in order to succeed. Before I had the chance to open my mouth, she told me she was concerned about me and that I should rethink this career change. I walked into her office oozing with optimism, and as I sat there I felt absolutely gutted. I felt worthless. I felt like the bug that thinks it’s about to get away when suddenly it gets squished under an old, ratty shoe. I didn’t tell anyone about that meeting. I didn’t want to believe it really happened.
She told me that this happens all of the time: people from other backgrounds think they can do the pre-med track later in life, and it is too hard for them or they just aren’t as smart as they thought. I’ll never forget when she said these words: “You know, maybe this just isn’t for you…I’d hate to see you waste the money. You should think long and hard about whether or not you’re cut out for this, because it’s only going to get harder.”
View from “home.” The island of Sint Maarten (Caribbean).
I looked at her in disbelief. Never, NEVER in my life, had I ever been on the receiving end of this talk. I tried to speak but she wasn’t listening to me. In that moment, I realized she didn’t know anything about me. She was wrong. The weak, scared, intimidated part of me worried she might be right, but the real me — the me I had gotten to know through ups and downs over the course of the last decade — that me knew how wrong she was. Right then and there, I decided that no matter what it took, I was going to prove her wrong. That was all that I could do.
The hits kept coming, but before I knew it, so did the achievements. It took a little bit of re-learning how to be a student, and learning for the first time how to be a pre-med student, but I figured it out. My standards changed from the humanities days, and I began to realize the beauty of a curve. As my intro science courses began weeding people out all around me, I clung like a freakin’ tick to my goal. One by one, I got through the pre-requisite courses. One by one, I improved until finally I felt like the student I had always been again. People can tell you whatever they want about who they think you are, but when you spend as much time as I had trying to figure that out, you know when a person couldn’t be more wrong.
Steps and homes. Sintra, Portugal.
By the second semester, having made the cut, I took on a different attitude (see: Bull in a Classroom). The classes got more challenging, but my fight got bigger. Just when I thought I had gotten through the hardest courses of my life, I signed up for one year of physics condensed into seven weeks at Harvard. We had three hours of lecture every single day, a midterm or final exam every Monday, long labs every Wednesday, and mandatory two-hr review sessions every Tuesday and Thursday. The nightly homework took anywhere from two to five hours, in addition to the lectures, labs and study sessions. By week three, my brain was so burnt out I didn’t know how I would make it. What I thought would be a sprint turned into a marathon in the pouring rain. I think the class average for our second midterm (two weeks into the course, mind you) was a 52. This course covered exactly the same material that a normal Harvard student would cover over 9 months, and we were doing it in 7 weeks… and it was PHYSICS, for crying out loud! (Not a cake walk, lemme tell ya…) But somehow I made it through that, too (see: Finish Line).
As you can see, this post-baccalaureate pre-med thing has sort of blown my mind. I knew it would be hard, but I never imagined it would be this hard. Luckily, I didn’t know what I was really getting myself into or it could have scared me away (maaaybe, but doubtful). With challenges this big, the joy of success is even bigger. There were many moments when I wondered how I would get here, how I would pull this off — every weekly quiz, every beast of a midterm, every humbling, soul-crushing step of the way. I took many steps backwards, but more steps forwards until ultimately, I pulled it off. I didn’t give up (I couldn’t!), I didn’t listen when someone told me I should rethink this career-change, and I didn’t let the moments of self-doubt become bigger than the overriding stop-at-nothing-to-get-where-I’m-trying-to-go determination. And I can barely believe it, but… It worked.
Gladiator. Rome, Italy.
I tell you this story because I don’t want anyone to think this has been a easy, or that they can’t do this too. During my first graduate school interview, one of the kids next to me was asked what is the greatest challenge he has faced. The boy is 20, a senior in college, and on paper, he is as qualified to become a physical therapist as I am (or more). His response: “Calculus…” And he had every right to say this, as I totally respect and understand that being a challenge when you’re graduating from a good college and you’re 20 years old. The four other applicants in my group interview cringed at the thought of calculus, and commiserated saying “Oh god, YES! Calculus was rough.” In that moment, in my suit with my twenties almost completely behind me, I just smiled. Ah yes, calculus. I took two semesters of it in 2001/2002 — and I loved it. To be honest (and I already told you how hard science was for me, so I am allowed to say this): Calculus was easy for me. EASY compared to the courses I am taking now. What they didn’t know, bless their hearts, was that life was about to get much harder than calculus.
So, here we are. The challenges are by no means behind me, in fact, now the real challenge is about to begin. But I’m going to become a Doctor of Physical therapy. I actually feel like I’m already becoming one. I am so incredibly excited about this career. I’m so incredibly proud of myself, and every single person who takes on the challenge of switching to a medical field later in life — or to any field, for that matter. This is not the easy path. This is not the instant-gratification many want. This is the biggest, baddest academic beast you will ever conquer, and it’s not dead yet for me, but I just aimed a spear at its heart.
