DISPATCHES FROM THE LONG WAY ROUND

Boston, Mass

2010-11-12T07:49:00.000-08:00

No, this is not a photo from Russia, where my husband and I were supposed to be right now, drinking vodka to ward off Siberian winds and paying bribes to local police. What? You mean I'm not in Moscow, freezing my backside off and drinking bitter tea from a piping hot samovar nearby? You've been imagining me reading Tolstoy near onion-domed churches, haven't you? And you couldn't decide if you were so jealous you could spit or wonder why in the world anyone would move TO Russia.

If you've been reading this blog, saddened by the absence of scintillating Internet reading because I haven't posted for three months, then take heart, camerado! I, oh great wanderer of the earth's four corners, have returned. Well, kind of. I'm in a new place doing old things. And some new things.

My husband, Zach, and I have moved to Boston, Mass, home of the Red Sox, Democrats, and the Revolution. Holla.

We're living, ironically, in a Russian neighborhood, not far from downtown. We work in Cambridge--same old job as before teaching ESL--and we're both applying to graduate school. The picture above is from the Boston Gardens, near the Common. Boston, I have decided, is my favorite place on earth. Although I love NYC and am now just a few hours away, so I really have everything I could possibly want.

We still want to travel, but, for now, we're kinda of enjoying settling down. It's like a guilty pleasure. Shh, don't tell anyone, okay? Did the gypsies finally find a home? I think so. I might be done, then, with this blog. Only because...I can't promise daring adventures abroad. What would I write about-my latest ride on the T? (That's the subway, for those of you not in the know). :)

I will, however, continue to write. As many of you know, I'm a children's author, focusing on middle-grade and YA fiction. And I like to write about other things, like how Jesus was a feminist and how the word asshat really cracks me up. This would not be the blog for that. Dispatches was originally created as a letter home from the Peace Corps. But Zach and I never made it to Africa or Japan or Russia or any of the other places we thought we were moving to in the past year. The only international trips it catalogues are the disappointing or imaginary ones.

So, here's the deal. I'll keep this post up for a bit, just in case I'm on your reader radar. Then, it's going the way of so many blogs I've started...downloaded to the hard drive. It has been an insane year. Thanks for reading...whoever you are, wherever you are!

Heather

Indy´d be Proud

2010-07-28T15:47:00.000-07:00

For the past few days, we´ve been staying in a little gem of a town in the Andes called Baños. The picture above is of their quaint park, which includes a lover´s bridge built into one of the trees. It´s a small place, surrounded by lush green hills and bordered by a raging river.

We started off the day on a beautiful drive from Quito. This is what we saw from the window for almost four hours.

This was the view from our room´s window. A good omen, indeed.

Waterfalls are common and horses parade through the hills. We saw this horse as we took a hike in the hills that overlook Baños. It rains a lot here because we´re getting closer to the Amazon, so you can tell it´s a drizzly day.

There also happens to be some wonderful natural mineral baths, heated by a nearby active volcano. These are what the town is named for and we´ve enjoyed relaxing our bones in the healing waters, supposedly flowing because of a miracle from the Virgin Mary.

The baths. Great view while soaking in them, no?

Shrine to the Virgin just outside the baths. Just beside the shrine is a beautiful waterfall that sends water to the cool baths. The hot baths are heated from underground.

There is a wonderful central market, where you can buy fruit, fresh smothies, and delicious food from kindly ladies.

Long walks through town have revealed all of its character. This is the Jesus barrio. In this Roman Catholic country, Jesus and Mary take center stage.

While we´ve spent a lot of time relaxing, we´ve been able to have a few adventures that Indiana Jones would be proud of. Namely, the crossing of a precarious bridge high over a river that threatens to drown whitewater rafters.

The setting of our daring maneuver.

Our bridge is the lower one. People were bungee-jumping off the high one.

The bridge in question. You can see how some of the boards have rotted away. Crossing it is done slowly, to avoid a foot falling through a hole. Though I´m afraid of heights, I couldn´t resist looking down and all around me.

Zach makes it halfway and stops for a breather while I take this shot next to the edge of a cliff. A strong wind would mean trouble for both of us.

Here I am, a bit smug because I made it all the way across...unfortunately, I also have to go back in order to get the ice-cream I´d promised myself. Nothing on this side but wilderness.

What adventure would be complete without a victory smooch?

Table for Two in Baños

2010-07-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

The backpackers wine and dine one another...

I found an interesting post by a couple that travels long-term in which they discuss a few things to think about before you decide to travel as a couple. I agreed with all of them, of course, especially the one in which they mention how you have to find time to be more than just "travel buddies." A few weeks into our trip now, we´re finally treating ourselves to a nice dinner at an Argentinian grill in Baños, Ecuador. In America we would have found this meal ridiculously cheap, spending less than thirty bucks for delicious grilled meats and wine in a cosy, intimate atmosphere. But in Ecuador, this is a big splurge for us. We actually went to a place where you have to make a reservation (although in typical South American style, they didn´t write the time down and gave our table away)! It´s funny because when you look at travel advertisements, it´s all about the romance. Couples walking hand in hand on deserted beaches, toasting glasses at candlelit tables, and dancing in European plazas. Travel=Romance, right?

In South America, we´ve got a budget of $50 a day between the two of us (and this includes our room). It can be difficult to find those romantic moments when you´re pinching pennies and turning down really cool activities that many a travel memory is made of. We´re certainly not staying in hotels that beg to be labled "A Night To Remember" and a meal at a popular restaurant without flourescent lights could very well break our bank. We find that most of our day is spent planning the next activity, dealing with hassles, and re-packing our bags. Rarely do we find ourselves serenly strolling through relaxing places. Instead, we´re moving quickly through throngs of would-be pick-pockets, as vigilent as Jason Bourne on a mission.

I´ve often maintained that travelling, while I like to think it lends an air of exoticsim to me when I´m at home, does the exact opposite when I´m abroad. From asking my husband to buy me an enema at a pharmacy in Lima "just in case" to smelling like a herd of elephants when my guesthouse doesn´t have hot water, backpacking offers few points to show my partner my sexy side. I imagine couples that use phrases like, "we summer in Monte Carlo" or "the Ritz is our home away from home," probably wouldn´t agree with me. But for the rest of us, those who pinch pennies for months or years to get a few weeks away in dodgy guesthouses and seats on long, grueling bus rides, travel usually entails a plethora of moments that you wish your partner had never witnessed. Backpacking is a challenge, and, as I´ve said before, often more work than work. Choosing a travel partner is a serious decision, one that, if you aren´t married or committed enough that you might as well be, should keep you up at night. Better to go with your girlfriends if you think a night spent shivering with fever in a city crawling with violent revolutionaries in India isn´t going to add more depth, love, and meaning to your relationship.

I often wonder how new couples do it, the ones who consider the time they ran out of gas and had to walk a mile to the nearest station on a beautiful sunny California day their most harrowing collective experience. Does it often end up like the train wrecks we see on The Amazing Race? (You know the ones: The girl who screams at her boyfriend when he´s going too slow on the challenge or the guy that stubbornly refuses to listen to the good advice of his female partner, resulting in an on-air fight so uncomfortabale that even the most seasoned reality TV show junkie has to look away)

I can only hope that they have been honest with themselves and each other, about their expectations and limitations. I hope the guys have made peace with the fact that shopping is a highlight of travel for many women and that souveniers are a necessary travel expense. I hope the ladies have squared themselves with the knowledge that they are just going to have to look crappy and that wearing make-up or hoping to maintain their personal sense of style is just not realistic. You have to want the same trip and know what is in store for you as a result of your budget. Zach and I travel so well together because we like to go to other countries and read there. Trekking is not our thing, although I´m sure if I was into it, Zach would be game. We never argue about where to go or what to do. In fact, we haven´t argued at all on this trip, so aclimated are we to one another´s wants and needs. Travel is definitely neutral territory for us and it has taken many years and trips to achieve that delicate balance.

Best of luck to all travelling couples...

We hope they are able to turn things around as we will be doing in a few days. Just after I wrote this post, things turned around for us and we´re moving on to a backpacker resort kind of place, which you can check out HERE. We´re finally on a budget friendly vacation after three weeks of roughing it. Nice rooms, pool, buffet breakfast, and gorgeous surroundings here we come!

Travelling Family Style

2010-07-28T13:36:00.000-07:00

A little over two weeks into our great escape, I find myself observing the travelers around me, wondering what their stories are and what brought them here. Before leaving the country, I browsed the web, searching for blogs by people who are a little bit like us: married nomads who live and travel as a lifestyle more than as a break from their regular life. I wanted to see how other people were able to do it, as we have never actually met another couple like us. I know they´re out there, but I had to search the web for them because I´ve never encountered them on the road. One couple has a very informative and interesting blog that I recommend for people who are considering this lifestyle. You can check it out HERE.

Today, my case study is a French family staying in the same modest guesthouse as us. Mom, Dad, and FOUR kids all under the age of ten or so. We first caught sight of them one evening as we were returning from a meal in town. As we walked through the little kitchen at the guesthouse, we noticed the family crowded around the counter, chopping veggies for a salad and boiling pasta. We caught them about a half hour later, sitting together around a large dining table, looking right at home. I half expected Dad to say grace. Mom was dishing out plates and Dad was admonishing the kids about table manners, in a good-natured French kind of way.

In the mornngs, we can hear the kids running up and down the driveway outside our window and on our way out to do whatever us childless folks do on vacation, Dad and Mom can be found in the guesthouse living room, preapring to get the kids out for the day. This morning, Dad was humming a sort of marching song as Mom threw out last minute directions in a cute French accent. Seen away from their kids, the husband and wife look like any other South American traveler with their hiking gear and daypacks. Set beside their children, this petit famille catches your eye. You can´t help but marvel at them, wondering how they are able to get these kids around a developing country in one piece. Will they return to France in need of a shrink or will they arrive triumphantly, regaling friends and family with tales of their exotic adventures?

I can barely get through this continent on my own, beset as I am with various health issues and a general sense of discomfort. Dirty sheets at hotels and long bus rides are hard enough for a party of two. I´ve actaully noticed quite a few families traveling in this region, something you just don´t see in Southeast Asia or India. My first was an American family of four travelling in Peru. They were standing in line behind us, waiting to eat at a popular expat cafe, trying, as Mom said, to avoid "a hunger meltdown." I kept an ear out, curious about how people travel with children to places other than Disneyworld, and was awarded for my Holmsian eavesdropping techniques when Mom nearly lost it in the former Incan capital after discovering that her young son had wiped his little hand across a bench...and then LICKED it.

Maybe these families are so apparent to me because my husband and I know that our backpacking days are coming to an end. It just isn´t as much fun as it used to be and it seems more exotic to just pick a place and live in it for awile. We´re just happening to pick a place in Russia, which still keeps us in the jet-setter loop, satisfying a need for adventure and a need for roots. I´ve always maintained that even after we have kids (someday) we will travel. I believe it was my high school drama teacher who told stories about how her parents rented an RV and drove around Europe, having the kids read books and study about the places they were going to. I found another family that is also doing something like this, but on an even grander scale. People do this, I know, but it´s been interesting to see it in action, when you yourself are dealing with the daily hassles of budget travel in cheap countries. Unless we become very wealthy (not likely), this is more what we´re looking at. And it seems a bit much for me. I want to share the world with my future children and I myself don´t want to take an eighteen-year break from extensive travel. When I was in high school, I was an au pair for an American missionary family in the Ukraine. They seemed to be able to maintain a good and comfortable life with their children while also having the amazing opportunity to spend a weekend in Yalta or buy fresh bread every morning from babushkas who rapped on the front gate, carting along their wheelbarrows full of dark, wholesome bread. Their kids learned Russian and had the gift of broad horizons and unique opportunities.

I think living abroad, where you and your children will be investing the effort into learning a language and taking things slowly, might be the way to go. For now, though, I don´t have to worry about traveling with children. I can observe from a safe distance and send up a few prayers for the brave nomads who are doing it already.

And On To Ecuador...

2010-07-25T13:19:00.000-07:00

Machu Picchu, Peru

We´ve been travelling for exactly two weeks and have three more to go on our South American adventure. To be honest, this may be the only trip I´ve ever regretted, at least in terms of the details. While I´m grateful for the opportunity we´ve had to travel this summer, I have to say that I think I´ve outgrown backpacking. Never say never, of course, but the charms are few and far between and I find myself trying really hard to enjoy myself. I can´t help but weigh the experience against the cost of the thing itself. I don´t regret travelling, but it might have been nice to do so for less time with a bigger budget. After a much needed cup of hot chocolate in a nice hotel that I couldn´t afford to be a guest at, I couldn´t help but wonder if that might be the way to go next time I travel. Maybe I´m (gasp!) getting older and just find traipsing about on a shoestring less than ideal. It doesn´t feel like a vacation and in some ways it´s more work than work. Maybe it´s a kind of job, traveling, but instead of getting paid in money, you get your salary from the huge checking account of human experience.

Here I am in our tiny room at El Cafecito in La Mariscal, Ecuador. We couldn´t resist the wonderful aesthetics of the place and decided to share what amounted to a closet with a twin bed for two nights. At ten bucks, it was the right price, but sleeping was a bit interesting...

But, we´re here and so trying to make the best of it. Machu Picchu was nearly a bust, with the clouds obscuring the awesome mountainous surroundings, but we were able to wait out some of the rain and mist for a few really stellar views. It is a very special place on Earth and I know I was fortunate to visit it, even if we did catch an uncommonly rainy day for the high tourist season. The day before, we´d had the chance to visit the Sacred Valley and observe the local festivities for some kind of festival honoring the Virgin Mary. The off-tune bands and dances with colorful masks and costumes were a traveler´s treat, so maybe our timing was kismet, after all. I was just thankful that we had accomplished one of our main tasks for the trip, as you never know what the travel gods have in store for you!

