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.

2 Comments

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 9, 2011 · 9:32 am

Kenya in the Philippines

Here’s a blog post that takes us to a place TwT has yet to visit: The Philippines. It is written by one of my fellow travel bloggers from the Twittosphere, so it might have a slightly different vibe to it than most of my posts. Just go with it: February is all about variety — in tone, style, material, and the guest blogger’s relationship to TwT. So here is another spoonful of something different. Eat up!

And yes, I promise it will be all about me again soon… (HA! Please tell me that my sarcasm comes through…) Trust me: I’ll put the Tavel back in Travels with Tavel once I’ve starved you all just enough to miss me and my rambles a little bit more.

Calauit Island: African Animals Deep in the Heart of the Philippines

By Raymond, AKA Man on the Lam

Man on the Lam in Philippines. Photo provided by Raymond.

Yes, you read that right.  Just about the last place you would expect to find African animals roaming freely would be on a sun-soaked island in Southeast Asia, but there they are.  Over 5,000 miles from their original home in Kenya live a mix of giraffes, gazelles, zebras and impalas among others.  Little-known and little-visited, the Calauit Island Game Preserve and Wildlife Sanctuary is a curiosity indeed.

Entrance sign. Photo by Raymond.

The day that I went, I was one of four visitors.  That’s four for the entire day.  The day before, there were two.  The day before that, there was none.  There are no turnstyles or gift shops.  There are no crowds clamoring at the gates.  Well, there are no gates really.  The lack of crowds leads to its appeal, but it also makes you wonder how they manage to make a go of it at all.

Calauit Island lies on the Northwestern coast of Palawan in the Philippines.  In the 1970’s, the International Union of Conservation of Nature (IUCN) sent out an appeal to save endangered African animals.  Ferdinand Marcos, never one to turn down free stuff, and sensing a photo opp to boot, responded eagerly.  And are we glad he did. The park that resulted is nothing short of amazing.

Kenyan Zebras in the Philippines. Photo by Raymond.

Initially eight species of animals, 104 in total,  made the long exodus.  Today those numbers have swollen to well over 600.  The Kenyan animals now co-exist with other endangered animals endemic to the region.  Calamanian deer, mouse deer, bearcats, and others, not to mention thousands of birds, are all part of the new host family for the displaced Africans.  The project itself has been a resounding success. The marketing however, has not.  And that’s a pity.

Furry creatures in the Philippines. Photo by Raymond.

While the furry four-legged variety here thrives, the cash-carrying two-legged variety is a rarity. The lack of tourists here has a great deal to do with the location. Getting there is nothing short of a trek in itself. After a 45 minute flight to Busuanga from Manila, you can expect up to 3 hours over some of the bumpiest dirt roads around.  The final 15 minute boat ride is a welcome respite.

Those who do make the journey though will be rewarded with the chance to get up close and personal with some amazing wildlife.  The island itself is an oddity as well.  More African savannah than Asian island paradise, the landscape lends itself to stunning vistas more reminiscent of  game parks in South Africa.

Giraffe in the Philippines. Photo by Raymond.

While overexposure for any park is never good, supporting wildlife sanctuaries like this worldwide is essential to ensure their ongoing success.  So if you find yourself in Southeast Asia, and longing for a bit of adventure well removed from the normal tourist trail, check out the Calauit Island Game Preserve and Wildlife Sanctuary for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  And spread the word.  They need it.

Raymond is a man on the lam.  He runs a travel website at http://www.manonthelam.com with a focus on the upbeat, the offbeat, and the word on the street. His favorite place to visit is the Middle East (he is a self-described desert junkie). You can follow him on Twitter, @manonthelam1.