Lava rock beach. Kona, Hawaii.
It turns out that after all that soul searching, after all those long solo flights around the world, after all the uncertainty and the cold hard desire to find what I wanted to be and who I was trying to become in my crazy twenty-something journey, this right here is where I was trying to get. This — how I feel now — was where I was trying to go the whole time.
I emailed the admissions director to thank him profusely for the opportunity. In his response, he said to please not thank him: it was my determination, my hard work and intelligence (his words!), and my “grit” that got me here, not him. Unlike the NYU advisor I spoke with, I felt like someone finally understood what it took. Someone finally gave me the pat on the back that I worked so hard for, and yes — it was all worth it.
This is just one pitstop during a long journey, but pardon me as I take a quick swig of champagne and one ENORMOUS hard-earned deep breath. Finally, I can. Then, it’s time to get back on the road because another leg of the journey awaits me.
It had been a while since I was in Philadelphia. I’ll start by saying that I’ve been many times before — but, never just for me. I was excited about this trip — it was a trip speckled with memories here and there, but focused on excitement about my future, which could potentially begin in yet another East Coast city.
Entering a dark NYC, 2nd Avenue. NYC, post-Sandy.
With a trip scheduled three days after Hurricane Sandy’s foray across the tristate region, I thought I’d be ok. I had found cheap Amtrak tickets from Boston South Station to Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station leaving Thursday afternoon and returning late Saturday night. The weather looked nice, and my schedule was wide-open. But, as many travels with Tavel go, it wasn’t quite that simple.
Taxi in the dark. Midtown Manhattan.
As most of you know, there was still no electricity in downtown Manhattan and most tunnels were flooded. Penn Station was closed, all Northeast Corridor Amtrak trains were shut down, and buses were not able to pass through the darkened city. It was the day before my trip, so I knew I’d have to scramble up some plan Bs. I was absolutely determined to make it down to Philadelphia, and I was not about to let a little biggest-storm-to-hit-NYC-in-100-years stop me. I had come way too far to get to this opportunity, and I’d be damned if anything got in my way now! (In my experience, it is this attitude that will get you places…)
Amtrak at 30th Street station in Philadelphia, PA. Delays, and late arrivals… Mine was the 5:19 train.
I called Amtrak on Wednesday morning with a glimmer of hope in my heart, and anticipation of complications in my gut. They told me all trains leaving Boston were not operating except for two — one of which was MINE. I asked them to double and triple check the information, and they were equally confused and excited for me when they confirmed that mine was one of two trains still scheduled to depart on time.
Bus in the dark. Manhattan.
I felt pretty awesome, but decided to check back in the afternoon because something didn’t feel right. They confirmed that my train was still scheduled to depart on time from Boston to Philly… I still didn’t believe them. I called again, Wednesday night, at which point they told me the train was now going to be leaving Boston with a final destination of New Haven, CT. This made more sense, unfortunately. NJ Transit was not running, and trains couldn’t get past Connecticut, so my problem had not been solved: it was time to explore other options.
Street view. Philadelphia, PA.
I looked up flights, which were either booked or in the $300-$450 dollar range (and apparently the closest I could get was Newark, not Philadelphia). That was way too much money, and still didn’t solve the problem of how to get to Philadelphia. I quickly checked out bus schedules — and all buses were labeled as “Canceled.” By now, it was around 4pm. Finally, I got an email (and a series of phone calls) from Amtrak telling me that my train had been officially cancelled. I had an appointment in Philadelphia at noon on Friday — that was my goal. I began to get tunnel vision (har har, no pun intended) for success… My heart started racing a little and I think I accidentally skipped dinner as I frantically began calling bus companies and looking up mass-transit news stories for the area. It became very clear that any train or bus service going through NYC (which is what I needed) was completely shut-off the day before I had to leave, and I wouldn’t know if anything was running until the next morning.
Philadelphia, PA.
I bought back-up bus tickets for Thursday, which were being sold with the promise that if the buses didn’t run I would get a full refund. At this point, the earliest bus ticket I could find was a 2:30pm bus out of South Station, arriving in NYC at 6:15pm. There was a 7:15pm bus from 34th Street (NYC) to Philadelphia, but I worried that would be too risky, so I booked the 8:15pm bus from NYC to Philly in hopes that this would help me avoid any missing-of-the-bus stress. I HATE missing-a-transfer stress. Mind you, this bus was supposed to arrive at 34th Street and 7th Avenue, in the heart of the power outage zone… But BoltBus confirmed in the morning that all buses were running (and on time!), so I had no choice but to trust them and see what happens…
In these situations, you have to think positive travel thoughts. I can’t tell you how many times I have gotten on buses or airplanes knowing that my destination might be completely out of my control. I’ve learned that sometimes you’ve just got to trust the travel fairies that you are going to make it wherever you are trying to go — and trust your gut.