La Plaza Grande, Quito, Ecuador

Now that we´re in Ecuador, things seem to be brightening up (literally). It´s much warmer, for one, and the country and its people seem pretty relaxed. We´re in Quito, the capital, which is a beautiful place, surrounded by lush Andean hills. The old town is a UNESCO World Hertiage sight and we´ve had fun eating cheap and delicious almuerzos (set lunches) between stops at the baroque churches and inviting plazas dotting the city. It´s a large and busy city, with plenty to see and do. The New Town is full of hip Ecuadorian youth and some really interesting street art and political grafitti. Basically, it´s the opposite of Lima and I can´t count the number of times we´ve both involuntarily said, "Ecuador is so much better than Peru!"

Quito´s Old Town

Yesterday, we checked out the market at Otavalo, the number two thing to do according to our Lonely Planet South America on a Shoestring Guide (we did number one, Machu Picchu, last week, so we´re feeling pretty accomplished). It was certainly a highlight of the trip for me. The long bus ride there was a joy because we spent the time driving through picturesque Andean hills and countryside. Each look out the window was a photo opportunity and the bus was often boarded by women wearing beautiful traditional clothing, on their way to sell their wares at the market. The market itself was great fun, full of colorful stalls of Alpaca sweaters, colorful red and gold beaded jewelry, and frightening wooden masks. Boys pushed wheelbarrows full of coconuts and women in dapper fedoras and white blouses hawked their wares. We picked up a few souveniers and had fun just looking at all the people.

The Otavalo Market, Ecuador

Tomorrow we head to Banos, a popular tourist destination known for its thermal baths. This will be much needed after a few weeks of backpacking and a terrible sinus infection that I contracted in Peru. Because Ecuador has already been so great, this trip is certainly turning a corner and I think we will be able to walk away with some good memories. I have to keep reminding myself to enjoy it as much as possible and keep everything in perspective. It was only a few weeks ago that I felt like a lame old lady, a dowdy English teacher desperate for an international excursion. Be careful what you wish for...

Married Nomads in the Land of the Inkas

2010-07-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

In the Plaza de Armas, Cusco, Peru

Zach and I have been in Peru for five days. I can´t say they´ve been happy days, but they have been days peppered with happiness. That´s because Peru is cold and expensive. I don´t know the word for insulation in Spanish, but I don´t think Peruvians do either. We had a couple of negative, getting our travel legs back experiences that made me wonder why the heck I was lugging around this blasted backpack, anyway (unfortuante hostel decisions, unexpected and very costly plane tickets, and altitude-induced exhaustion). It doesn´t help that we got stuck in Lima for over 48 hours, which, trust me, is a bad way to start any South American adventure. Lima is a cross between Seoul and Los Angeles, so maybe the Koreans would love it, but we hated it. Gray, cold, ramshackle, crowded. But enough about Lima because it only deserves a few sentences anyway.

A woman in the ubiquitous hat and Peruvian blanket carrying goods or a child, ambles past our hostel window in Cusco, Peru

Point is, we´re travelling again and that´s cool. It´s all I´ve wished for since the last time I got out of the country, almost exactly two years ago, when we went to Costa Rica. But when you´ve traveled as much as we have (cynical Paul Therouxian traveler bitching about their cool life alert here), it all starts to feel like the same experience, but altered slightly. We always say Cambodia ruined us because once you´ve been to Angkor Wat, nothing, and I mean NUH-THING, can come close. Of course, now that we´re in Cusco, high up in the Andes mountains and surrounded by beatiful colonial architecture and women in bowler hats, it´s starting to feel like something new. And Machu Picchu is just around the corner for us.

Pretty La Plaza de Armas, Cusco

Thing is, the older we get, the more comfortable we want to be (duh) and the more health issues we have to deal with. For example, I´ve had a shoulder injury for the past year, which makes carrying a backpack for any length of time painful and I have to carry around a tempurpedic pillow to sleep on. Ok, we are only twenty-seven and we still have a very long list of places we intend to go. We´re not hanging up our backpacks yet. It takes time to remember to brush your teeth with bottled water and remember where the hell you had stashed your credit cards. It´s weird to know lots of people want to rob you and that parnaoid feeling stays with you the whole time, but is especially strong in the beginning (unless you live in Compton).

Women in traditional dress with baby llamas (alpacas?)in Cusco

We are cherishing the cool moments, like when I got to hold a baby llama (or was it an alpaca-which tastes very good, by the way) or when we got to walk out into a sun drenched plaza under a clear blue Andean sky, surrounded by gorgeous Spanish architecture and ringing church bells. Cusco is a combination of Europe, India, and a bit of Cambodia. Now that we´re out of Lima and have figured out how to stay warm at night, we can spend our days as lazy travelers, drinking in the sights and sounds, our hands around warm cups of coffee or mate de coca, reading books and NOT WORKING. Well, we do have to study Russian because we´re moving there in less than two months. Boohoo. It´s a charmed life, I know. I think there are always some necessary growing pains, just like any new life changes. Good thing we have each other when the growing pains become a bit too uncomfortable!

Zach at the San Francisco monastery, Lima, Peru

Free

2010-07-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

My husband, Zach, at the end of a tiny bridge in Thailand.

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life." How many times has this trite saying been uttered? Five million times? A billion? More than we could ever conceive? I was running through Trader Joe's yesterday, short on time and looking through their paltry selection of cards. I needed something for my bosses: so long, farewell, auf wiedershein, good-bye cards. They had one with that epic quote and I snapped my hand back, as if I'd been zapped. Yuck. You can't print that on a cheap card from Trader Joe's with a terribly drawn picture of...I don't remember. It was either a dog or a somber ocean watercolor. It's beneath the dignity of any situation in which one might give that card. If someone gave me that exact card, I'd open it and feel like I had just spent fifteen hours watching reality TV with too many commercial breaks. Probably because I'd be thinking, 'Man, I must be doing the most boring thing in the world that they make cards at Trader fucking Joe's for situations like this." Then I'd smile politely and remind myself that my life makes sense (in my world) and that my reaction was over-dramatic and clearly just a knee-jerk reaction to cheesy cards.

But I had to stop for a moment in the Arctic air-conditioning of a fashionable grocery store in L.A. and suspend my derision-because, hot dawg, that card shoulda been given to me if it was to be given to anyone at all! (Although, Lord, please don't give me that card.) On the very day I was juggling boxes of baklava for the teachers and other sundries for myself, itwas the first day of the rest of my life. Yesterday was the day that I quit my job and moved out of my apartment. It was a few days after my husband and I sold our car, most of our possessions, and bought two tickets to Lima, Peru. It was about two weeks before we got a last-minute job in Russia to teach English, a job that doesn't begin until September. Just enough time to backpack through South America and hit the Refresh button on our spirits.

So, now I've willingly joined the ranks of the Unemployed, the International Backpackers, and the People That Live With Their Grandparents. It's a strange feeling, being untethered. Freeing, yes. We are free of the daily grind and the painful longing to explore unknown lands. But this freedom, like all kinds of freedom, comes at a price. I've mentioned before about what you have to give up in order to live this kind of lifestyle. The good-byes at work were more bittersweet than even my cynical anti-establishment self expected. It was weird to leave our apartment, even though I've done nothing but complain about it. And, of course, we had to give up our beloved Man's Best Friend.

My husband has gotten a kick out of telling people what we're up to. Someone would come by our apartment to pay nothing for things we've loved but had to put on Craig's List. They'd ask where we were moving to, expecting, at worst, North Hollywood and, at best, New York City. But then one of us says that magic word: Moscow. The reactions are too good to resist. It's like a hit of pure, unadulterated Destiny. Their jaws drop, eyes go wide and then the babbling starts. (I love that babbling. It's one of those things actors work so hard at perfecting, but usually fail to pull off: nice Mamet-esque self interruptions and pauses.)

"Wha...? Moscow? But-wait, really?" We beam. We blush with pride and pleasure. We look at each other. Hell yeah, Moscow! Jealous?, our eyes say.

So, yeah. Yesterday was the first day of the rest of my life. We're up and out and the insanity of planning a last minute five-week trip to South America on a few thousand dollars has commenced. I know nothing about where we're going. I thought Machu Picchu was just a cool mountain and I didn't know that Ecuador bordered Peru. Whatever. My husband figures out the geographical logistics, anyway. What's important here is that I am no longer on the "settled" track. I vacillate between liking it on there and nearly jumping off the train. I have no idea what the future is going to bring. Honestly. We make plans and God laughs. Next time you hear thunder, that's Him cracking up because I'm somewhere in South America talking about something I'm fairly certain I'm going to be doing in the near future.

It's been a very stressful few days and for a while I wasn't sure where we were going, what we were doing, or why the hell we were putting ourselves through ulcer-inducing spasms of stress every night. I'm just happy we don't have to have the nightly conversation of "So, what the hell are our options today?" Or maybe we will, but it will be in Peru and we'll be trying to figure out how to have another awesome day on the road.

So, to end with a little quote of my own choosing from Ben Franklin that I hope not to find on a Trader Joe's card:

"Those who desire to give up freedom in order to gain security will not have, nor do they deserve, either one."

Back in the USSR

2010-06-22T09:43:00.000-07:00

The coat of arms of our new home!

Well, it looks like we finally have a plan. This past Friday, Zach and I signed a contract for a school near Moscow, in a town called Dzerzhinsky, to be precise. They have a population of about 45,000, so I'm expecting babushkas selling homemade sour cream on the street corners and markets with raw meat hanging by hooks. To me, this is preferable to mega grocery stores, but I confess that I will miss Target.

We have no idea what this town is like-for all we know, it could be full of Soviet block housing and coal mines. But, we do know it has a beautiful monastery in the city center. It's onion-domed and so very Russian-it gives me chills every time I look at the picture. The town is also on the bank of the Moskva River, which makes me think of late night clandestine events involving black fur coats and phrases like, "Do you have the documents?"

According to Wikipedia, the head of the local government was assassinated in 2006, so I may not be too far off the mark with my KGB fantasies. At any rate, we are very excited. I have long been fascinated by Russia and our trip there in 2007 was a highlight in all of my travels. We both adore the culture-especially the literature and rich theatre tradition. The home of Tolstoy, Stanislavsky, and the Bolshoi! Living near Moscow (D. is a suburb of Moscow) is a dream come true. I am SO glad that all the other jobs fell through in one way or another. This definitely has a fate-ish feeling.

All romanticism aside, I know it will be colder than Hades (my version of Hades is about Minnesota temperature or below). But, I plan to get a great coat, some cosy boots, and a good attitude (I think that might be shoved in a corner of a long-forgotten closet). We'll also have to study Russian while traveling in South America, which may sound strange to you, but is par for the course for me. I finally feel like things are falling into place and I can put this turbulent year behind me.

Nosdrovya!

Oysters

2010-06-13T17:59:00.000-07:00

"The world's mine oyster."
-The Bard

After a weekend of packing (and giving up my beloved dog, Pan), I'm plumb tuckered out. In addition to the stresses of moving, my traveling companion/husband and I still have no idea where we're going. We're putting things in boxes and wondering things like, 'What if I need this wherever I'm going? What if I'm going through all this effort and I'll just be back to unpack it all in a few months because my gamble didn't pay off?'

It's almost funny when people ask the usual question, "Where are you guys headed to?" Today we told people Morocco. Not because we are definitely going there, but because it's a place we're considering buying plane tickets for. We found out about a volunteer opportunity there and we also had it on our list of Places To Teach ESL That Don't Pay Well But Sound Incredibly Exotic. Truly, the world is our oyster, but I wish Shakespeare had said 'The world is your chocolate malt.' Oysters: their taste reminds me of tears and they're cold and slimy and don't fill me up. Oysters are expensive and contain a strange amorphous blob that's supposed to be good with champagne rather than pearls. Like travel, like being an expat, oysters are an acquired taste. But then... there's always those times when you do find a pearl inside this unexpected and unpretentious place and it's as if someone has just handed you the moon.

And this is why we are can't wait to go back out into the chaos of the unknown. However, both chaos and uncertainty seem to be the focus this past week and I'm wondering where my damn pearl is.

At the beginning of the week, we were busy preparing our documents to go to Japan. We'd been offered a job I wasn't at all excited about. However, it was the only decent job offer we'd gotten and the hourglass was running out of sand so we said, OK, we can live in Japan for six months. Of course, we got an email Friday morning-it's a no go. Apparently the school manager didn't like that we weren't OK with shady contract negotiations, so he pulled out of the deal. Can't say I shed a tear over that one, but it does send us back to our drawing board.

When we began looking for ESL work, we just assumed we could have our pick of the hundreds of jobs on Dave's ESL. We thought getting work as ESL teachers would be easier than it was when we went to Korea four years ago. But, despite all our experience and qualifications, nothing is really coming through. I think someone up there is forcing us in a different direction.

Please pass the road signs.

So, here we are. No dog, moving out of our apartment because the lease is up in less than three weeks, and no idea where the hell we're going. At this point, I'd also like to mention that we don't really have much money saved up. We assumed we'd be heading into a job, but instead we're heading out of one and into...question marks. Maybe this time we are actually embarking on our first real travel adventure. Though I've been to twenty-two countries and lived and traveled abroad for long swaths of time, this would be the first time that I really threw caution to the wind in such a dramatic way (unless you count that time we hitched a ride with strangers in Cambodia who may have been plotting our deaths but decided against it after they realized we were such nice people).

Fellow ESL teachers suggest just going to the country we want to teach in and something will come up. As a couple, however, it can be difficult to do that-especially in countries like Japan where a job comes with a single apartment that you have to pay rent on whether you want to stay there or not. I can't see myself going to an expensive country and waiting around until a job shows up. I can't afford to hang out in Tokyo indefinitely.

But what if we just went somewhere fairly cheap that we've always wanted to travel to? What if this stint abroad might not be an opportunity to pay off student loans and credit card debt, but rather a real wing-it experience where we work at hostels and teach and travel and see where the wind takes us? What if we bought two planes tickets to South America?

Are we really doing this? Are we going to buy two plane tickets to an interesting place and just hope it works out? Strangers are looking at our apartment and the For Rent sign is on the lawn. We gave notice at our jobs. I think we are. This blog just might live up to its name.