5 Comments

Filed under Africa, Contributor, Philippines, Travel, Wildlife

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

January 30, 2011 · 9:24 pm

Not Travels and Not Tavel

Yep, you heard me (errr… read… me). I’ve decided that February (which I’ve also apparently decided begins today) is going to be a month for TwT contributors. I want as many contributors as I can arrange, and I want the subject matter to span the world. This is my chance to introduce you to fellow travel bloggers, fellow foodies, friends, and maybe even family (any volunteers?!). However I identify them, they’re all people just like you and me who are writing/reading blogs because it’s fun. Together, we will spice up TwT (at least temporarily) by weaving a web of relatable stories and experiences. Maybe it will trigger your wanderlust, maybe you’ll start salivating, or maybe you’ll just smile. The bottom line: TwT isn’t just about me, it’s also about everyone who’s joining me for the ride.

Today, my good friend from college (and one of my favorite Kansans), Molly, has agreed to be the first contributor. I hope you show her a warm, comment-filled welcome and enjoy the different “flavor” she brings to TwT.

You were getting sick of me blabbing on and on about life anyway, weren’t you?! (SAY NO!!!)

A Kitchen Adventure in Jamaica Plain

By Molly

Today is Sunday.  These past few weeks have been quite busy… I’ve worked the past two Saturdays training college mentors and volunteers for both my own job with Jumpstart and as a guest trainer for an organization called Strong Women Strong Girls.  These days are fun, a tiny bit stressful, and great at depleting my energy tank.  Today I am in the mood for quiet and food.  The quiet will be easy, both roommates aren’t home today.  Now for the food.

Sunday mornings start with a big cup of black coffee and a stack of cookbooks.  Before I tackle the cooking, I need to go to the market.  And I can’t go without a list.  I can’t make a list until I have a plan.  Black coffee is perfect for planning.

Casco the Cat and Cookbooks. Photo by Molly

A colleague recently gave me Mark Bittman’s book Food Matters: A Guide to Conscious Eating and I’ve been thinking a lot about cooking and eating food that is both healthy and sustainable.  Bittman makes suggestions that feel very attainable and realistic.  I keep that in consideration and think about planning for leftovers (I’ve got another busy week ahead) as I peruse my books and favorite blogs.  I don’t love leftovers, and I struggle to figure out what I will still want to eat 3 days in a row.  I’ve fallen into the habit of baking on Sundays.  I have an office that would happily snack on fresh baked goods but all baked goods I make never seem to make it out of the apartment.  Hmmm…  back to the list.

On my way home from the market, I snap a picture of this tennis court covered in snow.  Clearly it’s time to get back home.

Snowy Tennis Court. Photo by Molly.

So once my groceries and I reach the kitchen, it’s time to get started.  I tackle Paula Dean’s Savannah Red Rice recipe first (I used her book, but you can find it here:  http://www.smithfield.com/recipes/recipe/savannah-red-rice).  Paula’s not known for sustainable or healthy recipes.  I put a lot of her recipes in my “Farm Food” category…. those are foods you would eat in Kansas but rarely in yuppie Jamaica Plain, MA.  But it is cold outside and I know I’ll be grumpy if I don’t have at least one “stick to your ribs” option.  The fact that Savannah Red Rice doesn’t call for cream of mushroom soup makes me feel a little better.

Savannah Red Rice. Photo by Molly.

Once that’s in the oven, I wipe off the cutting board and get started on the chili.  This time I’ll do better at sticking to Bittman’s teachings so I select Deb’s Three-Bean Chili on Smitten Kitchen.  I love love love beans, this will be great.

I decided to throw in carrots and green peppers.  The first time I made chili with carrots, I thought it was going to be weird.  But I actually liked it.  I think it adds nice color.  The green peppers are a different story.  Red peppers are far superior to green but today I talked myself into buying the green because they are half the price.  I keep telling myself that green peppers add nice color too.

Onions, peppers, carrots. Photo by Molly.

I see a lot of recipes that call for Chipotle in Adobo.  I am not quite sure what brand these cooks are using.  My local grocery cooperative carries a brand that burns so badly I am convinced my face will look deformed if I eat any more.  It’s really that spicy.  And I like spicy food.  I’m skirting around this ingredient by adding roasted diced tomatoes with adobo and some chipotle seasoning.  Crisis averted.

As I am reading the recipe, I see something about broth.  I can do better.  I look around the kitchen, and it hits me.