Philadelphia, PA.
I actually got to South Station 45 min early and managed to get off of standby for the 2pm bus. With an extra 30 minutes of wiggle room, I felt some good travel-mojo. I began to relax a little. The bus ride was perfectly smooth, with surprisingly few delays. It only got weird when we slowly crossed a bridge into NYC, and I could see — for the first time — the darkened skyline from the bus window. As we drove past the cops, who were checking to make sure there were at least 3 people in every vehicle entering the city, the whole bus took on a hushed tone. Suddenly, we were in the city — but it was a ghost city. As the bus drove down Second Avenue, I couldn’t believe what I saw (or, what I couldn’t see). It was pitch black. The only lights were the occasional cop car, street sign or taxi cab. I looked up at black buildings, and down at quiet restaurants. Every now and then, we’d pass a series of lit up blocks. When we entered midtown, it was one of the weirdest NYC moments I have ever had: The city that never sleeps was being forced to take a nap. And like a cranky child, NYC does not do nap-time well.
Finally, the bus pulled into 34th Street at 6:35pm. I was determined to get on standby for the 7:15 bus, and sprinted off Bus #1 to get in a huge line of people on standby. I pushed to the front and asked if this was the bus to Philadelphia. It was. They were boarding, and obviously there was a little tension in the air, so the guy was pushy and said “Yeah yeah, just get on, hurry, come on…” And within 1 minute I was on another bus (total time on the ground in NYC: 5 minutes). So much for my plan to grab dinner!
Philly Street. Philadelphia. PA.
When the bus began pulling away at 6:40pm, I was a little confused (the buses to Philly left hourly at 6:15, 7:15, 8:15…). Concerned that I had taken a wrong turn, I asked the girl next to me “Is this the 7:15 bus to Philly?!” She said “No…” (Me: GULP.) Her: “…It’s the 6:15.” Ahhh! A smile spread across my face when I realized, finally, that not only was I going to get to Philadelphia after all this chaos — but I was going to get there even earlier than I had planned! It was one of the most satisfying travel moments that I’ve had in a while. I was anticipating the opposite kind of moment, so it felt that much sweeter. As the bus journeyed through the darkness, I settled in, blasting happy music, and six hours after leaving Boston, I had arrived in Philly.
City Hall. Philadelphia. PA.
Ah, Philadelphia. I’ve always really liked Philly, despite bittersweet memories of many heartfelt hellos and goodbyes out of that 30th Street train station (the lasting imprint of a long distance relationship). The city has always given me a good vibe. It comes across as a mixture of New York and New Orleans, with a smaller dose of lights and energy than Manhattan (in a good way), coupled with the bruised and impoverished outskirts of the city that seem completely disconnected yet immediately accessible from the Philadelphia most people imagine (like New Orleans). I love that it is a foodie city, even if it doesn’t come off that way at first. Because it’s definitely a little more rough around the edges than Boston, I might actually feel more at home in Philly than in New England. I was excited to be there, and to really look at it with the eyes of someone who might call it home.
Philly homes. Philadelphia, PA.
Everything I did during my quick trip, I would do again. On Saturday night, a small group of us kicked things off with unbelievably delicious cocktails at The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Co., a speakeasy-style lounge in the Rittenhouse Square area that I would have never noticed if my friend A hadn’t picked it. With a seven-page cocktail menu ranging from what I’d call a category 1 storm (listed as “Easy Going” drinks, such as the Apocalypstick — Rittenhouse Rye Whiskey, Yellow Chartreuse, Maurin Quina, Cynar, fresh lemon juice, house blackberry) to a category 5 storm (listed as “I Asked for Water, She Brought Me Gasoline” drinks, which includes the Art School Timeline — Lairds Bonded Apple Brandy, Buffalo Trace Bourbon, New York Madeira Wine, Rothman Winter Apricot Liquer, cane syrup, hopped grapefruit and mole bitters served on a rock). I could have spent many, many hours exploring the cocktail menu (and many, many dollars), but we had dinner to attend to afterwards, so my ginger-infused play on a Dark and Stormy (recommended to me by the waiter when I couldn’t decide) would have to do. Oh, and it DID.
Clothing Pin. Philadelphia, PA.
With a strong cocktail in our systems, we headed to First Friday — where we could stroll the streets of Philadelphia at night, going from art gallery to art gallery, and enjoying the quirky and sometimes odd street performers/artists along the sidewalks. After working up an appetite, we found ourselves devouring melt-in-your-mouth gnocchi with a couple bottles of our own wine (apparently PA has strange liquor laws and wine/beer-serving restaurants are hard to come by) at Giorgio’s. Giorgio himself was there, and from the moment a bowl of roasted garlic soaked in olive oil arrived at the table, I knew that if I do in fact end up in Philadelphia — Giorgio and I will meet again.
Sidewalk, homes. Philadelphia, PA.