The Rush

2010-06-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

Three weeks from today, I will finish working at the only job that I've held for a substantial amount of time-and maybe the only one I will not curse as I leave. On the same day, I'll move out of my apartment (no love lost) after a two hour stint in traffic court to deal with a recent unfair ticket. In four days, I will give up the only pet I've ever really loved. In a little over a month, I expect to be living in another country.

Welcome to The Rush.

In some ways I think I live for it-this frantic period of time in which I'm trying to box up my life so that I can go have an adventure. It's certainly an adrenaline rush: the constant flurry of activity, the bittersweet moments, the celebrity status among friends and family. The phone's ringing, I spend money like I have it, and I am anything but bored.

I've experienced The Rush numerous times and as it gets closer, I itch for it. I don't want anything to get in the way of it. It's as if a gunshot goes off and we're finally in the race. We speed towards a finish line that has been a mirage for so long, breathless with the anticipation we've nurtured for months or years. Last year a dear friend of mine got to leave LA and I enviously watched as she ran around the city like a chicken with her head cut off, trying to tie up loose ends and prepare for her move to Boston. It's stressful, certainly, but there's this energy around a person who is going to change their life. It's like a special light is shining down on them as they throw away the certain for the unexpected. The air crackles and sizzles with possibility-but only for them. If you're someone who wants to move up and out, it's hard to be the one left on the tarmac.

And now it's me. The original plan has changed time and again and I'm still not completely certain where we're actually going. Amidst the chaos of writing lists and crossing things off of them, I'm left with aches and pains that only something of this magnitude can bring. I cry unexpectedly, am full of uncertainty. I dread living in another country one second and then remember how liberating it can be the next. I pet my dog a million times a day, as if I'm storing up his affection for all the days he won't be around. I agonize over what to pack and what to give to Goodwill. How many times have I gotten rid of something in a move only to regret it later? I can still tell you every book I gave away and it hurts each time.

The Rush is in full force and I vacillate between reveling in it and struggling to breathe. Was this what it was like every time before? Or am I just getting older? Maybe it's harder to part with things I worked hard for and made memories with, even though I know I can't ultimately take it with me to the grave. It's just stuff, right? Or friends...we'll still keep in touch and that'll be enough, right? Or all the places I intended to go when I lived here and now there's only a few weeks left and I just don't have the time. Dropped balls bounce in my mind as I make my way through a semblance of my former routine. I'm sort of dazed, sort of sick to my stomach, and completely unsure why it is I want to move abroad again.

But then my husband and I talk through all the reasons again and he sneakily says maybe we should just stay. NO! I cry this out, not sure why it's such a reflex. My brain and heart are having a personality conflict, but I feel I should go. Maybe I'm a junkie and it's just The Rush, telling me I want another fix. Roll-top desks come and go, as do sweet pets and good jobs. But the world is calling...it's calling.

Baggage

2010-05-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

"How much does your life weigh? Imagine for a second that you're carrying a backpack. I want you to pack it with all the stuff that you have in your life... you start with the little things. The shelves, the drawers, the knickknacks, then you start adding larger stuff. Clothes, tabletop appliances, lamps, your TV... the backpack should be getting pretty heavy now. You go bigger. Your couch, your car, your home... I want you to stuff it all into that backpack. Now I want you to fill it with people. Start with casual acquaintances, friends of friends, folks around the office... and then you move into the people you trust with your most intimate secrets. Your brothers, your sisters, your children, your parents and finally your husband, your wife, your boyfriend, your girlfriend. You get them into that backpack, feel the weight of that bag. Make no mistake your relationships are the heaviest components in your life. All those negotiations and arguments and secrets, the compromises. The slower we move the faster we die. Make no mistake, moving is living. Some animals were meant to carry each other to live symbiotically over a lifetime. Star crossed lovers, monogamous swans. We are not swans. We are sharks."

(from the film "Up in the Air")

If you haven't seen the film Up in the Air, don't. It's depressing as hell. However, this speech by George Clooney's character, Ryan Bingham, hit me hard and was maybe a bit close to home. I often travel to get away-not just from my country, which sometimes isn't exciting enough for me even though I love it, but from responsibility. For the record, I am one of the most responsible people I know when it comes to daily life stuff. But sometimes, I just want to turn off the to-do list and the guilt about not being a good enough granddaughtersisterdaughterfriendworkerchristian and just be as far away as possible from everyone except my husband. That's the honest truth. Because really giving your all to relationships-family, friends-and building a life and being content with that life enough to stick it out in one place for any length of time-I find these things to be difficult.

And I think it's because of baggage.

I come from a broken home. You need to know this because it's necessary exposition-not a crutch or plea for sympathy. My parents split up when I was three, my mother was pregnant at the time with my sister. My dad was in the military and we saw little of him. I've seen my dad more in the time I've been back in the States (two and half years) than at any other time in my life. We have pictures together and everything.

Mom got re-married to a man I have dubbed Satan Incarnate and she had two amazing little boys, who I love very much. So, I guess Satan has a good side, at least in my world. At the time, I was PISSED that we had to move from LA to Fresno, but looking back, I can see how awesome that ended up being-not Fresno, not our family life, but the friends I made and the experiences I had with them. In my formative years, I had one goal: go to college and make something of my life. I was terrified of ending up like my mother-single mom, no money or time for college and dreams. She impressed upon me-both directly and through example-how necessary it was to follow your dreams, but be prudent so that if your dreams take you to scary places, you have something to back you up when your emotional bank account has been emptied. I graduated amidst the usual family drama and spent a summer living with my best friends-they were band-aids after years of bumps and bruises.

By the time I went to university, I had a lot of baggage. A fractured family, a lot of student loans, and a spirit that was a bit tired. God love my husband-he saw all that and thought, "Hey, I'm up for the challenge!" When I look back at my life, it's not hard to see how every bad thing brought something good with it-whether directly or indirectly. Because of that, I consider myself blessed. My husband helps me carry the baggage now and without my knowing it, he must have thrown some overboard, maybe when we were flying over the Atlantic. I think there's some at the bottom of the Mekong too.

But I still have this baggage-we all do. I have a dog I love that I need to give up so we can live abroad again. I have a sister that I worry about who doesn't return my calls. I have little half-brothers struggling with their own baggage-their parents are divorced too. I have best friends I don't get to see enough and it makes me so sad I don't know their children well. I have a sick grandpa who I adore and I'm worried that if I go abroad I might not see him again. I have family I should be helping more and I feel selfish and guilty for taking so much time for myself. But still, I take out my backpack and set it on my bed that will soon not be my bed anymore. I pack up my life again, put it on my back, and carry it. I do this because I want to. I'm not a psychologist, but if you are, you might say I'm "running away" and I have "unresolved issues." Maybe. But there's something inside me, a quiet, but insistent voice that whispers, "It's time." I obey the voice and my husband and traveling companion hears it too. Our hearts lift, our spirits take a deep breath.

Travel is a joy and living abroad the most exciting thing I can think of doing. But it's not everything and you have to give up a lot to do it. It isn't ever as glamorous or free as it seems. You can run, but you can't hide. That sort of thing. I'm already dreading my good-byes and mourning the loss of things I love-whether it's my pup or my roll-top desk.

I can't be like Ryan Bingham-I can't throw everything away and just be a loner with one backpack that carries a change of clothes. It's heavy-all those expectations and disappointments and losses and love-but I'm going to carry it with me wherever I go. I'm just glad I have someone to help me.

Tamale Guy

2010-05-25T11:02:00.000-07:00

Travelers, like poets, are mostly an angry race.

-Sir Richard Burton

I live in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood on the West side of Los Angeles. Before I entered the seventh circle of renter's hell, complete with a schizophrenic pack rat in my building, I resided in a lovely duplex. Across from Sony Studios in pretty Culver City, it was a diverse, but fairly middle-class neighborhood and, as luck would have it, came with an angry German woman for a duplex neighbor. I think I have neighbor bad luck, or maybe that's just me blaming everyone for my own discontent. Although those Armenian mafia neighbors in Hollywood that slashed our tires weren't so lovely, either. But I digress.

From day one in our current dwelling, I have been the crotchety old lady who grumbles about the loud music, the parties, and the screaming children of my neighbors. My husband has been able to see the situation as an opportunity for cultural immersion and his ability to speak Spanish fluently certainly makes him feel more at home with the apartment building next door that is teeming with life. He loves how lively our neighbors are and how important family is to them. He thinks they're amazing for putting up with the hardships immigrant life has brought them, while still maintaining a joyful comportment. I, however, can't seem to enjoy the blaring games of Guitar Hero or the fiestas that happen every few months, complete with bounce houses and coyote howling. (I'd like to take a knee here to reflect on the nature of the Coyote Howl. This appears to be some kind of bonding activity at the parties of my neighbors. I'm not sure if this is a Mexican tradition or something the people near me enjoy doing, but I always know the night of partying has reached it's climax when the howls begin. It's like a secret language or maybe it's just our version of "Woo-hoo!").

It all drives me crazy, particularly because the activities I engage in on depend on only-the-wind-rustling-through-the-trees-and-blackbirds-chirping quiet. I write, I read, I journal, I gaze into the distance and use my imagination to create stories that will soon be written down. I used to do yoga, but found it impossible to feel calm and centered when loud mariachi music was blaring through the walls. It doesn't help that I'm the kind of person that loves nothing better than to throw open all the doors and windows and let air and sunlight into our dark abode. I've lived here for a year and each week has been fraught with frustrations: the loudness, the graffiti, the dirtiness, and-most of all-TAMALE GUY.

Tamale Guy, as we have named him, is a gentleman with an extremely loud voice who comes to the apartment building next to us to sell his tamales every Saturday and Sunday morning. The only time I have gotten to sleep in this year was this past month, when he appeared to have gone on vacation with his enormous tamale earnings. At around 8:30 this cabron begins shouting in a loud baritone, "Tamales, Tamales. TA-MA-LES!" He'll do this a number of times-just long enough to ensure that no one will be able to go back to sleep. About a half hour after his departure, one of the people across the way inevitably begins playing loud techno music, not bothering to close his windows or door. I blame Tamale Guy for this because he acts as some sort of alarm clock for the music aficionado whose stereo is placed directly across from my bedroom window.

Every weekend morning it's the same. We groan, grumble, throw pillows over our faces. In the stillness after Tamale Guy leaves, but just before the music starts up, I inevitably say, "Fuck. That. Guy." Then my husband agrees and I sigh loudly one more time and pray that I'll fall into a deep sleep before the music starts. But then the noise of the freeway registers or some kid starts playing basketball next door, loudly pounding the ball against the pavement, causing a great echo of thuds to reverberate throughout the neighborhood. Maybe a helicopter keeps circling overhead as it looks for a criminal running through the LA streets around us. Cue the techno music. Now, I rouse myself and get some caffeine and start my weekend in a slightly sour mood that can only be alleviated by caffeine. If the music across the way is too loud, I have to put my beloved book down and leave the house or take a long walk through my ugly neighborhood, scowling my way through the sunny day and the yards with flowers.

This whole experience with Tamale Guy has made me wonder whether I am up for the kind of traveling I've been accustomed to. I may not be the female Paul Theroux, but I've been around. I love learning about other cultures-that's why I'm an English teacher and love to travel. However, living in a neighborhood where I'm one of the only non-Hispanic people and quite possibly the only person who doesn't buy tamales in the wee hours of weekend mornings has been frustrating. In the time I've been back to the States, I've undergone some major life changes and I've gotten older. I'm anxious to see how these things will come into play when I'm back on the road, haggling over my dinner bill and sitting on the side of a dusty road while I wait for the bus tire to be fixed. I hope it all has the sense of adventure I come to expect from my time abroad. I hope my heart stirs at the thrill of it when my plane touches down and that ceaseless wonder works its way through my veins when my passport gets stamped.

Maybe my qualms with Tamale Guy and his cohorts have nothing to do with me getting older and losing my traveling edge. Maybe I just compartmentalize and when I'm at home I don't want to have inter-cultural frustrations (I get those every day at work in my job as an ESL teacher). Maybe it's OK when you're in your own country to want to hear your language and be on the same page as everyone else when it comes to culture and manners. Although, in America, our diverse communities make it seem as though we're all expats of a sort and I recognize that the lessons I learn while traveling are easily applied when I'm at home. I guess I could get up early and buy a tamale-but I also want Tamale Guy to know that in America, Saturday and Sunday mornings are sacred. I'd have a conversation with him about it, but we don't speak the same language and I don't want to go outside in my underwear. Maybe if I did, he'd tell me that he celebrates the sacredness of weekends by providing his neighbors with delicious tamales and would I like to try one?

My frustrations on Olin St. begs the question: has my long time back in the States without any lengthy travel turned me into a softie? Will I be able to get back into the groove as soon as my feet leave U.S. soil or will I be overcome with the lack of comforts (like my Tempurpedic pillow or my sparkling lemon water from Trader Joe's)? I hope I'll have no trouble handling loud tourists and crazy locals with my usual panache. OK, OK maybe my panache is an illusion and I'm your typical cranky veteran traveler. I can't deny I'm like this all the time, whether I'm at home or abroad. Maybe the only thing my time in the States has given me is a nice pair of rose-colored glasses. Big, paparazzi-ignoring ones with rhinestones. I'll probably be the same person when I skip town, just more willing to rough it and just as likely to complain about the things I don't like. Honestly? The locals of other countries can be just as infuriating as my neighbors. I'm just more forgiving because I know I'm the visitor and don't want to ruin my own vacation with bitching. Maybe the real difference between living in the States and being an expat is that being abroad is great fun and the pictures are a helluva lot more interesting!

Hell, maybe I'll even buy one of those tamales if I've got an early flight and an empty stomach.

On the Road Again...Sort of

2010-05-16T15:52:00.001-07:00

(Mount Tabor Park, with Mount Hood in the background, Portland, OR)

Last week, my husband and I went to Portland, Oregon on what was definitely the most adult trip we’ve ever taken. Our travel experiences thus far have largely been relegated to exotic, foreign locales with the odd domestic trip thrown in for family visits. It’s hard for us to get excited about going somewhere domestically, mostly because foreign travel is so, well, foreign. There’s something so liberating and exciting about crossing an ocean and landing in a place where the signs aren’t in English and nothing is familiar. It makes the heart-stopping costs and digestive problems worth it.