Beer? Photo by Molly.

My roommate brews beer and he has his brew on tap in the apartment.  Up next:  the secret ingredient.  I feel badass adding beer AND cocoa to chili.

Cocoa... and Dinner. Photo by Molly.

Just simmering the chili for a while.  I’ll taste it, but really this is for dinner.

Work-in-Progress. Photo by Molly

Rice and chili are ready.  Yum!  Leftover potential=Through the roof!

Earlier this week, my roommate brought home Red Velvet cookies.  They’re addictive.  As I was perusing cooking blogs, I remembered that Ali posted a recipe for Red Velvet Cupcakes on her blog Alexandra’s Kitchen.  Ali is my friend Katy’s friend and I met her while I was in California last spring.  I’ve tried several of her recipes and they are all awesome.  I have high expectations for these cupcakes.  I rarely stray from recipes in the baking department and I’m following this one exactly, except I’m using a bit less red food coloring.  For some reason, food coloring scares me.  The staining potential is just too much.

Makin' Red Velvet Cupcakes. Photo by Molly.

Red Velvet Cupcakes. Photo by Molly.

As I read the ingredients for the frosting, I notice that I’m supposed to use two sticks of butter and 2 cups of powdered sugar.  I know Julia Child would be disappointed in me, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.  I used a little more than half of what the recipe says.  The result–frosting is very cream cheesey but still good.

Red Velvet Success. Photo by Molly.

I’ve just surveyed the damage.  I have just made enough food to feed 6 people and I’m the only one at home.

I’m going for a run.

Molly lives in Boston and works in the non-profit world.  She loves to run, cook, and tap dance.  Sebago Lake is her favorite place to visit. You can follow her on Twitter for more kitchen adventures in Jamaica Plain at @molstherunner.

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Filed under Contributor, Food, Winter

January 25, 2011 · 2:26 pm

One-Way Ticket to Trouble

To everyone who contributed their 2011 Travel Wish Lists: THANK YOU! Great lists. Go ahead and check out the comments to see where other people hope to travel this year. It’s always fun to get you all participating. I knew I couldn’t possibly be the only one daydreaming about vacations, especially this time of year.

Oh look, another snowstorm. I am not amused, winter.

It’s that time of year when winter begins to take its toll on me. It becomes not just a season, but a state of mind. The cold dark days hold my spirit down like a snowball and chain. Some days, I forget what a little warmth and sunshine could do for my soul. The idea of tulip buds springing out from the blanket of winter is a distant memory, a fantasy of a world hidden from this one. The sun is an afterthought, the warmth – a dream…

Bah! Enough sulking! Things are good! Dreary, but good. I can already taste the happy-high I get on that first spring-like day. It makes all this winter crap WORTH it. Vale la pena, people. Vale la pena…

In the meantime, there is one travel story that I haven’t written about yet… I’ll call it: One-Way Ticket to Trouble

Love in the snow. Central Park, NYC.

Before returning from Quito to NYC, I did something I will avoid for the rest of my life: I bought a one-way ticket from a South American city to JFK International Airport. (You just can’t get away with this stuff anymore!) Now, I’m used to getting pulled aside for security checks at airports (apparently my combination of visas and stamps from Japan to Turkey to Belgium to Argentina several times to Ecuador to Mexico to the Dominican Republic to… (you get the idea)… is a bit suspicious).

All was off to a good start until I got to the front of the line at the Quito airport. I had one large suitcase (afterall, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be living in Quito for 1 or 2 years), one small suitcase/duffle bag thing, a backpack, a purse (god I hate that word), and only one suitcase lock. In South America, most people have their suitcases wrapped in plastic so that no thieves can get in. I never bother. If they want to steal my cheap socks, power to them (actually no, please don’t do that). I was dreading this trip because it was probably the most luggage I have ever had to travel with (by plane), and I was alone (eh, I’m used to it) with a layover in Bogota. Have you ever tried to use a restroom in an airport with that much stuff? Yeah, good luck.