It would be a quick trip. After a majorly satisfying and exhausting Saturday (I had a 4.5 hour interview with no lunch… oy), I was able to enjoy a light brunch and visit the perfectly relevant-to-my-trip Mutter Museum (this had been on my Philly to-do list for YEARS). This museum is a must for anyone who likes anatomical oddities or random small but packed museums. It is a pre-Doctor of Physical Therapy student’s perfect museum, and since I am currently taking Anatomy and Physiology, my visit couldn’t have been more appropriately timed, nor more appreciated. The brisk walk back to my home base through Rittenhouse Square’s cheery farmer’s market to the slightly quieter South Philadelphia ‘hood made it very easy for me to see myself living there.
Rittenhouse Square. Philadelphia, PA.
I got back to Boston at 1am last night. Luckily, my return train was fully functional, although 1.5 hours late (making it a 7.5 hour journey… oooof). I’m back now, after passing from a potential future home (Philadelphia), through my real home (NYC), to my current home, in Boston. I have a happy tummy and a happy, hopeful heart. I’ll have to be patient as I figure out where I might be able to live next year (it’s not totally up to me).
For now, I can confidently say that if it is Philadelphia, I’d be absolutely thrilled. Sometimes it’s all about where we’ve been. But right now — for me — life’s much more about where I’m going.
On my way home, the lights were back on in NYC. Amtrak view of NYC skyline.
As always, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.
Eleven years ago, I walked up the four flights of stairs to the top of Maine Hall and met some girls who would become my best friends. I had just gotten back from a 4-day backpacking and canoeing trip (no shower included), so my long braids, sun-kissed (ok, more like sun-slapped) skin, and laid back personality (I’d find out later…) had my new friends convinced I was a complete dirty West Coast hippie pot-head. Little did they know, I was far from it (a self-proclaimed goody-two-shoes in fact – although, with lots of sass!) and from New York City, but who doesn’t love a first impression?
Eights along the Charles. Cambridge, MA.
In that first semester of college, we were there for each other through September 11, painful divorces, personal struggles, first love, first hangovers, first heartbreak, and cancer in the family. We laughed harder than I have ever laughed in my life, and dealt with our first most-painful-experiences together, without having our parents to comfort us in the other room. In the years that would come, we would experience more love, and then more cancer, more heartbreak, crazy travel adventures, live-in boyfriends, and yes — more laughter that had us curled up on the floor with tears rolling down our cheeks.
Approaching a Week’s Bridge. HOCR. Cambridge, MA.
The other day, I walked into a restaurant in Cambridge where — for the first time since college — we were all together again (ok ok, with the exception of ONE, and AB you were missed!). It was a bit mind-boggling, but a beautiful time warp.
Boats. Head of the Charles. Cambridge, MA.
Everyone is the same — almost. When we first met, life was a simple clean slate. Over time, we became more complex, with layers of experiences forming grooves and bubbles in our emotional composition. Now, we’ve been through the ringer of life-in-your-twenties — and we’ve made it! We’ve been almost completely squished out of a decade that leaves its indelible mark on you in all sorts of ways. And yet, we can still come together, take a few shots (oh geez – so not my thing), go out dancing, and laugh so hard it hurts. But man, it’s amazing how much has happened between those first campus-wide dance parties at Bowdoin, and our current career paths.
Then last weekend, I reunited with the boats, the spandex, and many of the teammates that became my crew team family all four years of college. I got to see my coach, who still wears the same shirt, pants, shoes, and hat every day to practice, and the boats I spent many misty Maine mornings in, watching the sun come up and the water drift by. Some things change, some things never do.
Head of the Charles, looking up-river. Cambridge, MA.
Home can be a strange, sometimes intangible place. It can be the front door you walked up to your entire childhood, or it can be the crazy people you walked up to in head-to-toe spandex almost every morning of college. It can be the boat you spent hours in during some of the most special moments of your life, or it can be a race, a city, a second when you are surrounded by strangers. You can live a lot of places, but you only find so many homes. So far, I’m pretty darn happy with the ones I’ve found. But I’m not totally “home” just yet…
Sun sparkling off the water. Head of the Charles Regatta. Cambridge, MA.
This past weekend, as I walked around the Head of the Charles Regatta feeling old at this event for the first time, I couldn’t get over how intensely comfortable and at-home I felt among the rowers. I would have done anything to get in a boat (I tried!), not to row away from where I was but perhaps to row back to that place I remember so well. Home has become a moving target, so sometimes it’s tempting to just take a bow and arrow and aim right for the bullseye you’ve hit before.
Boats, boats, boats! HOCR. Cambrdige, MA.