One of the major realizations we had when living and traveling abroad was how impossible international travel seems when you live in America. If you’re German, you can get in your car and drive a few hours to see what’s up in France. If you live in Asia, it’s very cheap to get a flight to Bali or Singapore. In the U.S., you’re limited to a couple of countries and it can still cost a few paychecks to get there. One of the reasons we were so loathe to come back to the U.S. when we were abroad is that we knew just how hard it would be to get back out. In fact, since we came back in December 2007, we’ve only gone abroad once—for a short beach vacation to Costa Rica. Other than a couple of trips to Minnesota and Illinois over the holidays, we haven’t left California. Some people would think we were lucky even to get out of town, but for diehard travelers like us, this feels like a kind of failure.

Our purpose for traveling to Portland was two-fold. One, neither of us had ever been there and everyone says we would love it. Two, it is one of the places we have seriously discussed moving to when we return to the U.S. after our next stint abroad. It seemed strange to tell people we were thinking about moving there “someday” without ever having been there. Generally, we’d prefer to reserve this mentality only for adventures abroad. So, we booked our tickets and met with some Portland friends in L.A. before we embarked on our trip.

It was a very mature idea. A very are-we-getting-old-? idea. But it had to be done.

We’re only twenty-seven, but, as our friend Tim recently said, “being married makes you at least five years older.” We’ve gotten to the point where the vast expanse of years ahead of us seem fewer because we also want to have kids and go to graduate school and be part of a community (friends would be an added bonus). We love taking the long way ‘round and intend to do it throughout our life, but sometimes that way leads to a dearth of meaningful relationships and constant re-adjustment periods that can be really draining. Because of that, we had decided that when we come back to the U.S., we’d like to try to stay in one place for a number of years—at least long enough to make a few friends. So, Portland.

(Oswald West State Park, OR)

Despite not needing a passport to get there, we were thrilled to be visiting a place we had never been before and we thanked our lucky stars it was not in California. It took us about two minutes to realize we loved the place, so concerns about whether or not we could live in Portland were put aside and we had no problems enjoying our very mature mini-break. It was, to say the least, a very strange traveling experience, mostly because it felt like we weren’t really traveling. We were staying at an $80 per night guesthouse with a convenient location. We had rented a car and we were in the United States. For us, there’s a distinction we unconsciously make between a “vacation” and “travel.” This was of the former variety. As a small, celebratory vacation, though, it was very fun. We got to have walks through gorgeous pines, sit on driftwood and enjoy beaches bordered by sweeping cliffs, and take big gulps of sweet air. We ambled around Astoria and spent hours browsing at Powell’s Books, the largest independent bookstore in the U.S. We indulged in good food, drank a lot of coffee, and simply enjoyed the aesthetics of the city.

In short, we got out of town. And sometimes, that’s all you need to feel like a traveler again.

(view from the top of the column in Astoria, OR)

Paths

2010-04-30T10:46:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow my husband and I will have to take a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad test in order to get into graduate school. Never mind that I don't even know if I will go to graduate school or if the program or school I choose will require the scores from this test. The test measures one's ability in math (HA!), verbal, and writing skills. Before this horrendous studying period of nearly three whole months, I had no idea what pusillanimous meant, but now I do. I'm not sure if this will help me in life, but it may score a few extra points when I have to find its antonym. I have been reminded that a circle is not merely an aesthetically satisfying shape or a metaphor for life, but instead a mathematical pain in the ass. Again, not sure how this will help me navigate my way through foreign lands or family reunions, but I'm no soothsayer.

What this test has meant, in terms of the long way round, is that my husband and I have forced ourselves to think about that other path in life. Not that we haven't discussed going back to school about 5,000 times, but actually studying day in and day out for a really hard test has brought the subject to the forefront of our minds. Over the years, there have been many times that I've declared that I would be sending in applications only to be discouraged by the fact that I have changed my mind yet again about what I want to do in my life. I'm also not sure about spending all my money on classes instead of plane tickets. Here again, I am confronted with my generation's existential dilemma. When the world is your oyster, which pearl do you choose?

Is going back to school taking the long way round? I guess it depends on who you ask. We certainly have no plans to go back to school in the next year. We have already sent teaching applications to Morocco, Oman, Moscow, and Albania. I wouldn't trade that experience for any Master's Degree. However, as someone who geeks out over school and loves the validation that higher learning gives me, I can't help but wonder what this test will mean for my life. Good or bad scores, the effort we have put into preparing for this test is a testament to the fact that we continue to be pulled between two worlds. Maybe that mentality is the problem right there. Maybe there aren't two paths, two worlds. Maybe it's just our path and our world and as long as we navigate it together and keep our passports nearby, we'll always be taking the long way round.

Classroom Traveler

2010-04-15T22:09:00.001-07:00

(Me, very happy, in Goa, India)

My husband often reminds me that even though I'm not gallivanting around the world at a dizzying pace, my life still falls under the category of "exotic." Personally, I think he's able to look on the bright side of our extended shore-leave in the USA because he's originally from Minnesota and still gets a kick out of the fact that it's not snowing buckets in the middle of April. While it's true that a lot of people think that living in Los Angeles is a dream come true, it's not my dream come true and, at the end of the day, that's what counts to me. Sure, it's not every day a girl can reminisce about the time she made a latte for Robert Downey Jr. or saw Lucy Liu at a late-night diner. But, with The Big One looming on the horizon, who cares about star sightings?

Nevertheless, it's all about perspective. If you've got to be stuck in the States instead of exploring faraway lands, the best thing to do is surround yourself with people from those mystical places every day. As an ESL teacher in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, I've probably had more inter-cultural interactions in my hometown than I'd ever had as an expat.

To wit:

Today, my class consisted of students from Saudi Arabia, China, Korea, Germany, Taiwan, France, the Czech Republic, and Tunisia.

On a daily basis, I hear at least ten different languages being spoken-and I don't even realize how weird this is. I call soccer "football" despite my alma mater because (a) if I don't, my students get confused and (b) I tend to agree that this is a better name for the sport. I have to explain average yearly temperatures in Celsius and have been known to translate Jay-Z lyrics on the fly. The amount of Americans on our campus is the clear minority and of those Americans, most of us have lived and worked abroad and many speak more than one language themselves. The break-room is full of youngish world travelers discussing the pros and cons of various international hot spots or doing dead-on impersonations of our Thai and Middle Eastern students.

One of the words I've had to explain this week was "circumcision" and I gave an impromptu very abridged version of early US history in relation to the film, National Treasure. I also had to explain to my student from Hungary why Americans don't really want to know how you are when we ask "how are you?" and that this is not a sign of rudeness, but rather the fact that we are Puritans who believe in privacy and not airing our dirty laundry.

Each day, I interact on a very personal level with people from entirely different cultural and religious backgrounds than mine. The result has been so profound that I'm only now realizing how these strangers who flit in and out of my life are shaping my entire world view. In fact, I don't know if I will ever be able to fully comprehend the extent to which these students have enriched my life and given me the gift of travel even when I don't have the means to get on an airplane.

So...perspective. Though I'm not traipsing through ancient ruins or hailing rickshaws, I can't forget that my daily grind would be a distinctive and memorable experience for the average American. I'm trying to be a bohemian on my best behavior, but sometimes the collective sights and sounds of my classroom make me restless, as if I've been at the airport waiting to get on my plane, passport in hand, for almost three years. The next time one of my students leaves to go back home, crossing international borders and flashing their documents at customs officials, I just might not be able to stop myself from shouting, "Take me with you!"

We'd laugh, I'd say goodbye, and we'd never see each other again. Our journey together would be over and neither of us would ever be able to truly measure how far we had traveled together. For now, I'm just a classroom traveler, but my passport is ready and my backpack is light.

(Teaching students at the ASPECA orphanage in Battambang, Cambodia)

Instant Smiles and Laughter Guaranteed

2010-03-26T19:11:00.000-07:00

This will be a short blog, basically encouraging all readers to leave my blog and check out Artbox, my favorite Korean stationary company. You can find them HERE. Sometimes there were dark days in Korea. Days when a Korean child or tween would scream, "HELLO NICE TO MEET YOU!" and then run off with their gang of Elementary school friends, laughing at their bravery. My pale, white face would instantly go red and before I had a chance to scowl with what little self-respect was left me, every Korean on the street would stare at me. I could literally stop traffic. There were days when I thought I would die because it had been weeks since I'd had cheese, or salsa, or green beans. There were shopping trips with nothing that fit my curvy, Western figure and meals out where I would stare at the waitress and simply smile and shrug in embarrassment as I pointed at a random menu item written in the Korean language. As she bowed slightly and walked away giggling to herself, I would silently pray that an octopus wouldn't land in front of me when she came back to my low table.

It was after these times that I went to Artbox, my haven within the chaos. It was my refuge, the church I could go to and laugh and smile and appreciate the sweet aspects of the Korean character. Phrases like "Happy good time let's be green and have the world peace now, ok?" on stickers and notebooks was enough to get me through many more mouthfuls of Kimchi. There were good things about Korea, but this was the best (well, aside from the salary and travel opportunities and health care). So, do yourself a favor and check it out. It saved me from my bad days and it might just save you from yours.

Under New Management

2010-03-25T21:24:00.001-07:00

From now on, I, Heather, will be writing for this blog, taking it over in much the same way that Napoleon conquered most of Europe. Well, not the same way, as Zach is totally willing and happy to have me do so. You can check out his blog, Ten Minute Theology, HERE.

You may be asking yourself, "But aren't they going to write about their Peace Corps adventures together?" In a word: no. Unfortunately, I was medically declined to go to the Peace Corps because of my pesky migraines. This is probably a blessing, as we have both felt extremely relieved that God saved us from two years in the sticks of Africa. Truly, we intended to go, and sometimes wanted to. My mantra had been, "I just need to get on the plane. I just need to get on the plane." But, it's their loss. Considering I just got denied medical coverage by the Aetna health insurance company for the same reason, it's safe to say that those of us with migraines are simply discriminated against. Zach and I will do something soon, but we are still mulling over that. I will be the primary chronicler of our adventures, but he will certainly be my star guest blogger. This blog is now expanding to include a plethora of topics, but, alas, it will not enrapture you with stories of things that go bump in the night in Africa (unless, of course, we travel there).

So, yes, this has become a "lady blog," whatever that means. Maybe I was inspired by Julie Powell (except for the whole cooking expensive food and cheating on your husband thing). Maybe I was underestimating my life here in LA, thinking I had absolutely nothing worth writing about unless I was going to the Peace Corps or traveling the world, only to discover that, yes, I do have things that may interest a peruser of blogs. Interacting with people from all over the world every day is pretty exciting, not to mention that as one of the few married twenty-something's in LA that has been married for over five years, I might actually have some insight into how to be married and stay so.

Or maybe I'm terribly narcissistic and like to write. Probably the later and possibly the former. At any rate, this blog will document the journey of a woman taking the long way round, peppered with insights from her traveling companion and husband, Zach. Hopefully there will be dispatches from the far corners of the earth and certainly you'll hear about unexplored mental and spiritual terrains just waiting to be discovered.

So, in the words of my dear, deceased friend, Walt Whitman:

"Allons! The road is before us!
It is safe-I have tried it-my own feet have tried it well-be not detain'd!
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the
shelf unopen'd!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain
unearn'd!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the
court, and the judge expound the law!

Camerado! I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?"

Young Love

2010-02-01T20:52:00.000-08:00

With Valentine's Day coming up, I wanted to reflect on the subject of this blog-our marriage. We made an unconventional decision to get married at a young age and many people-old and young-have often been curious as to why we didn't just shack up. So to begin the story (commentary to follow in further posts), I thought I'd write a bit about why we got married in the first place.

Zach and I got married when we were twenty-one years old. It was 2004 and it was my senior year of college. While most of my peers were feverishly applying for internships and worrying about job prospects, I was dragging my grandpa to Michael's to help me determine whether velvet or satin ribbons would be best for the aisle decorations. I took my fall semester off because I had enough credits to graduate in the spring and I didn't want to compromise my dream of an Autumn wedding by getting married in June, after graduation. To top it all off, a few months before we got married, Zach and I quit our canvassing jobs to briefly move out of state for a huge get-out-the-vote effort that paid peanuts and had us working fifteen hour days. Between calls searching for Precinct Leaders I was finalizing the details of our homemade wedding and dreaming of revolution. And a couple of months before the wedding, we got our first tattoos; I got a Picasso peace dove and Zach got the logo of Amnesty International. Suffice to say, we were a couple of broke-ass young idealists. I'm sure both of our mothers spent a few sleepless nights wondering what in the world their kids were doing getting married in such a financial and developmental state.

While people were surprised at our decision to marry before we had even finished school, we had a very "why wait?" mentality that most of our friends and family found difficult to argue with. We shot down their bewildered concerns with impassioned speeches about love and life being short (look at John and Yoko!) and told them that we would grow up together. Had we been really sneaky, we could have made them feel bad that they were suggesting that living in sin was a viable alternative. The truth is, we both knew we'd found "the one." And, sorry everyone who hasn't, the answer to your question really is that "you just know." We knew that we could just live together and get married when "the time was right," but then we got to thinking...when is there a right time when you know that you have the right person? The answer was obvious: ASAP.

Because of our career interests and desire to travel and change the world, we knew we would never have money for a big wedding or a house to move into right away. We didn't want either anyway, so that kinda worked out perfectly. We were both gypsies who wanted to go on adventures together-and we wanted to traipse about the world after we had made a beautiful promise to one another, witnessed by our nearest and dearest. I wanted a ring and Zach was willing to spend the remainder of his savings on it (sweet guy!). We were planning on moving in together anyway. We knew we wouldn't want kids for a long, long time. So, really, what would be the point of waiting? There was none and as soon as we knew that, we moved forward with our characteristic gusto.