As soon as I entered the airport, my body covered in luggage (ugh), an Ecuadorian man began walking beside me insisting that I get my bags wrapped for security. It, of course, would cost me $10 plus more for the extra weight my oversized suitcase was carrying, so there was no way. I knew my bag was going to be overweight (the suitcase itself weighs a ton — it’s an old one, and I borrowed it from my parents but let me tell you people: invest in a really GOOD lightweight suitcase, even if it’s a little more expensive: the over-weight penalties aren’t worth it, and if you’re as professional a packer as me, you will need it!).

Anyway, I was not into the whole Saran-wrap thing, and I was not forking over the money. I had a lock, and a couple paperclips. I locked one suitcase and unfolded the paper clips to create makeshift “locks” for the zippers of my other suitcase, twisting them in such a way that maybe a thief would look at the tangled clips and go “forget this nonsense, onto the next one.” I’ve learned that if you make it just SLIGHTLY inconvenient for someone to rob you, they’ll pass. I do what I can.

I get in line and eventually make it to the front of the check-in pack. I am told that the combined weight of my two suitcases is over the weight limit for the Colombian airline, and I couldn’t bring everything.

HA. No.

I do my usual nice begging and ask about my options. They say I have to remove some stuff. I see an Ecuadorian guy next to me with the same problem, starting to empty out the insane amount of t-shirts he has in his suitcase while a friend tries to put them in his own bag. I ask the woman, “What can I do? I need to bring my stuff home….” She looks at me and sighs. Then says to give her a second. I do what I’ve learned to do and say: “How much will it cost?” She comes back with a number, and my bags are good to go. First crisis: averted.

Winter in Central Park. NYC.

I’m about two hours early (oops), so I buy the most expensive magazine I’ve ever purchased (don’t ask — let’s just say I hadn’t seen a Vanity Fair in seven months and I was beyond excited to be on my way home). I go through security, buy a little snack, and park myself at the gate, my heart buzzing uncontrollably with excitement for my too-good-to-be-true anticipated return to NYC. All I need is for the voyage to be smooth.

Twenty minutes before the flight was supposed to depart, I see a man from the airline start walking around the 40 or so people sitting at the gate, asking to check everyone’s passport and name. When he gets to me, he asks if I will come with him for a few minutes… Not to worry, this was “a standard safety procedure.” Oh crap. Here we go…

Luckily, two other people were also selected form the crowd. We walked through everyone like we had already been convicted of a crime, left the gate behind, and headed down a dark, long hallway. I asked where we were going (of course!), and he told us they were going to do a thorough security check of our luggage. Curses. My suitcase packing-job was a work of art, I tell ya. I don’t think anyone could possibly fit more in that thing than I did, and now I was going to have to watch them open it, dishevel my shit, and remove each item one at a time, in front of four armed Ecuadorian officers (one of which kept flirting with me… grr).

They took us up and down staircases, around corners, through doors, and eventually, we were outside and practically on the runway. We ended up in a garage behind the airplane with our luggage sitting there, waiting. Luckily, they only had one of my two suitcases – the smaller one. Yippy.

One by one (I was last), they opened our suitcases and removed every single item. As the police officer took out each pair of my underwear, the wooden hand-painted bowl, an alpaca blanket, etc. etc., I stared uncomfortably. All the Ecuadorian cops were just watching and I just wanted to get this overwith. I was a little alarmed when the guy started sniffing my bag (hey!), but what can ya do? He found my large, external hard drive (cords dangling off and all) and asked suspiciously what it was. I explained, he had another guy check it. They moved on.

Finally, we were all cleared and were sent back up to the gate. Whew, I thought. Got that overwith!

The short flight from Quito to Bogota was a rough, bumpy ride over the Andes. I knew it would be; you can’t fly over mountains without a healthy amount of prayer-inducing turbulence — but whoa. Let’s just say I was happy to land in Colombia. That happiness was then short-lived.