Forgive the nostalgia, but two big reunions back-to-back got me thinking about time. Then, the Time Keeper at NYU passed away last week… I used to walk by him every day at NYU. He would yell at the top of his lungs “TEN MINUTES!! TEN MINUTES!” when it was ten minutes before a class starting. At under five-feet tall, I heard some nasty people yell things back at him, but he had a job to do (nobody paid him), and he wouldn’t let anyone stop him. It was a little annoying (he was LOUD and stressed a lot of students out), but he was just another part of daily life that blended in with the NYC noise. Only now that he’s silent, we want to stop and listen. So, hey. Time passing, Time Keepers, reunions… I couldn’t help myself!
Observers watch the races from Eliot Bridge. Cambridge, MA.
I’m in a weird in-between place, as I imagine some of you are too (or am I alone here?!). The grad school apps are almost complete, and the wheels are in motion for yet another life change. It’s all very exciting, I must say. Surreal, too. As I take some strokes and listen to the water drip off my oar blades, I’m rowing in a new direction I’ve never actually gone before. The surroundings have changed, but some of the people haven’t. I have no idea where this leg of the journey will take me, but I’m pretty excited to still be in my spandex, exploring. I gave up on predicting what might be around the next turn a long time ago. So, for now, I guess I’ll just keep on rowing.
The end of a beautiful day of races. Head of the Charles. Cambridge, MA.
After tonight’s DNC excitement, I’ve decided to re-post what I wrote the morning after election day, 2008. This is the first time I’ve felt those political goosebumps in a long time. Remember the hope, remember where we were, and think about where you want us to be next. Enjoy.
America is Ba(ra)ck (written on Nov. 7, 2008)
How can I not respond to what has happened, what is happening? The streets of New York are ELECTRIC! Last night was magical (oh yeah, I said magical, and I meant it).
YES, WE DID IT. Can you believe that a man named Barack Hussein Obama is the next President of the UNITED STATES? And it is because of us, the little people who voted and voted and voted, and canvassed and canvassed and canvassed, and believed and believed and BELIEVED!! (Did you bring your barf-bag? Because this entry is about to get even cheesier!)
Yesterday [Election Day], the excitement began when I walked outside. The air felt unseasonably warm and damp, with a cool bite to it. I could tell that there was a little tingle in the breeze, a contagious hope that seemed to bounce back-and-forth between people as I passed by each stranger on the street. I noticed a spring in everyone’s step.
The NYC polls were open from 6am to 9pm. I decided to try and beat the 9-5 rush and go around 7:30am. My walk was brisk. When I turned on the radio, John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World to Change” was playing. I let the song play all the way through as I started my day, feeling like I had woken up on a new and different planet.
I arrived at my voting station, a public school on the Upper West Side, to find a line beginning to form around the block. In my voting history, I’ve never seen anything like this in NYC. Even though I beat the rush, there was a hold up at District 86’s voting booth (that would be mine). Eventually, they fixed it, but it contributed to my 1hr 45min wait. I would have waited double that if necessary.
While we waited, the line began to wrap around the block, hooking itself around a Barnes & Noble and past a newsstand where people anticipated their vote appearing on every front page come morning. I’ve never felt so many people glowing at the same time. We were being photographed in line and everyone was absolutely beaming. I overheard people saying “as long as I can vote Obama, I’ll wait all day!” and the overall energy was positive and hopeful. There we were, a bunch of strangers (of all ages), fighting for the same cause, the same embodiment of our future. The weather seemed appropriately spring-like perfumed with optimism and hope.
I entered the voting booth, quickly switched all my choices to x, stood there for a second to double and triple check that I had voted for Barack Obama. Then I cranked a big red lever all the way to the right. It made the most satisfying clicking and locking sound, making me feel like my vote was real – I could hear it. Then, I breezed by the crowd trying to hide the grin on my face, put my iPod back on, and booked it to work.
On my way, every two blocks, I saw voting lines longer than I had ever seen. I saw Obama pins on every jacket. I heard people yelling “Obama!!” as they passed the lines. I even witnessed “The Obama Truck,” a truck full of Obama supporters blasting music and screaming Obama cheers, which apparently drove around the city all day! I saw a map after the election, and learned that over 85% of Manhattan voted for Obama. No wonder. I had to keep telling myself not to get false hope from the scene I was surrounded by, knowing full-well that the rest of the country had its say as well, but I couldn’t help it: the atmosphere in Manhattan on Election Day was undeniably saturated in the anticipation of change, of success, of an Obama victory. How could he not win when all these people cared SO much? How could he not?! Still, I refused to believe it was real until I saw the front page of The New York Times the next morning.
There were several election-watching parties, most of which were in Brooklyn, but I decided to watch with my family. My parents were having a party, and this election has been a journey I shared mostly with them; it only felt right to finish the journey with my family. Plus, I wanted to see the look on my parents’ faces if/when Obama won.