That isn't to say that we weren't aware that our choice was very strange for our demographic. We were surrounded by a lot of intelligent and ambitious peers and getting married was probably the furthest thing from most of their minds. We went to a very expensive and well known private university and had both been enrolled in programs that were very career-oriented. I had also already accumulated mounds of student loan debt. Zach and I had to have a lot of conversations about our future and promises were made about where we would live and how we would support each other's dreams. Of course, we never thought we'd both change in all the ways we have, but we've changed together (and that is a story for another blog!).

Despite making a seemingly un-feminist choice, when I got engaged, all the girls in my classes oooh'd and aahhh'd over my ring and pressed me for details about my wedding. They looked at me in awe as I described the proposal and they shyly asked me questions about my impending domestic bliss and whether or not I would keep my maiden name. They didn't seem to think I was a small town backwards hick for my choice, much to my relief. By the time I had gotten married and was sitting in classes during the final semester of my senior year, I can safely say many of the women I spoke to seemed to be jealous and I couldn't help but feel relieved that I wouldn't be going into the next chapter of my life alone. The fear of the unknown post-collegiate life was palpable during that last semester of school, masked by a giddiness over graduation parties. As a Mrs., I felt like I was able to float above the tension, knowing that whatever life threw my way, I had already found the person I would share it with (which is well more than half the battle, if you ask me). I may have been a little smug at my graduation ceremony as I held my diploma in my be-ringed hand.

So why did a work-study girl with a hopeless degree (Theatre) and thousands in student loans get married before she had even finished school? I had always wanted to be married *someday* and I had distinct opinions about what kind of wedding I would have and what kind of marriage I didn't want. Being a child of divorce, I was determined to make the right choice and I certainly had no plans to be saddled with a baby at nineteen, as my mother had been. I also knew that I wasn't really the housewife type, although I like to keep a nice house, and that I didn't want children for a long time. My decision to get married so soon seemed to come out of nowhere. Though I'd always been a hopeless romantic, it didn't jive with my collegiate life. To wit, when a few ex-boyfriends (yes,a few) were informed by my roommates that I was getting married, their shock resembled that of Al Gore on Election Night 2000.

I blame my best-friend, Sarah. Until she got married to another dear friend of mine in 2003, I was OK to wait for a bit. Of course, seeing her go through it all just convinced me that marriage was the right way to go and being a product of my generation, my desire to instantly be gratified won over my plans to be a true bohemian. While I longed to be the kind of woman who could say that marriage was bourgeois and that I was evolved, I wanted my diamond ring and white dress and promise of fidelity. So, after many long discussions and a few tears, Zach and I were engaged.

Looking back, I can't help but wonder how many people had placed bets. We were probably the kind of kids that jaded, lonely individuals found easy to make fun of. I'm sure it appeared as if we would soon be the subjects of cautionary tales and "I-told-you-so" conversations. All I can say is that being married-to the right person-is a blessing. I look at the young women around me and the culture of sexualization that they are constantly subjected to and I just feel grateful that not only did I find a wonderful partner to share my life with, but that we both had the courage to go against the grain of our generation and be the "married people." It hasn't always been easy growing up together. There were growing pains, but just like any other time of growth, you come out of them stronger. It's pretty cool when people are so shocked when they find out we've been married for over five years. Zach and I always want to do things a bit differently and it kinda cracks me up that with our generation, us getting married young is the revolutionary thing to do. As long as people continue to raise their eyebrows in surprise over the things we do, we're on the right track.

Three Cups of Tea

2010-01-23T15:00:00.000-08:00

I recently finished reading the book Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. It had often caught my eye at bookstores and Zach chose to get it for me for Christmas because I have been so upset over Afghanistan. I also really needed something inspiring to read, rather than the depressing Peace Corps memoirs I had been subjecting myself to throughout the fall. Tales of failure are not the best reads for someone who intends to embark on a journey to the developing world to volunteer, although I am an advocate of going into things with your eyes wide open. The book has become one of the most inspirational books I have ever read and has given me newfound faith in humanity and individuals. Let me explain:

I don't want to divulge too much about it because I think EVERYONE should read this book, but I'll give you a brief non-spoiling synopsis. Three Cups of Tea is the story of American mountain climber/nurse Greg Mortenson and the humanitarian work he almost literally fell into. After attempting to climb K2, one of the highest mountains in the Himalayas, Greg happened upon a small Pakistani village in a valley at the base of the mountain range called Korphe. The people he met and the poverty he saw led him to what has been over ten years of building schools all over Pakistan and Afghanistan. This one man has changed the lives of thousands of people and his particular goal has been to open schools for girls, realizing the necessity of empowering girls and women in developing countries. A regular American guy working on his own in Muslim countries to open schools for girls is practically unheard of. The book talks about his trials and tribulations and the amazing blessings that have come along the way. He is proof that one man can make a difference and can begin changing the world simply through courage and determination.

There is an African proverb I learned as a child in Tanzania, ‘If you educate a boy, you educate an individual. But if you educate a girl, you educate a community.'
- Greg Mortenson

If you are interested in ordering the book, you should get it HERE because a percentage of the book sales go directly to support his work. You can also donate to the organization that mountaineers and regular people helped him start called The Central Asia Institute. You can check them out HERE. He has another book, Stones Into Schools, which I plan on reading soon. This one is specifically about his work in Afghanistan and how what he is doing is actually a better way to fight terror in such a volatile region than more troops and guns. In fact, Three Cups of Tea is already required reading for high level officials in the American government. I have hope that one or both of these books will convince the powers that be that we can win the war on terror with books, not bombs. With the surge in Afghanistan and the recent attempted bombing of the Amsterdam/Detroit plane, it is so important that we constantly seek new ways to have a dialogue with the people stuck in the middle of all of this: innocent Muslim civilians who suffer daily from poverty and lack of education in addition to having their villages become conflict zones.

As a teacher and future peace worker, I strongly believe that the reason the Taliban, Al-Qaeda, and other terror groups are able to recruit jihadists is because these young men are poor and uneducated and they feel they have no other option. Terror is also easier to justify when they see American drones accidentally killing their friends and families. An even bigger problem are the madrassas, fundamentalist Islamic schools that terror groups use as a recruiting base. The way Greg Mortenson sees it, if WE build the schools, then kids aren't forced to get their education from Saudi-funded madrassas. They can get a balanced and real education that will enable them to lift up themselves and, ultimately, their communities.

In December 2009, Bill Williams from the Boston Globe wrote this in his review of Stones Into Schools:

From the start Mortenson has focused on educating girls, who often have been barred from school for cultural and religious reasons. He stresses the “ripple effects of female literacy’’ and persuasively hammers the theme that secular education is the best way to counter Islamic jihad. Young men seeking to join a militant jihad often seek permission from their mothers “and educated women, as a rule, tend to withhold their blessing for such things,’’ Mortenson writes.

Part of why Zach and I end up taking the long way around life is simply because hearing stories like this inspire us and make us want to ACT. When you read this book, you'll see why this path can be rocky and challenging. We have no idea what our future holds, but we hope that we will be able to make a positive impact on the poor and oppressed. If we achieve even a fraction of what Greg Mortenson has, we will feel blessed.

William Butler Yeats's The Second Coming is quoted in Three Cups of Tea and I thought it very timely, given the state of the world and our place in it...I hope we can all work together to eradicate terror and replace it with joy and dignity:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,/The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere/The ceremony of innocence is drowned;/The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity.

The Long Way Round, defined

2010-01-18T01:25:00.001-08:00

When I thought of the name of this blog, it came from my favorite Dixie Chicks song (OK, there are only two Dixie Chicks songs I know, but this one is my favorite. Besides, Travelin' Soldier wouldn't work). The whole song is about this gal who just couldn't follow what everyone else in her town was doing. They stayed and got married and had babies, but she had the urge to be a gypsy, so she traveled around the world having all manner of song-worthy adventures. The chorus, though, sums up the whole journey, "Maybe someday, someday I'm gonna settle down, but I've always found my way somehow by takin' the long way round."

She's open to that final destination (on her own terms), but she knows she can find her way in this life by taking the scenic route. And let me tell you, WHAT a scenic route it can be! Sometimes it can be physically painful to look through our travel photos from just a couple of years ago. Wanderlust is really hard to define for people that don't have it. You try to explain and they sort of tilt their heads quizzically to the side, observing you as if you were some rare bird at the zoo.

So, to further illustrate what it looks like when you Sunday-drive through life, I now present some snapshots, beginning with our first international trip together, a month-long backpacking "honeymoon" in Europe. This was a major learning experience for both of us, as travelers and as husband and wife. We quickly learned that only one of us could be in charge of the map (Zach) and that I could be surprisingly bold when necessary; I may have lied to armed guards about the dates we fudged on our Eurrail pass in order to get an extra trip (and little ol' me might have insisted it was simply a clerical error).

We also learned what kind of travelers we were (we don't like museums and we will avoid other tourists at all costs). We found hostels to be both awesome and gruesome. We learned that, indeed, taxi drivers ARE jerks. We also, thankfully, learned that the locals piss on the Blarney stone, so we didn't kiss it. Vienna has the best beer, Chianti the best wine, Budapest the best speakeasy, and Amesterdam...well, depending what you do there, it has the best EVERYTHING.

(This is Zach sitting on the floor in an Underground station late at night. We'd walked all over the city and out of a restraunt after sitting down because all the food was too expensive! Cold and tired, we found a warm "pastie" stand and enjoyed our little meal. All we needed was to have Oliver Twist plop down next to us.)

(Even the Motherland was a whole new world...and bloody cold! We were so jet-lagged in London that we were lucky to see this helpful sign or our entire honeymoon may have been spent in a British hospital!)

(The Fehsts enjoying our much loved Guinness at an authentic Irish pub in Dublin. We want to live in Ireland at some point in our loves...no, really.)

(This is the only Amnesty International Cafe we've seen. It's great! It was in Dublin and totally inspired us because we realized we could open up the coffee house we always wanted to, but be activists at the same time. Free trade everything, Amnesty products, peace on earth. Stay tuned for one in the US.)

(A performer on Barcelona's famous Las Ramblas, a pedestrian street full of life. We loved the energy of the city, which quickly became one of our favorites in Europe. One of the best surprises of our whole trip was coming to Barcelona during the city's annual La Merce Festival. The city was alive with free performances, parties, dancing in the streets, and music EVERYWHERE!)

(Barcelona, Spain. We really enjoyed tapas, gazpacho, sangria, and beer in the city. BUT, it was rare that we got to sit down at restaurants. By the end of our trip, we had vowed to mostly eat bread and cheese from local grocers. If you want to be able to afford to take the long way, you have to forgo some traveling luxuries...but you also have to give in sometimes because food is a huge part of understanding and enjoying other cultures. By the time we left Spain, we were already talking about the concept of balance.)

(Sleeping conditions vary when you take long way round. This is Heather in her "couchette," the sleeping quarters in European overnight trains).

(Of course, Venice, Italy is beautiful, but it was so touristy that we vowed never to return. The trip to Europe really helped us learn our likes and dislikes. We realized what kind of hostels not to stay in and that places crawling with tourists can feel like a mall rather than an adventure).

(This was a wall in our hostel in Florence. While everyone else stayed at fancy B and B's, we loved our cozy place full of smelly backpackers doing their laundry in sinks and new friends drinking cold beer and trading worn paperbacks. We also enjoyed the fact that a fellow Trojan must have stopped by...there was a huge 'SC scrawled on one of the walls.)

(Florence, Italy. I'm badgering Zach about putting up a photo collection of all the amazing street art he photographed during our trip. There were so many statements all over the place. We love this one.)

(Florence, Itlay. We rented a Vespa and it would have been romatic if we hadn't had to deal with the lack of driving laws in Itlay. However, once we got to the countryside and Chianti, we enjoyed olive gorves, sunflowers, and old Italian ladies. We also stopped at a quiet little cafe on the side of the road and had the BEST house red in the world. It was one of the best parts of the trip-just getting away and into the countryside. It helped define for us what traveling was really about. SPOILER ALERT: This won't be the first time Zach nearly kills us on a motorbike.)

(Florence, Italy. Sometimes you just have to put up the sexy We're-In-Europe picture. It was rare for us to get one of those photos because another thing we learned about our travel style was that we don't like pulling out the camera much. It ruins it for us and everyone else. I think we got more out of our journey than a lot of other people, simply because we saw Europe through our own eyes, rather than that of a video or camera lens.)

(We weren't in Vienna long, but we had the chance to hear some amazing violinists on the street. This was the kind of Europe we had imagined).

(The Aquarium Hostel in Budapest. We LOVED this place. It was so cozy and the staff felt like family. It further solidified in our minds that we are not hotel kind of people. Hostels add so much to a trip and allow you to really feel like you are in a unique place. This was, however, the first place we discovered that bed bugs really do exist).

(This is another oldie, but goodie. One of our favorite things about our trip to Europe was Budapest's Statue Park. It may seem boring to some to go to a field outside Budapest and look at the city's old Soviet statues, but it was our trip to Europe that really solidified our decision to avoid museums as much as possible.)

(Budapest really fulfilled one of our favorite quotes: "Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God." My college roommate, Stephanie, had suggested Budpaest over Prague. We wandered the Eastern European city, wondering what the heck two vegetarians (formerly) were going to eat when we lighted upon a "speakeasy" called Fat Moe's and I was served my first Stella Artois in a gold-rimmed glass.)

(Of course, on any trip there are certain places that you would be absolutely stupid not to visit. So, in Berlin, we went to the Berlin Wall. The grafitti and artwork about peace were amazing and the whole city was a testament to progress. We found Berlin to be very cosmopolitan, despite being slightly creeped out by its history. For Heather, a WWII buff, it was surreal)

(Traveling should also involve pilgrimmage to give it an underlying sense of purpose. For Heather, getting to walk inside the Berliner Ensemble's theatre and take a picture next to a statue of her beloved playwright, Bertolt Brecht, was sublime. Too bad they only had a reading that night (in Deutsch, natch.)

(Who needs an introduction? This is Amsterdam, my friends. To be specific, our favorite smartshop (a place that sells magic mushrooms, et al.) called Conscious Dreams. Staffed by biologists, with a groovy vibe and mysterious cat, this place is one of our favorites on earth. Period. Being here at Conscious Dreams brought our relationship and view of the world to a whole new level. It's very difficult to explain to anyone who hasn't tried a hallucinogetic drug in a safe place, but we did and are forever grateful.)