Immediately, after we got off the plane, we were somehow in line for something else. None of us knew what, since the line was so long and it passed through a tiny, hidden doorway. But, sure enough, it was a security check. I had already been through security TWICE since I was randomly selected for an additional full security check in Quito, and there was nowhere I could have gone (and nothing I could have done) between the last security check and this one, having only been on the airplane in between, but there we were, getting thoroughly checked one by one, again. Fine, it’s Colombia, I get it.

As you can imagine, this took some time. Luckily, I had a 3 hr layover, so things weren’t too desperate. I open every single pocket, remove laptop, etc., put it all back, put shoes back on, clear security and start walking to my gate.

I get to the gate, buy a water to drink in between flights (I was still about 8,500 feet up and you need to keep hydrated… I was totally lightheaded from the altitude). I buy my water, go to walk into the gate, and the woman who had been sitting next to me on the plane and I decide to sit together. She was Ecuadorian, but had family she was visiting in NJ, so we were on the same two flights and both happy to have an in-transit buddy. After getting comfortable for about 20 minutes, we were told everyone at the gate (an enclosed glass room) had to exit the gate and re-enter through a security checkpoint designed only for our flight. Annoying, but fine.

We go out of the gate, they say no food or water beyond that point. I’m forced to chug the water bottle I just bought before i re-enter, but am in good company as the young French guy next to me had to as well. We commiserate. Then, we have to open every pocket of every carry-on bag, remove all of our stuff, put it all back in, take off shoes, get frisked, and put everything back together as quickly as possible to get back into the gate. I still have two hours before the flight, but after just chugging a water, I know I will want to use the restroom before we board (I avoid airplane bathrooms when I can). I dread this moment, because they informed us that if we leave the gate again, we’d have to repeat the security process. You’ve got to be kidding me, I think.

The sweet Ecuadorian woman has to get food and asks me to watch her bag while she runs out, to keep the security measures to a minimum. I agree (something I was hesitant about doing, especially in a country like Colombia…) but decide I’m being paranoid and it’s ok. While she is gone, I am left there alone for about 20 minutes. A couple cops with drug-sniffing dogs make their way through the rows of chairs. I start getting scared — what if there is something in this woman’s suitcase and this was all planned?!? SHIT SHIT SHIT. Suddenly, over the loud speaker, I hear my name called and I have to go to the front desk. My name is NEVER called! HOLY SHIT. My heart starts racing and I remember that I didn’t lock my suitcases. What if someone planted cocaine in one of the unlocked pockets on the outside? GAHHH.

There I am, with all my stuff and this woman’s stuff, she is not there, and I’m being called to the front. I run up, keeping one eye on the bags, and ask them if it’s ok to wait until my “friend” comes back from the restroom, as I did not want to leave her stuff behind. They say that’s fine, and I’ve got all eyes on me in the quiet terminal. Wahhh.

The woman comes back, feels bad for keeping me waiting, and is shocked (and probably suspicious) when I tell her I just got asked to the front. Two Colombian police officers take me to a back room, where my OTHER suitcase is sitting, and tell me that they need to do a security check on my bag. I get a little flustered and whimper, realizing this is my completely over-stuffed suitcase — the big one — and worry that they won’t be able to close it afterwards. In a sad voice, I just tell them that there is so much stuff in that bag… (Did I really have to go through this again?!) Big mistake. I was just trying to be human with them, but they immediately looked me in the eyes – no humor – and said, deadpanned, “What kind of stuff ma’am? Is there anything suspicious in here?” Wait, no! I say “No no, nothing! Just, I was living in Ecuador so I packed the suitcase really tightly…But feel free to go through it, you just have to promise me you’ll help me close it up!” I was trying to be myself, but not the time and place I guess. Heh.

They proceed to remove every item, one at a time…. AGAIN. And I have to helplessly sit there and watch. Then, they start asking me if I am traveling alone, if I am single, asking me where I learned to speak Spanish, etc. When he goes in for the sniff, I am not surprised this time around. The dog comes over, starts sniffing around too, and I start wondering what the heck it smells like. I want to sniff it now (ok not really). I panic a little again. I have this fear of having someone plant something on me while I’m traveling and getting taken into custody in another country (I’ve watched too many of those ABC specials, “Locked Up Abroad,” I think). I promise myself I will never travel without a lock after this experience.