The party was perfect. On his way home from another disastrous day at work – a reminder of the country’s desperation – my dad picked up Chinese food. They invited four of my brother’s best friends, along with their parents, me, my sister and her girlfriend. Everyone – the ninth graders, the parents, and I – was excited and nervous. We had the TVs on from 530pm until midnight… We ate Chinese, drank wine (I was too superstitious to bring champagne), talked politics (yes, even the ninth graders had perfectly appropriate things to say) ,and one parent brought three boxes of Obama-themed cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery (some chocolate, some vanilla cupcakes, each with red white or blue-tinted vanilla icing, complete with a sugar donkey on each, and confetti – MMMM!).
We sat in suspense in our living, watching each state turn red or blue, affected deeply by each projection, watching history get made one state at a time. They kept saying “this is exactly what happened in 2000… in 2004…” They kept making us feel like this intangible dream was just out of reach…again. I was starting to feel scared, as if I was living in a bubble of this country that had no relationship with the rest of it. I felt the harsh reality check I’m always forced to feel; maybe the thought of vindication was too good to be true. I’ve been smacked with the “too-good-to-be-true” card many times. Maybe this was just another let-down.
Then, we won Pennsylvania. HOLY shit. Then, we won Virginia. And Florida. And Ohio. At 11pm, when the West Coast projection came through… that is when they announced that Barack Obama was the projected winner and most likely our next President. That is when the tears started rolling across the television screen. Our first African American President was named. BAM – history.
We cheered for every state that lit up – New York, of course, and Michigan (where my brother has been working so hard as a field manager for the Obama Campaign), held special significance for us. At the time, I had friends on the ground in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Florida, and New Hampshire. My friend, Hawaii Heather, texted me from Hawaii: “WE DID IT! I LOVE YOU TAVEL!” My New York City friend living in London texted me “THANK YOU AMERICA!!! You all did it! Congrats!” My Dutch/Caribbean special friend texted me from The Netherlands… The texts just kept on flying. I could feel cheering from around the world. I heard screaming and honking and yelling from every corner of my neighborhood. I’ve never felt such an equally personal and global victory. After watching McCain’s gracious speech, I decided to get back to my apartment so I could watch Obama accept and then go to sleep (it was about 1145pm, I was a bit sick, my knee ached, and I had to get up at 6:30 for physical therapy).
Well, my walk home was one of the highlights of that night. The first couple of blocks, the streets were dead silent – not a car, not a pedestrian, only me. Then, I hit Broadway. Two homeless women wrapped in blankets outside of my bank were listening to Obama’s speech on an old radio. I hit Amsterdam Avenue. Four Mexican guys at my local bodega were huddled under the red awning of their flower shop watching a tiny television above bunches of 2-dozen roses and lilies, discussing, in Spanish, what they liked about Obama. I continued up Amsterdam Ave, towards my apartment. Every bar was full of screaming, Obama cheers, excitement, electricity, singing, CELEBRATION. Cars were honking and people were yelling our new president’s name. Strangers high-fived me, I could hear excited people celebrating in their apartments high above the sidewalk. When I got home, I quickly got ready for bed. It was ok now, I could sleep.
Well, I couldn’t sleep. I was too happy, too relieved, too shocked. And the streets were so loud, so excited. The whole evening, the moment, it was all so surreal – and yet, finally real, not just a pipe-dream. As I was about to fall asleep, I heard about 20 people start singing “God Bless America” outside my window. I let go, I let it takeover. I admit, I cried (I’m sorry, but the cheesiness of the moment overpowered me!). And then, I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke to a new America – the one we wanted back. I was glowing, and so was everyone around me. This whole week has been so full of optimism and pride. I will always remember it.
But now comes the reality of the situation: Obama is inheriting a gigantic mess of American problems. He has to try and untie an impossible knot, and he will be given impossible standards. He has the challenge of his lifetime – of ANYONE’S lifetime – and he is the only person I believe who can step up to it and face our deepest, darkest problems. Not many people have the cajones to take on a job that is as daunting as the one he now has, but it seems fitting that the impossible candidate has become the man for the impossible job — and yet we still believe in him.
Speaking of impossible, he couldn’t have made it without us. Because of the way his supporters came together, he was able to run three quarters of this race on his own, but it was up to us to carry him across the finish line. And we did; the race is over, and we ALL won! The world won, I like to think.
I have witnessed many forms of excitement for his victory, so far. There was the man on a bicycle who rode by while I was waiting to vote and yelled “Get the FUCKERS out of Washington and elect OBAAAMMMAAAAA!!!!!!!!” to our line of smiling/laughing voters, the two homeless women huddled outside my bank on my way home that were listening to the election on an old school radio, the four Mexican guys talking about Obama as they watched a tiny television above the colorful roses and lilies they sell every day at my corner bodega, the “God Bless America” I heard being sung by at least 20 people at the bar downstairs while I closed my eyes and tried to drift off to sleep, the emails, the Facebook messages, and the conversations I have gotten/had with people from all over the world who are proud of America’s choice and excited for not just our, but their future as well…
The extent of excitement about Obama has reminded us of what it means to be American, and what America means to the rest of the world. The American Dream is alive and well. The America that “CAN” is back. Barack. We have stepped up, forgotten our wallets, forgotten our flaws (just briefly), and remembered our DIGNITY, our identity, our ability to dream, our PRIDE.