(And, obviously the populace of Amsterdam agrees...Funny signs are everywhere when you travel and we never tired of pointing them out.)

(But legal drugs weren't the only reason we came to Amsterdam. As a WWII buff, one of Heather's great dreams had been to go to the Anne Frank house, which we did. We saw her diary and the pictures she had taped to the wall next to her bed. We walked the streets of her beautiful city, the words of all Jews echoing in our minds as we looked at the peaceful canals and beautiful architecture, "Never Again.")

(Saint Malo, France. Here is Zach standing among some strange wood fence on the desolate, foggy, lonely beach on the coast of Brittany. We came here to visit Heather's college roommate, Stephanie. She and Jamie, a girl that would later become one of our dearest friends after moving to Korea and teaching with us, were teaching English in the small town. A weird, but fun, stopover. It was cool to see friends living in Europe, even if they were in one of the loneliest places in the EU. It's also weird how travel brings people together-that trip to Saint Malo yielded such a great friendship down the road.)

(En route to Paris, our final destination: We were both sad that the trip would soon be over and we began to feel nostalgic about all our train trips over the past month. But, we were anxious to get to Paris and also a little ready to go home to Minneapolis, where we didn't have to wash our clothes in the bathroom sinks of grimy hostels.)

(This was taken by Heather during our first morning in Paris. Despite our eventual disappointment with the City of Lights, she felt like a long cherished dream had come true: opening her window and, if not seeing the Eiffel Tower, than gazing on the beautiful architecture of the city. She would have gasped louder if there hadn't been strangers sleeping in the room.)

(Paris, France. Oh to be young and free! This is us with our college friends, Christina and Brian, who happened to be in Paris at the same time! We spent a night feeling the energy of the city, eating dinner in the Latin Quarter, sharing a cheap bottle of wine and cigarettes along the Seine (pictured), and just reveling. We usually like to travel alone, but it was so fun to paint the town red with some friends.)

(Heather sitting under the Eiffel Tower, giggling about how awesome it is that it lights up at night and sparkles on the hour! We spent a lot of time here, just because you get kind of drawn to it. And, of course, another dream come true for Heather.)

(Paris, France. Our last day. OK, we drained these glasses in the morning before our flight...and we didn't feel bad about it! This picture kind of represents our time in Europe because it was just the two of us, navigating our way through nine countries in four weeks. It wasn't always fun, as we experienced some traveler's growing pains and learned a lot about each other as we approached our first wedding anniversary. But, in the end, we were so grateful for the chance to go to Europe and it only made us hungrier for the rest of the globe.)

(When we took this picture at the airport on the way home, we should have told our bags, "You ain't seen nothin' yet!)

It's Not Me, It's You...er...

2010-01-18T00:33:00.000-08:00

(Hanging out on the Santa Monica Pier)

It's been rough finding a clear direction for this blog, considering our life here in LA is pretty boring and writing about it for my limited readership seems like an exercise in narcissism. Instead of "Taking The Long Way Round," (the title suggesting grand adventures as we circumvent the milestones of marriage) we seem to be plodding along a road well-traveled by most of our generation. Like many educated twenty-something's, we're scrambling for hours at jobs we are thankful to have, but not excited about. In our case, we work nearly nine hours a day, teaching English to wealthy students who generally don't really want to be in our classes. We live in an expensive city that makes our money disappear quickly, we've got debt and we don't like it, and we wonder about graduate school and all the stresses that can potentially go along with expensive higher education in a recession. We want meaningful work and we want kids "someday." So far, pretty standard for my generation.

I try to remind myself that our extensive travel sets us apart and that even though it may look like we're stuck in LA like everyone else, this is simply an extended layover. Being twenty-seven and married for over five years is also pretty unique for our demographic. Then there's the whole Peace Corps thing.

Of course, why is this notion of being "set apart" from my generation so important? I'm certainly not a better person, although my close friends will confirm that I have tendencies towards elitism. Well, I did go to USC, what do you expect? But, truly, my lack of connection to so many of the things that my generation enjoys, such as texting other people while going out to dinner with me, leads me to believe that I'm just meant to go in a different direction. I want MORE. In such a consumerist society, this may seem like I'm in agreement with everyone on the planet. It's just that I want more out of my life, rather than in it. But to not sound totally morally superior, I am jealous of you if you have an iPhone. OK, I said it.

If this were a romantic comedy starring a cast of fifteen stars of varying importance and beauty, I would be in the scene where the girl looks at a perfectly capable guy and shakes her head confusedly as she tries to explain why it's just not working out. A whirl of thoughts would go through my Method-actor mind as I stare with troubled eyes into my co-star's face.

Do they smell? Do their clothes clash with mine? Why is it imperative that my life not be the status quo? I know plenty of nice people who would be happy to consider themselves firmly entrenched with the post-9/11 kids. They're open-minded, into the global village idea, and we often have the same music on our iPods (and yes, I have an iPod and a Mac). We're Facebook friends! For God's sake, can't we make this work?! We have so much in common...don't we?

I would stare into my generation's eyes, seeing their potential and yet knowing we will never truly be on the same page and we'd just make each other miserable despite looking so good together. I sigh. "It's not me," I tell Generation Y, "it's you." I notice my Freudian slip and gasp. Ohmygosh that was so RUDE! I think to myself. I'm in agony-the embarrassment nearly unbearable. I don't know what else to say, but then, realization dawns across my face and I look up with new confidence, resolved to see this through. I tell Generation Y that I know that the truth, though it hurts, is just me being fair. I wouldn't want them to harbor any hopes that we would ever get back together. We could probably do the friends thing, but we'll never be kindred spirits. They're not "the one."

Just when I think I will grow to be a lonely old woman with far too many cats, I look across the room and see Zach. The script reads [She goes to him.] . And so I do. Because even though my generation and I couldn't make it work, Zach and I can. Whether we take the long way round or the fastest route available, it's not so much the road, but who's in the car with you.

(Taxis in Kerala, India)

Fres-NO?...Fres-YES!

2010-01-07T19:41:00.000-08:00

My oldest friends, Sarah and Missy, proved yet again that they will continue to be solid rocks throughout my life. For those of you that have recently talked to Zach and I about the Peace Corps, you may have noticed our not-so-subtle concerns about what Africa holds for us. There are a number of very practical reasons we have recently dealt with that have given us some pause. While we are still committed to going and are incredibly thankful for all the encouragement family, friends, and strangers have given us, nothing has been quite so amazing as the act of complete love shown to me by these dear girls this past weekend.

January 2nd. was the annual "Christmas" party at Sar's house, and though a bit late, was perfectly timed to land on her birthday. It being her birthday and her house, you can imagine my shock when I was stopped mid-conversation by a cake thrust in my face and yells of "Surprise!" Now, I do have a birthday coming up in a few days, but it was Sarah's birthday, not mine, so WHAT was going on?

Sarah, with her characteristic wide smile said, "This is your farewell party!" They thrust a tiny gift bag into my hand and when I saw what was inside it, I began to blink back tears.

The two people who are the LEAST excited about the Peace Corps, who hours before were nudging me to "accidentally" get pregnant in Africa so I'd have to come back (or just not go at all, have babies, and move to the countryside with them) had somehow managed to put all their sadness and worries behind to give me a public blessing.

The bag contained a beautiful silver chain with a silver pendent engraved on one side with the letters MHS (for Missy, Heather, and Sarah). Sarah pointed out that the M and S were on either side of the H, supporting it. On the other side of the pendant, and this is where the tears came, where two words "I Volunteer." Now, this has two meanings, the obvious one being that it's a perfect phrase for a gal going into the corps. But, it wasn't about ME volunteering, so much as what THEY would be volunteering while I was gone. The words refer to the song "I Volunteer" by Collin Raye. The lyrics are below for you to see just how lucky a gal I am. I absolutely love these girls with all my heart. Sar and Missy, I volunteer for you, too!

I Volunteer - Collin Raye

Looks like your feelin' like
The rain won't ever stop
Life's left you standing there
One against the odds
From now on you need to know
You don't have to stand alone

When the world turns you in circles
And the wind is at your face
And you need somewhere to run to
I know a place
If you want someone who's willing
To lay down their heart
Someone to dry your tears
I'm here
I volunteer

A shoulder, a caring voice
To tell you it's OK
Two arms meant to shelter you
If ever you're afraid
I've got that and more to spare
Just say the word and I'll be there

When the world turns you in circles
And the wind is at your face
And you need somewhere to run to
I know a place
If you want someone who's willing
To lay down their heart
Someone to dry your tears
I'm here
I volunteer

If you want someone who's willing
To lay down their hearts
From now throughout the years
I'm here
I volunteer

BABIES!!!

2010-01-07T19:11:00.000-08:00

This past week, Zach and I got the opportunity to visit my very dear friends in Fresno. While there, I got to hug and kiss three adorable little boys and watch a few of one of my best friend's ultra-sounds on a big TV. I also got to feel her baby kick in her adorable tummy. Needless to say, I was JEALOUS! When you're part of a trio and the other two have babies, you start to feel like a major late bloomer. It's like being flat chested and not having "it" yet while all the other girls run around in their trainer bras and carry secret bags into bathroom stalls with them.

To be fair, I was never one of those girls on the sidelines of puberty, so maybe this is the evening-out process of the universe at work. Thing is, it's totally my choice (well, inasmuch as I take a certain pill at a certain time every day). This blog ain't called "Dispatches From The Long Way Round" for nothin'! I keep reminding myself that there will be plenty of adorable babies in Africa; my friend Sarah and I spent a bit of time scheming about the best way to steal an African baby for myself and her (carry-on?). While Zach and I have been very clear as of late that we want babies just like everyone else that wants babies, we're willing to make the emotional sacrifice and wait until we do this peace thing.

And while it's no doubt total hubris to suggest anyone could ever be *ready* for children, I've maintained there are a few things that I feel would help the transition go more smoothly. Financial considerations aren't really one of them, as Zach and I fully intend to either go to grad school when we get back or work in the non-profit sector. Since neither of those choices suggest serious financial security, then we can't really use what is probably one of the primary reasons most couples want to wait.

We've been married for over five years, so we certainly can't use the excuse of wanting more "alone" time. We're just lucky we're not sick of all the time together, considering we're hermits with the same job! Neither can we say we haven't gotten to do very much, considering we've been to over twenty countries, most of them together, and have lived abroad and gotten our college degrees (oh yeah, and we started a theatre company and had our own burlesque show in LA).

So...what are we waiting for? I guess we see the Peace Corps as a grand adventure that is so unique that it will undoubtedly change our lives forever in what could only be a positive way. A long held dream of mine, to volunteer in Africa, will be fulfilled, and we'll come back with loads of experience that will hopefully guarantee we never have to work for corporate America again (although, as previously mentioned, this is not a good financial move).

Oh yeah...and we will be BAD-ASS travelers. While we won't be able to say the phrase, "Back in 'Nam we..." I'm sure we can come up with a suitable substitute.

Then...babies.

(In the ASPECA orphanage in Battambang, Cambodia with a baby we sponsored, Som-Na. We hope to someday adopt a child from Cambodia.)

A Good Blog

2009-12-08T21:03:00.000-08:00

Hey Everyone!

Zach found this blog that was written by a Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Namibia for three years (she returned last year). We are perusing this blog to try to understand a bit more about what our life will be like. Check it out HERE. There are some great pictures and stories!

Out of Africa: A Review

2009-12-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

"I had a farm in Africa..."

Thus begins the reflections of Karen von-Blixen Finecke (Meryl Streep), a Danish baroness turned adventuress who journeyed to colonial Kenya in 1914 to exchange the conventions of her bougeois life for a farm in the African bush. The 1985 film is based on her memoir Out of Africa, which she wrote under the pseudonym Isak Dineson. Admittedly, I haven't yet brought myself to read it-somehow, I feel that Meryl Streep, Robert Redford, and top-notch cinematographers are more likely to get me on a plane to Africa in May rather than a memoir published in the 1930's by a woman who had her finest china and crystal in her suitcase. Directed by Sydney Pollack, the film focuses on the trials of Karen as she attempts to build a life in Africa amidst natives and patriarchal colonials, while dealing with her philandering husband (who is the necessary evil that allows her enough street cred to move to Africa in the first place). All this while falling madly in love with Robert Redford (uhhh...who hasn't? Have you seen The Sting??). He plays her lover, Denys Finch Hatton and I refuse to tell you what happens in the end and spoil it all for you. Obviously, we have a recipe here for a sweeping romantic epic.

"I had a farm in Africa..."

Trust me, once you see the movie, you will be hard put not to repeat these lines in your best Danish accent to whoever is willing to listen. For Zach and I, it's become a mantra whenever we're bored and obsessing over our as-yet-undisclosed-location in Africa that we will call home for over two years beginning this May. I suppose our names are now locked away in some classified government file in the Peace Corps headquarters in D.C. Does that make us sexy? Only if we "hahd a fahm in Afreeka."

At breakfast, before another long nine-hour day teaching English: "I had a farm in Africa..."

While walking the dog in the dirty streets of L.A. in Autumn's six o'clock inky darkness: "I had a farm in Africa..."

While taking one more decadent hot shower before the bucket bathing begins in May: "I had a farm in Africa..."

When I lay my head on a soft pillow, sinking into my Queen-sized Ikea mattress made by angels in Heaven (or Sweden): "I had a farm in Africa..."

Out of Africa seems like it would appear on the syllabus for a class entitled "Obligatory Things To Do Before You Go To Africa and Renounce Life As You Know It." I say this because it is often referred to in passing whenever I read things about Africa. Was it our collective first glimpse of Africa here in the U.S.? I'm not sure...Either way, it popped up enough that I looked it up and when I saw the cast it went straight on my Netflix queue. I was not disappointed in any way-it was entertaining and in no way resembles the Africa I will live in, whether it be on a farm, in a tent in the middle of the bush, or in a squalid apartment in a bustling capitol city. I'm not complaining about its general lack of relevance-the last thing I want is a dose of reality. OK, maybe a few snapshots of Angelina with smiling orphans-I can handle that. If you've seen Baz Luhrman's Australia, you've seen the modern version of Out of Africa. He just replaces the bush with the Outback and a bit more flair.