Winter sunset over the Hudson. NY, NY.

Just as I begin to let my worst fears take over, they told me everything was ok, and helped me put all my stuff back into the suitcase — the once pristine packing job was now a dumpster. It took three Colombian police to close it back up. Finally, I was free to go — but I had them secure every single zipper with these little plastic snappy things they had, just for peace of mind.

When I got back to the waiting area, I was so relieved. Then, I realized we were boarding in an hour, and I had to pee. SERIOUSLY?! I rushed out, and proceeded back through the security check — removing shoes, emptying my bag, etc. — for hopefully the last time. Total carry-on security checks: 5 (2 in Quito, 3 in Bogota). Total “additional” security checks: 2 (1 in Quito, 1 in Colombia). 1 for each suitcase. Finally, I was on the plane home for the last leg of the trip… and I could rest with ease.

At one point during the flight, about 45 minutes before landing, one of the pilots stepped out to use the restroom. While he was in there, the cockpit door swung open. Everyone on the plane was sleeping, and I was in row 9, staring straight into the cockpit, realizing there were no flight attendants in site. Hello!!?? (I mean HOLA?!) Does anybody see this?! I wasn’t sure what was going on, but this New Yorker does not like seeing a cockpit door fly open with no flight attendants anywhere near it. I stared into the cockpit, through the front window of the plane, and watched the little blinking lights in the distance as we approached NYC. I was honestly pretty nervous, and decided without hesitation that, if something were to go wrong, I am a fight not flight person (proven over and over, for better or worse), and I would be trying to tackle someone before I sat and watched something bad happen.

Relief came over me when the pilot left the bathroom, went back into the cockpit, and securely shut the door. And suddenly, I appreciated the unique and beautiful view I had just gotten. It was all going to be ok: I was almost home.

I made it through immigration just fine, although they asked me more questions than the usual “what were you doing in Ecuador?” and I was shocked and happy to find that my bags were among the first to tumble around the belt. I breezed through the final gates, holding my breath in anticipation of something stopping me from the freedom that awaited, but nothing got in my way.

After six months in Ecuador, and numerous intense security checks along the way, I was HOME.

Rose in Argentina. Palermo, Buenos Aires.

It’s been two and a half months since I returned from Quito, and it’s getting harder and harder to believe the whole experience ever happened. The memories are so vivid and real, but nothing in my day-to-day life connects me to the people and adventures I had when I was there. The whole experience feels like a shot of something strong and powerful was dropped into one big drink I’ve been sipping slowly for years. But the ripples continue to spill out from my adventure in Ecuador. I’ll just keep watching until the ripples are too far away to count.

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Filed under Ecuador, Life Stuff, New York City, Uncategorized, Winter

January 6, 2011 · 2:00 pm

2011 Travel Wish List

Hello 2011!

I’ve decided it’s going to be a great year, so let’s make it happen.

Last year, I asked you all to put together a travel wish list for 2010. Check out the wish lists some of you shared here (see comments). Today, my question is: Did you make it to any of the places on your wish list in 2010? Also, do you have any travel regrets (not that I believe in those) or leftover wishes? Did 2010 take you somewhere completely unexpected, instead?

I think we know MY answer to that last question… (Um, YES.)

Trees. Las Pampas, Argentina. April 2010.

2011 is going to be the first year in over five that I have to trim down my wish list — at least in terms of what is “realistic” (I put quotations around “realistic” because I really believe one NEVER knows — the boundaries of “realistic” are malleable). But isn’t a wish list about hoping and dreaming, even if you aren’t really sure what’s possible? I think yes. So here is a quick list of 5 places I would absolutely LOVE to go in 2011… Financially feasible, or not. Check it out, then share YOUR travel wish list  for 2011 (no matter how simple, grand, or unrealistic) as a comment.