The election of Barack Obama is a victory for much of the world – Europe, Asia, Africa (Kenya). He must bare the weight of the world and stand up to the Herculean challenges that await him, but he has the support of so many, and the hope that HE inspired in millions. Can he succeed? Can we heal this country? Yes we can, yes we did, and man, I hope we WILL.
Ahh, the finish line. We all know it in one form or another. The finish line is where the pain gets swallowed up by something beautiful. It is where hard work makes sense, where anything — no matter how painful — becomes worth it. The finish line is where suffering can be temporarily forgotten and quickly condensed into something tangible and complete. It is where a feeling of accomplishment erases the endless and sometimes frustrating path it took to get there.
Steps. Somerville, MA.
Crossing the finish line is the sweet culmination of so many hours, days, weeks of determination. A line as thin as thread can be the barrier between two worlds of emotion. Finishing is the moment when nothing else matters but giving those last steps, strokes, pedals, spins, twists, pushes, and landings everything you’ve got. The finish line is the justification for all the blood, sweat and tears you put into something; it is the medal everyone earns just for trying, for pushing oneself hard enough to get there in the first place. When you are one step away from that line, there is nothing else in the world — no gold, no bronze, no As, no C+s, no questions, no what ifs, no should haves, would haves, could haves… There is just you and that line, and of course, the other side of it.
Do Not Something… Old Town Quito, Ecuador.
I’m on that other side now. What I thought would be a sprint turned out to be a marathon. There’s been something almost poetic about spending the last couple weeks of my 7-Week Intensive Physics course sweating it out alongside all those beautiful Olympian, sacrificing nights out with friends, last-minute trips to get ice cream, and all the bliss of summer. I definitely don’t get a medal for anything I’m doing, but man does it feel good just to finish.
Another academic mountain has been climbed. Another challenge, faced. It might not be the kind of mountain that looks pretty in pictures, but Physics is my mountain now, and I am finally standing on top of it, looking around at the view, acknowledging the burn and sacrifice it took to get here. What can I say? This was probably the hardest academic venture I have ever taken on and now it is behind me. I am exhausted. I am relieved. I am DONE. We all know how that feels…
Argentinean girl in my tram, on the way up to the top of Pichincha, overlooking the city of Quito (15,500 ft above sea level — halfway to cruising altitude in an airplane).
Pretty fucking awesome.
Now, back to real life! I have restaurants, museums, beaches and bars to explore, friends to see, books to read, sun rays to absorb, and Olympic finals to watch. For the last 7 weeks, I’ve had to give up just about every form of fun I know in order to pursue a bigger dream. It may have felt like torture at times, but the struggle to get here makes crossing the finish line, and all that is here, on the other side, that much more wonderful.
I’ll get back to exploring Boston and silly blogging later. For now, allow me to just stop, catch my breath, and savor the burn of a hard race. It’s only a matter of time before the fight to cross this finish line is forgotten and replaced with a new one.
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Here is a simply beautiful song by a girl I went to college with. Learn more and see the much better quality official video here: first-watch-wolf-larsen-if-i-be-wrong, or just listen:
Also, while I’m relating life to the Olympics, how about you enjoy one of my favorite Olympic stories (the Kerri Strug story), for inspiration. I remember watching this happen. I eventually got to meet Kerri Strug at Chelsea Piers in NYC, where I was practicing gymnastics myself. I always hated the vault (I was an uneven parallel bars girl — that was my jam). This story gets me every time…
Today we’re going to do something a little different. It’s time for you to see Somerville, Massachusetts — TwT style. The approach: a “photo walk.” The theme: “doors.” The partner in crime: my awesome, crafty friend Molly. Allow me to explain.
Molly is the mastermind behind this project. Luckily she thought of me to help her do it! Of course, as soon as my physics exam was behind me, I was all over it. Inspired by a blog (and Molly’s upcoming trip to Kenya and Tanzania — “jealous” does not begin to describe how I feel…), we decided to do a “photo walk” in Somerville. This basically consisted of us walking around, taking photos of anything that caught our eye in an area that doesn’t get many “photographers.” We looked a little creepy and stalker-ish, but I think Somerville appreciated the love. As we snapped photos of the ‘hood, we kept to Molly’s predetermined theme: doors.
Tavel and Molly, Somerville “Photo Walk.” Theme: Doors. Photo by Tavel.
Here is a collection of our photographs. If you have a favorite, feel free to give it some love as a comment. In other words, if you have what I call a “Doorgasm,” do share it (hehehehe… OK, this term accidentally flew out of my mouth when I saw an awesome door today and claimed to have a “doorgasm” in front of Molly. I almost called this post “Doorgasm,” in fact, but was worried what Google searches might bring me…).