It's true that I may be naive about what Africa will be like and therefore have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. This is most evident in my propensity to play Enya's "Storms in Africa" while imagining myself frolicking joyfully in hi-definition rain with little black children. This imagined scene slightly resembles my living room choreography of "He Lives In You" from the Lion King's Original Broadway Soundtrack.

Yeah.

Despite my deeply rooted desire to be an NGO worker just like Angelina Jolie in Beyond Borders, I am mature enough to recognize that living in a developing country for over two years is not going to be like the celluloid versions I've encountered on various comfortable couches in the continental U.S. Actually, that's probably a damn good thing, since most movies about Africa end with people running from machetes pointed at their backs or writhing in their beds as they fight off terrible malaria nightmares. But, you know, "I had a farm in Africa..."

I am painfully aware that I won't have Meryl's aristocratic lifestyle as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Even if I could live with an African coolie lugging my valuables through the bush, I wouldn't know what to do with all my wine glasses except maybe fill them with rain water (I should be so lucky). I will, however, have a Robert Redford counterpart (Zach, in case anyone was confused) to join me on my safaris and trade stories with during the dark African candle-lit nights. I'm looking forward to our adventures together and hope that they (and the gnarly Malaria dreams) will make me just as good of a storyteller as Karen von-Blixen appears to be in the film.

As much as I would like to envision myself as a brave huntress like Meryl, I will have to acknowledge that my lack of experience with shotguns will make me a bit of a liability should we be confronted with Mufasa's ghost. Maybe I will become really good at intuiting where all the Black Mambas are and be able to say in perfect African gobbledygook that "I have a farm in Africa." Or not. I guess I'll have to settle with being the grungy PC volunteer who can brag about taking her bucket bath in under two-minutes while singing my new country's national anthem. Hmmmm...

Before we go to Africa, I will be putting down my version of reviews of films and books we are gorging on in order to attempt some kind of mental preparation for our journey (cue any PC Volunteer reading this to laugh their ass off now...). Feel free to send me some suggestions of your own.

The next film is Invictus, which we'll see in theatres this Christmas (who wouldn't want to see Morgan Freeman, who smiled at me when I was a child, by the way, play Nelson Mandela??). This will be quickly followed by Disney's The Lion King and then you all can watch Blood Diamond (which I thought was really good and all the haters can shut up because Leo's Afrikaans accent sounds fine to me, even if I have never stepped foot in South Africa). Of course, neither Zach nor I think watching African war movies (Hotel Rwanda, included) for a second time is the best idea. I mean, we need to get on the plane. You can, though-they may prove to be the motivation you'll need for praying for us every night.

However, we do have a couple films in mind that hopefully won't freak us out too much to check out before we go, so I will faithfully review them here.

In closing, check out Out of Africa if you want to get an "A" in the "Obligatory Things To Do Before You Go To Africa And Renounce Life As You Know It" class.

Day of The Dead vs. Halloween

2009-11-15T14:35:00.001-08:00

Last year, instead of enjoying what would have been our first real American Halloween in two years, we headed down to Ensenada, Mexico to check out the Day of the Dead festivities. The Day of the Dead has long been a source of fascination to us. It is such a bizarre and beautiful celebration of death, combining the sacred Catholic ideas of All Saints Day with macabre local customs. As Americans, it would be extremely unusual to have a day where you go to the graves of your loved ones and place items such as beer, tortillas, toys, and candy on the graves and then have an all-night candlelit vigil in the cemetary. It's one thing to lay some flowers on a grave in broad daylight, it is quite another to pull up your truck, keep the radio blasting mariachi music, and hang out in lawn chairs while cockroaches scatter about the shallow graves. Despite REALLY wanting to see kids trick-or-treating and to dress up in costumes ourselves, the travelers in us couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the Day of the Dead up close...who knows when we would be this close to Mexico again?

We jumped in our $900 Geo Prizm that we'd purchased nearly a year before when we got back from India and took the short drive down to the Mexican border. We parked the car in an overnight lot, walked across the border, and then jumped on a short bus in Tijuana that led to Ensenada, one of the major stops for cruise ships. We didn't spend any time in Tijuana and not just because of all the crazy drug-related violence that has been plaguing that city. There is just nothing to reccomend the place. We had both been there before and felt no need to visit that barrio again. It's dirty and full of drunks, prostitutes, and college kids who are having a little too much fun. The drive to Ensenada was uneventful. In fact, I would venture to say it was a bit depressing because we kept passing houses being built for retired Americans. Note: Ensenada is NOT a place for travelers. We just chose it because we couldn't take more than a day off work and we wanted to get out of the country (being residents of Los Angeles, I have to say that I never felt like we left the county while we were in Ensenada except for our night in the cemetary).

Our jaunt to Ensenada was as much about seeing a cool festival as it was an excuse to leave the country again. We were sorely dissapointed with this as an "international" experience, but it felt good to stay in a hostel again and take pictures of things. When we got to the city, we headed over to the Ensenada Backpacker Hostel. The owner is a youngish Mexican guy named Carlos that has traveled all over the world and his hostel is cosy and well located. The best part, though, is how kind he was. He took us out for tacos at his favorite local place, helped me with my terrible Spanish (and conversed with Zach in his awesome espanol), and gave us rides when we needed them. He also took us to try some tasty sweet pan (bread) that is traditionally eaten during the Day of the Dead. To be honest, there isn't a whole lot to do in Ensenada.

There is some decent shopping for souveniers and a lot of tasty food. We found an awesome old school bar that Carlos suggested to us called Husong's (it's actually quite famous, you can buy bumper stickers for it). They play mariachi music and have delicious drinks and peanut shells all over the floor.

On the evening of the Day of the Dead, Zach and I took a taxi out to the main cemetary in town. It was dark and quiet and, yes, spooky. There were no lights in the cemetary except for the candles people had on the graves and the headlights of parked vehicles. Mariachi music sifted through the air. There was a roaming mariachi band that we passed a few times and people had radios playing. I like to think a few people strummed their guitars as they sat on lawn chairs, but I don't know if they did or not. We checked out the graves that didn't have any visitors. Baby graves had elaborate cribs and mobiles and toys. There were pictures of loved ones, food, mementos, letters. We both felt like intruders as we stepped around the ENORMOUS cockroaches zipping around on the grass. We didn't have anyone to mourn and we felt like awful tourists. To my credit, I only took a few non-flash pictures when no one was around. I had to document it all a little bit, but I didn't want to be disrespectful.

(I took this picture of a typical grave with golden flowers that are used to create words, crosses, and hearts on the ground)

The strangest thing is that, while the graves seem so sad, the living beings who hung out at them weren't. There was a lot of drinking and laughter and I could imagine the family and friends of the deceased trading stories about how Paco once pantsed the local padre or when Juanita had too much tequila and started teaching gringos how to do the Mexican Hat Dance. After a while, we skipped out and went back to the hostel, thankful to be alive and relieved that our jaunt across the border was worth missing out on all the delish Halloween candy.

This year, we stayed in country, but, because we are such intrepid wanderers, we felt like we were back in South Korea teaching our kindy students about the holiday. At our English language school here in LA, everyone dressed up and my students and I traded ghost stories from our respective countries and shared our superstitions. No matter where you're from, ghost stories are fun to share and we all had goose bumps (by the way, everyone screams in the same language). Zach won for best teacher costume (a crazy Norman Bates-looking housewife) and I had fun in my cowgirl getup.

Having the opportunity to teach people from around the world about our unique holiday and share it with them was great fun. Our students had a blast buying and wearing their costumes and they all got in the spirit. We carved pumpkins in class (a first for them that they all decided was awesome) and ate lots of candy.

(Heather's students get in the spirit)

After our school festivities, Zach and I spent the actual holiday at home, dissapointed by how few trick-or-treaters we had, but enjoying watching "Hocus Pocus" and "Drag Me To Hell" at home while eating way too much candy and enjoying our carved pupkins (yes, we shared a bottle of champagne during our carving). It's good to be home and while we can't wait to get to Africa, the holiday season is bittersweet...maybe there will be something to carve there next year, but I doubt I'll see any Batman costumes or Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.

(Zach's Korean student carved this in class...how did they not win the Pumpkin contest?!)

Re: Ah, That Old Feeling (L.A., Singapore)

2009-11-08T14:10:00.001-08:00

(Our dog, Pan, demonstrates Cozy Mode)

Below is a post written by my husband, Zach, back when I started this blog. In the beginning, it was a joint blog intended to document our life as Peace Corps Volunteers. As you know by now, that didn't pan out. But I like the time capsule effect of these posts, which give an insight into how ever-changing our life on the road is.

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, and I'm listening to some groovy music on Pandora while sipping a cup of gingerbread coffee from Trader Joes. Seriously people, this is some good coffee. If you live anywhere near a TJs, you owe it to yourself to go snatch up some of this stuff before it's gone. It's seasonal, and last year we got our hands on exactly one can of it before it vanished. I'm just saying. Sorry for the plug.

I decided I had to sit down and write today because many (all?) of my previous blog posts have been negative or, at best, tepid about our upcoming African service. And it's not without reason that I've felt this way; I think a little fear and trepidation is perfectly reasonable and rational in our situation. But I realize that since we actually received our nomination letter in the Summer I've been largely thinking of reasons to dread service, and for most of that time I've been approaching the whole thing with a kind of Stoic resignation.

In part, this is because I know better than many what to expect. Our travels have taught us what it feels like to be without electricity. To lack hot or clean water. To take "bucket showers." Not to have access to toilets. To get eaten by bedbugs. To sleep under a mosquito net. To wake up sweating, to sweat all day, and then to sweat all night. To eat food that makes you sick. To have such an intense and wracking fever that you pee in an Indian hotel bed and don't even know it until you wake up shivering and terrified in a puddle of your own freezing piss. And so on.

(Doing laundry in Thailand)

And here's the thing. All that stuff sounds pretty awful when you're lazing around in your sweatpants sipping gingerbread coffee and typing on your Mac and watching your dog doze on the couch in the sun and just generally feeling comfortable and contented as you please. But you know what? When it's going on, it's all pretty tolerable. That's not to say it's not unpleasant, but you just sort of adjust to the demands of the situation. You become eminently adaptable because you must.

When we travel, we're in Travel Mode. In Travel Mode we don't worry quite so much about cleanliness or creature comforts; instead, we accept things with a smile and shrug, or with a grumble and a drink, or with tears and...well...a drink. The point is, we roll. Here, in America, we default to Cozy Mode. And the things which are normal and desirable and fascinating about Travel Mode are anathema to Cozy Mode. It is the conflict between the two that has been troubling me these past months.

But yesterday, I finally caught it again. The spirit of adventure. It finally clicked that we're leaving in six months and bound for God-knows-where-or-what, and how exhilarating that is. It happened when I was watching some of the videos that Heath posted in the last blog. Seeing the volunteers and the locals, seeing their homes and smiles, and hearing some of their stories, all reignited my passion for the Peace Corps. Just seeing real video of real people and countries in Africa made the whole thing seem less frightening and more...doable.

Later that afternoon, I found myself flipping through some old travel journals. I opened randomly to an entry on New Year's Day almost three years ago. We were staying at a hostel in the Arab Quarter of Singapore, half a block from the breathtaking Golden Mosque to which we often watched throngs of impeccably dressed Muslims parade to prayer. Saddam Hussein had just been executed, which I remember only because our small pedestrian block was intersected by the bustling Baghdad Street. Heath and I sat cross-legged on the carpeted and cushioned floor--a sea of red and purple hues--on the second story of a hookah lounge, smoking flavored tobacco as the call to prayer echoed off the surrounding buildings. It was the first day of 2007 and we talked about our love of travel until the sun began to set.

The moral of all this, as I draw this entry to a close, is simply this: I'm whole-heartedly excited to live abroad again. Bring me that horizon.

~ Zach

Re: Where The Hell Is Matt? (the world)

2009-11-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

So, since this blog is about alternative marriages (whatever that means), we wanted to share with you all a project that we find very inspirational. Check out THIS WEBSITE to see what we're talking about. "Where the Hell is Matt?" is a project that a guy named-you guessed it-Matt-started a few years ago. He is traveling the world doing a crazy dance in front of landmarks while being filmed and then he uploads the videos. It's proof that we are indeed a global village.

You have to check out the website to understand what it's all about. His girlfriend has gone with him and tapes these dances and Matt was eventually sponsored by Stride gum in order to continue the adventure. The cool part is that Matt gets sponsored to travel the world and have amazing interactions with people, but he is under no obligation to promote the gum! Anyway, this is just the sort of thing Zach and I would do-more proof that you CAN choose a unique path and be happy.

Re: Peace Corps on the Web / 6 Months to Take-Off (L.A.)

2009-11-01T09:50:00.000-08:00

Like every other organization or human being on the planet, the Peace Corps has its place on the Web. Despite being technophobes, we have found this to be especially helpful to us, as there are numerous resources, photos, stories, and video links that are helping us to have a broader understanding of what kind of life we will be beginning in May 2010.

Our first stop on our technological travels is the Corps website, which you can access HERE. This is a great interactive site with lots of info. for family members and friends, as well as future and current Volunteers.

Then there's the Corps YouTube channel, which you can access HERE. If you go to this link, you can take tours of Volunteer homes and get a glimpse into what kinds of things we might be doing when we're over there. The thing about the Peace Corps is that we just have no idea what to expect on any front. We could get totally reassigned and end up in Siberia. We could have a gorgeous four bedroom home or a tin-roof shack. The list goes on. The videos on the channel are mostly submitted by Volunteers or the Peace Corps itself. It's been nice to kind of see something concrete of what a huge chunk of our future life will be like.

If you're interested in seeing our recruiter, Tori Wilson, you can access a YouTube video HERE where she discusses what she looks for in Volunteers. She is AWESOME and very excited for us and supportive. The video isn't amazing, but it's a chance to see her and hear what she has to say.