1. Tanzania and/or Kenya. Yes, it’s time for some Africa in my life. I have wanted to go to Tanzania since I was a kid, and it continues to stay at the top of my travel wish list. While I’m down there, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t als0 stop by Kenya. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but some day — maybe this year, maybe fifty years from now — I will GO to Tanzania. And I cannot wait.

2. Southern Spain. Sevilla, Granada, Cordoba, Malaga… How have I NOT gone to Southern Spain yet?! FAIL –> MUST.GO. Shame on me and my Southern Spanish roots.

3. India. The only country I have been to in Asia is Japan. This does not, in any way, reflect all the places in Asia that I WANT to visit — ie, Thailand, China, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos… But India seems to remain at the top of my Asia wish list. I’m not sure how I will make this trip happen, but a girl can daydream.

4. Morocco. The architecture, the mixing of French and Arabic in the air, the food, the mint tea in those tiny glasses, the sound of prayers, the smell (well, I imagine it smells very interesting)… There is something exotic and sexy about this country (and its dark, mysterious men…) and I want a piece… At least just a taste. And I don’t mind if it’s completely imperfect, and maybe even a little dangerous… In fact, both are encouraged.

5. Puerto Rico. Yes, I’ve been before. But it’s so close, so accessible, and has so much personality. Plus, it’s becoming Miami-ified, I believe — which is both a positive and negative thing for obvious reasons. Either way, I’m curious to see this sassy Island from a different perspective than when I was a 5th grader on a family vacation. This time around, I’d like to take a tall, dark and handsome romantic interest (must love spandex). Any takers? Hehe.

So there you have it. Please ignore my occasional references to tall/dark/handsome/mysterious men. I may have gotten a little carried away there…

Cheers, as always, to 2011 and LIVING THE DREAM — even if, sometimes, the dream changes.

15 Comments

Filed under Life Stuff, List, Travel, Uncategorized

December 26, 2010 · 10:23 am

Leap

Not only is this my 100th TwT blog post, but it is also (most likely) my final post of 2010.

I would like to end this year of Travels with Tavel with a photo series of my signature Tavel Leap (and some non-leaps or almost-leaps), in chronological order, from some of the wonderful places I was able to visit during the wild and crazy 2010:

Chicago, Illinois. USA. January 2010.

This one (above) represents more of a leap of faith that I took, visiting my then-boyfriend in Chicago. Leaps of faith are a whole other kind of Tavel leap, and I tend to take them often. (Even with a bad knee, sometimes these leaps have the roughest landings…)

New Orleans, Louisiana. USA. March, 2010.

Rome, Italy. April 2010.

Pompeii, Italy (w/ little brother Robo). April 2010.

Buenos Aires, Argentina. (La Boca neighborhood.) April 2010.

Quito, Ecuador. (Old Town, Quito - my second week in Ecuador). May 2010.

Papallacta, Ecuador. (Hiking the Paramo at 4,000m/13,150+ ft.) June 2010.

Mindo, Ecuador. (Zip-lining through the cloud forest.) July 2010.

Old Town Quito, Ecuador. (Leap w/ friends outside Quito Basilica in Old Town.) July 2010.

Canoa, Ecuador. (Horseback riding along the Ecuadorian coast.) August 2010.

Pichincha Volcano over Quito, Ecuador. (Altitude: about 15,500 ft.) September 2010.

Cotopaxi Volcano in Cotopaxi Province, Ecuador. (I was too tired from 3.5 hrs of horseback riding to jump. Altitude: 4,700m/15,500ft.) October 2010.

Galapagos Islands, Ecuador. (Gardner's Bay, Isla Espanola.) November 2010.

I’m very good at looking back. In fact, I’ve spent countless hours looking back and trying to find meaning in things that have come and gone and left deep marks in my heart and mind. But my personal new year’s resolution is to spend less time looking back and more time looking forward. If I find myself feeling extra Buddhist, I can focus on looking only at the constant “now,” but that might be difficult considering that 2011 will be the first year in a long time that I have an actual long-term plan of attack.