I know, blah blah blah, you just want to see the photos. So… here they are. Hopefully they give you some sense of the ‘hood. As always, feel free to contribute! If you have taken a photo of an awesome door in some far off land and you want to share the image, feel free to do so by attaching a link as a comment.
As I wake up for yet another physics-filled day, I can’t help but fantasize about making a break for it, and running/flying/getting away from all the incredibly hard work… The easy route is always tempting, but it’s never as thrilling (right… RIGHT?! Now is when you convince me this is true…). My creative spirit feels a little like a caged bird, or a plant that flowers in summer but has to be kept in the basement this year. My brain is mush, I’m exhausted, and I’m just about to hit the halfway point in the most intense course I’ve ever taken (and I complained last year? HA!).
View. Sint Maarten. Netherlands Antilles.
But don’t worry! I’m used to dealing with this urge to escape every now and then. It’s in my blood. While I must be patient, I’m so looking forward to getting my time back to play with as I wish. (Only 4 weeks to go!) But just because I’m stuck in physics molasses (don’t get me started on drag forces…), that doesn’t mean my mind has to stay completely still. That’s the thing about wanderlust…
Horse statue. Rome, Italy.
A few years ago, we put together what has now become a pretty out-dated list of “Ultimate Travel Songs.” So, as a pleasant distraction for me and a fun opportunity for you, it is time to refresh this list with new music! I will now request that you — once again — provide me with a list of your CURRENT favorite travel songs. Again, this is not about judging people’s musical sensibilities; it is escapism through sound, wanderlust through music, a chance to get that excited little flutter in your heart that you (I?) get when you realize you’re headed somewhere foreign, and it feels like anything is possible. It’s that feeling on an airplane, when you take out your headphones because the captain announces you’re about to make the descent — the long trip somewhere is over, and you’re almost there. It’s that energy you get when you’re in a car with friends about to pull up to your first beach vacation of the summer and music is blasting through the speakers. It’s that stream of steady sound that accompanies you as you walk to work everyday, contemplating your next vacation, your love life, your hopes and dreams…
Prayers outside a shrine. Tokyo, Japan.
OK ok, you get the idea. Now don’t be shy!
Lantern in Sultan’s bathroom. Topkapi Palace. Istanbul, Turkey.
Please leave, as a comment, a list of 1 to 5 songs (with title and artist) that form the soundtrack for some sort of getaway — whether it is a getaway in your mind while you sit for another day in your sub-zero office chair wondering how to get out, an actual playlist you would play on your way to a perfect beach weekend, or a song that you listen to during a long flight to that new country you’ve been anticipating for years…
Guard outside Topkapi Palace. Istanbul, Turkey.
Once I have a decent list, I will add it to my “Music” tab with YouTube videos for every song. If you don’t do this for yourself, do it for me! I need new music, I need to daydream, and I need TwT to take me away from science, at least for a little while…
Rachel Tavel, PT, DPT, CSCS, is a published travel, health, fitness and wellness writer and Doctor of Physical Therapy (DPT). She earned her BA in Spanish and Archaeology from Bowdoin College and her DPT from NYU.
After Bowdoin, Tavel interned at American Express Publishing, where she worked with Travel + Leisure, Food & Wine, Executive Travel, Departures, and Centurion magazines.
In 2007, she co-authored the Frommer’s guidebook, “MTV Best of Mexico” (Wiley Publishing, 2007), for which she wrote the Acapulco, Ixtapa, Zihuatanejo, and Taxco chapters.
From late 2006 to early 2010, Tavel served as the editor of an independent school’s annual magazine. In addition, she worked as an editor and writer for the VIVA Travel Guides to Argentina, Quito and Guatemala. Her photography has been published in Everywhere magazine and the VIVA Guides to Quito and Argentina.
After working as a staff writer for VIVA Travel Guides in Quito, Ecuador, Tavel returned to the US to fulfill the 10 pre-med pre-requisites (at NYU and Harvard Extension School) to apply to Doctor of Physical Therapy programs.
In 2016, Tavel earned her Doctor of Physical Therapy degree from NYU. While there, Tavel became a Certified Strength & Conditioning Specialist (CSCS) and earned her certification in basic mat Pilates.
In addition to working as a physical therapist, Tavel contributes to various blogs about health/fitness/wellness, including the Huffington Post and Bustle.com. [See “Tavel Links” for more information.]
Last but not least, Tavel is writing a travel memoir about her adventures as a twenty-something career-changer… Stay tuned!
In the World:
Argentina, Austria, Barbados, Belgium, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, France, Italy, Jamaica, Japan, Mexico, Netherlands, Nevis, Portugal, Spain, St. Kitt's, St. Maarten, Turkey, United Kingdom, USA, Vatican City.
In the US:
Arizona, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Hawaii, Illinois, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maryland, Maine, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Puerto Rico, Rhode Island, South Carolina,Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, West Virginia.
Travels with Tavel 