I spent 2010 up (at almost 16,000 ft on Pichincha Volcano and near Cotopaxi Volcano), down (sea level, or even snorkeling below the surface of the sea in the Galapagos), and everywhere in between (in Ecuadorian cloud forests, among Italian ruins, wandering through Argentine streets, and revisiting New Orleans for the first time post-Katrina). I think, like most years, this was a year of ups and downs for me, personally, as well. But I can honestly say it was one of the richest years experience-wise that I have ever had. I learned more than I could ever imagine about people and the world this year, and probably — most importantly — I learned immense amounts about myself and what I want and need.

While my backpacks, suitcases, hiking boots and flip-flops are all put away right now, these lessons, these experiences, these once-in-a-lifetime adventures are neatly packed away in my mind. I am beginning 2011 with such hope, such motivation, and such excitement for all that is possible, and I couldn’t have been where I am now without the rollercoaster year that was 2010.

A happy, healthy, inspirational, wild and wonderful (and maybe even somewhat stable and calm) New Year to you all! As you can see through these photos, not every leap is as graceful as the next (and in 2010 I took some hard spills), but at least I leapt at all.

Thank you for leaping with me.

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Filed under Uncategorized

December 21, 2010 · 9:41 am

Putting the “I” in Istanbul

Yes Allison, Lisa and Robo, the Mystery Snapshot was from Istanbul, Turkey — one of my favorite cities in the world. The truth is, I am Turkish. Well, it’s hard to say exactly how much. I am Sephardic. My mom’s ancestors were Spanish Jews who spoke Ladino (this includes my mom’s parents, and she remembers many old sayings in Ladino from her childhood) and were exiled from Spain during the Inquisition. After leaving Spain, they ended up in Macedonia and Turkey. For almost 500 years they lived in a Spanish-speaking Jewish community in Turkey. Half my grandfather’s (abuelo’s) siblings were born in Turkey and half were born in Argentina. My grandmother (abuela) was born in Argentina, but was first generation. My mom was then born in Argentina, and ended up falling in love in the Big Apple. So, when we say that we are half-Argentine, the truth is we are really Spanish by blood, with some Turkish mixed in, and then technically Argentine. And then there’s my dad’s family — his father was born in Russia and spoke Yiddish, and his mother was first generation American, with a family from the capital of current Lithuania, which was – at the time – ruled by Poland. You tell me what I am.

Perhaps in a way, all my traveling is subconsciously about figuring that out. Where do I belong? Where do I feel most at home? What does home even mean to me? Home has been apartments, cities, and countries. But most of all, home has been certain people…

Turkish Flag. Bosphorus. Istanbul, Turkey

Tram crashes into car. Street life in Beyoglu. Istanbul, Turkey.

Side entrance to Dolmabahce Palace. Istanbul, Turkey.

View with Mosques from Galata Tower. Istanbul, Turkey.

If you’ve ever been to Istanbul, feel free to chime in. Basically, I found it to be incredibly cool and surprisingly edgy. The food was absolutely incredible (ummm, hello baklava every meal) and the salesmen were oddly sassy (“Hello, pretty lady. Come look at my rugs. They are very expensive!”). I was asked for directions in Turkish a couple of times, and found myself barefoot with a scarf wrapped around my head more often than I expected. The blending of old ruins and modern infrastructure make it one of those wonderful time-warp cities like Rome, where you feel constantly like you’re about to trip over an archaeologist’s dream-find yet sufficiently taken care of by modern amenities.

Every time I remember my trip to Istanbul four years ago, I wonder how and when I will go back. There is SO much to see in Turkey that one trip, unless it’s very long, will only scratch the surface. And wow, so much has happened in life since then. At the same time, some things haven’t changed… I would rather not admit those.

As I keep alluding, my days of constant trips have been delayed and, at least for a little while, I will only be able to visit Turkey through my own memories, along with a few scattered Facebook albums and blog postings. But hey, I’ll take what I can get. Especially when “what I can get” includes some pretty delicious baklava right here in my hometown, Manhattan.

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