For the super-connected, there is a Peace Corps podcast full of Volunteer accounts. You can find that HERE.

GENERAL UPDATE:
Zach and I are almost finished with all of our medical exams and should be able to FINALLY send all the outstanding paperwork in within the next week or so. That doesn't mean that there aren't more hoops to jump through, as we still need to be reviewed and then go through a formal placement with a Placement Officer, but we're getting closer. We're still trying to complete our volunteer hours, but the organization we're working with has had some re-structuring, so it's taking longer than we anticipated. Luckily, we just need to complete those hours by the time we go. The Peace Corps just had a 15% increase in applicants, bringing the total applicants for our pool to over 15,000 people. Currently, there are around 7,000-7,500 Volunteers serving right now. So, competition is still out there. Nothing is totally official until we receive that placement letter. While Zach and I aren't worried that we won't be offered placement, there is still a chance that we can be given a different job if we aren't competitive enough (this is why we need the HIV/AIDS volunteer hours). Keep your fingers crossed.

Re: A Choir of Angels (L.A., Kolkata)

2009-10-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

Below is a post written by my husband, Zach, back when I started this blog. In the beginning, it was a joint blog intended to document our life as Peace Corps Volunteers. As you know by now, that didn't pan out. But I like the time capsule effect of these posts, which give an insight into how ever-changing our life on the road is.

The keynote speaker chosen for the annual Peace Corps potluck in Pasadena last Sunday was a slightly nebbishy Jewish man who presided over the spectacular growth of an organization called Big Sunday. Big Sunday is a yearly day of community service here in L.A. which, after only a few years, now boasts a turnout of about 50,000. The speaker (whose name I've forgotten, sorry to say) told the mixed crowd of returned Peace Corps volunteers and mere nominees (us) that he has been asked to say something "inspirational" in his speech. He surveyed the crowd and said how silly that was. How, he asked, could he inspire us? It would be like preaching to the choir. And, he added, it was a choir of angels.

There were some chuckles and some groans in the audience. Eyes were rolled. I remembered something our recruiter, Tori Wilson, had said in an informational meeting many months ago: "For some reason, when you do the Peace Corps, people think amazing things about your character." To a certain extent, this makes at least a little sense; the material benefits of service hardly compensate for the physical and material hardships, and I don't know too many people who would move to a poor village in an undeveloped country for over two years no matter how much money they could make. But angels? I mean, let's put things into perspective here. Heath and I are two young people who like to travel but don't have a lot of money to do it. We've taught English before to pay our way, but we didn't want to do it again and so we sought out the Peace Corps as another way to get out of the country. What's more, we're hoping to get a break on graduate school after we get out. On top of that, we'll have experiences which will enrich our lives and give us ample writing-fodder. AND we hate Los Angeles and don't really know what to do with ourselves now that I'm likely through with acting and Heath is growing colder on the idea of a life in the theater. Do we want to help people? Of course; we're followers of Jesus: helping people is our responsibility (and our honor). But there are far from angelic reasons at play.

(Rajesh Tea Shop, around the corner from our hotel in Kolkata, was our breakfast joint of choice during our stay there.)

When we were traveling through India, we visited the Mother House in Kolkata (Calcutta), the simple and plain building where Mother Theresa served the world's most wretched and impoverished for most of her life, even though for much of it she didn't feel the presence of God in her life. We had gone there to volunteer. We peeked into the small chapel, and walked around the single room that displayed a no-frills visual history of her life and work. We sat through a volunteer orientation with perhaps two dozen others that day. But when the time came to sign up and go to work, we just couldn't do it. Sure, we had recently volunteered teaching English at a Cambodian orphanage, but clearing the bed pans and bandaging the festering wounds of disgusting, stinking people? Thanks, but no thanks, guys, we're on vacation. After all, we weren't (yet) remotely religious; there was nothing compelling us to help in such discomfortingly hands-on ways. Let those other twenty people do it, we thought, or better yet, the nuns. No, we're no angels.

I wasn't planning on writing a blog like this. I was going to write about the Peace Corps potluck, and how we're working nine-hours-a-day at work now to pay off our credit cards so we don't have to make huge "minimum" payments when we're earning only a few dollars a month in Africa, and how we're finally about to pay through the nose to get our shots and medical exams done (after spending weeks fruitlessly searching for a clinic that will do them for free for our uninsured selves). Maybe my wife will write about those things in her next entry.

We're no angels. Anyone who knows either of us knows how obvious and unnecessary it is for me to say this. But I hope and pray that we learn some things in Africa that the angels already know: lessons about humility and loving service that can last throughout our lives.

~ Zach

Re: New Developments and HIV/AIDS Volunteering in LA (the Valley/Hollywood, CA)

2009-09-05T23:09:00.000-07:00

Here I am taking more time than necessary to post something. Maybe I am just training our audience for blog deprivation when there is extremely limited Internet access in Africa. :) The picture above is from a volunteer day we had with AHF. The Aids Health Foundation is the largest HIV/AIDS organization in the country and their headquarters are here in Los Angeles. We sought out the opportunity to volunteer with them, as our recruiter told us we needed 30-50 more HIV-related volunteer hours. So far, we have had only a couple events with them, but we have always come away with a renewed sense of purpose and a sense of community, not only with our fellow AHF people, but with the Angelinos we serve. Our first event we worked as sign-in counselors for one of the mobile testing units In Inglewood, a predominantly African-American community.

Zach and I have both decided we only want to do the mobile units because they are so COOL and it is so inspiring to work with the counselors on them. The mobile testing units go to various parts of the city, roaming and sometimes stationary (like the one in West Hollywood which is always on the same corner). The idea behind them is great: make it easy and free for people to get tested with an oral swab test (no blood), with results in twenty minutes. Done. The unit is mobile, meaning the service can be provided to the entire community and at various events where large groups of people will be gathered.

The second event was a grassroots approach to getting people to come get tested by handing out free condoms and info. to people at the Sunset-Junction street event. We shouted out to people passing by to get tested and burdened them with free condoms and info. I personally got around ten people to get tested. What a cool feeling to know I was able to help some people. It's pretty strange to give condoms to people, but it was a great chance for me to break down any barriers I might have to discussing the subject, as that is exactly the kind of thing I will be doing in Africa-while being an outsider and speaking a different language, to boot!

In other news....

We both had a great dental exam and so are certain to pass that part of the medical review! For those of you who haven't heard my complaints and laments on the subject of the Peace Corps medical exam, it is a trial we are nowhere near to finishing! As two people without health insurance, it has been very stressful trying to find a way to get our dental exams, x-rays, physicals, etc. The Peace Corps reimburses very little of that cost for applicants and so we have been dragging our feet a bit on this. We got a free dental exam and x-rays through the International College of Dentists on Friday and it was such a big help. Our dentist also turned out to be a Trojan! He said I got an "A plus" and Zach got an "A" (our dentist was a joker). We were so relieved that he didn't recommend treatment because paying for that would have been a major burden. We are still looking into options for our physicals and we also have to go through hoops on various other medical matters...

The kicker is that until our medical review is passed, we cannot be cleared (though we're certain to be) and so we are in a sort of Peace Corps purgatory until this all gets settled. We do have a lot of time, at least, since no matter what the Corps won't give us a formal invitation to our assignment and tell us our country until three months before we go (roughly end of May 2010). I would say that this, thus far, has been the most frustrating part of our Peace Corps journey because there is such a lack of security in this venture and we are at the mercy of physicians, review boards, and our pocketbooks! All of this waiting is frustrating, but we know it will be worth it once we're on our plane headed to wherever Uncle Sam is going to take us. I guess this can be turned into a pre-departure lesson on learning to be OK with in-limbo situations, as anything can change and our lives will never really be out of limbo until we get back to the US nearly three years from now.

Re: Fear and Trembling (L.A., my nightmares)

2009-08-14T19:28:00.000-07:00

Below is a post written by my husband, Zach, back when I started this blog. In the beginning, it was a joint blog intended to document our life as Peace Corps Volunteers. As you know by now, that didn't pan out. But I like the time capsule effect of these posts, which give an insight into how ever-changing our life on the road is.

The truth is that I'm terrified of going to Africa. The deprivations we'll deal with, the isolation we'll endure, and the feelings of futility and helplessness that we'll experience all make me question my sanity. The lack of certain creature comforts we've dealt with before, but lack of electricity? Of running water? Of top-notch medical supplies and facilities? Of privacy? Of civilization? Missing my loved ones and my dog? I'm beginning to wonder what the hell I'm thinking. What, after all, are we doing this for? To single-handedly lift the Dark Continent out of its post-colonial abyss? To learn vital skills for a non-profit career or compile vital experience to write about? To get free graduate school? To live abroad on Uncle Sam's dime? For God? Because we don't know what else to do?

I'm reading a book by a returned Peace Corps volunteer. My mother sent it to me. The writer paints a grim picture of a gleefully violent land, where a certain kind of matter-of-fact suffering pervades and you have to get drunk and laugh to keep from losing your mind. Needless to say, it has thrown me off kilter. Don't get me wrong: I've read a lot about the Corps, and it hasn't all been rosy. I've heard stories of frustrations and horrors from returned volunteers. But there's something in the way this particular account hammers home the day-to-day realities of African village life for the white man, who is assumed to have magical white powers to heal the sick and dying, that brings the harshness and discomfort into even sharper focus.

Twenty-seven months, and the first three we're separated in different homestays for training. It is daunting. It will take something larger to pull us through, some greater reason or ambition will have to be strong enough to buoy us. Being proud ambassadors of the best things our country represents, maybe: serving because we love and believe in our nation. Doing it for our souls, maybe: serving in the hopes of doing some good, honest work to share and in some small way help to relieve the sufferings of those living in the greatest destitution. Doing it for our own careers, maybe: to reap the rewards of service, like scholarships to graduate schools and marketable real-world experience in certain disciplines. We'll have to screw every bit of our courage and determination to possibly all of these sticking posts to get though this thing.

In the end, will it have been worth it? Will we be the better for it? Will it have been, in the words of the Peace Corps recruiting materials, The Toughest Job We've Ever Loved? The best case scenario is, after all, not out of the question. We could become perfectly fluent in a new language, make great friends, make joyous memories of time spent teaching village children to play hop-scotch, learn to love the quiet pace of life timelessly lived, grow closer as a couple (which hardly seems possible), and develop an appreciation for all the beauty of the created world. The reality will probably fall, as it often does, somewhere between two extremes. Things, especially in foreign lands, are never as good as we hope or as bad as we fear. I keep reminding myself that Heather and I have seriously entertained joining the Corps on at least two occasions four years apart, and that now that we're leaving L.A. this feels like a natural next step for us. And I remind myself of the returned volunteers who have told us positive stories of lives changed for the better.

Readers of this blog: what do you think? Are we crazy? Should we try to avoid Africa and ask for a reassignment? Comment below. Thanks.

~ Zach

Re: Definition of an Alternative Marriage (L.A.)

2009-08-08T22:05:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Korea shopping mall adventure)

A good friend responded to my email telling people to read the blog with, "What is an alternative marriage?" As he was just about to embark on his own journey into the world of marrieds, I recognized the sincerity of the question. I'm guessing he also probably felt suspicious—the blog may appear as an elaborate ruse to set my husband and I up as marriage gurus for the ipod generation. Now that I think of it, we may prove better role models than Jessica Simpson and Nick La-whatever-his-name-is…but I digress.

My friend’s question got me to pondering about the title of this illustrious blog of ours. "Dispatches From An Alternative Marriage" is a somewhat confusing title because, in this day and age, an alternative marriage can be any number of things. To set the record straight-literally-we are pretty normal. We’ll just glance over the fact that I used the politically-incorrect word “normal” because I’d like to attempt to define an alternative marriage as it pertains to my vastly complicated universe in which our marriage, a planet occupied by three (ourselves and Pan, the dearest dog to ever grace Planet Fehst), rotates inside the Earth. I know it sounds scientifically impossible, but we are a planet unto ourselves, rotating around, yet inside, the atmosphere of another planet! Oh, but I digress again and this time I blame my last tangent on watching too many episodes of Battlestar Galactica and an enduring admiration for Kilgore Trout.

While there was a failed attempt in our first year of marriage to create a commune with a few friends from Minnesota and we co-ran a successful Burlesque fundraiser for our theatre company in LA, we have more in common with other married people our age than we do with the un-married people of our generation. I think this is because there are scant few of us that are married under the ages of thirty or thirty-five, especially in major urban areas where extended adolescence is worn like a badge of honor. So why is our marriage an alternative to a norm which is getting harder in and of itself to define? Isn’t getting married already an alternative lifestyle? Isn’t staying married an alternative to most marriages in this country?

I would say an “alternative marriage” as defined by myself (and therefore totally biased and open to attack on all sides) is one in which the husband and wife constantly redefine the direction of their lives and the location in which those lives are lived as often as their single counterparts. The difference between us and our single friends is simply that we are married and change direction together, using the vows we took on November 20, 2004 as our compass and our respect for one another’s hopes and dreams as our guidebook. I could go on with more cheesy analogies, but you get the picture.

No marriage is the same and so of course it’s impossible to say what is the norm and therefore what is the alternative. I have found, though, in my conversations with people that are single and married that even within the limitless confines of marital definitions, we tend to break ranks. Hence, the title of our blog.

Re: The Nihilistic Revolution (L.A., Korea)

2009-08-06T21:25:00.001-07:00

Re: Culture, High and Low (L.A., St. Petersburg)

2009-07-26T15:17:00.001-07:00

Below is a post written by my husband, Zach, back when I started this blog. In the beginning, it was a joint blog intended to document our life as Peace Corps Volunteers. As you know by now, that didn't pan out. But I like the time capsule effect of these posts, which give an insight into how ever-changing our life on the road is.

We live in Los Angeles: the cultural capital of the American Empire. The Hollywood spectacle machine is unrivaled in its ability to manufacture effective fantasy. Sometimes artistic works of genuine sincerity and emotion manage to slip through, miraculously greenlit. Sometimes it seems as though all the makers of films and television are running a frantic race to the bottom, and what passes for entertainment is simply what is most crude and debauched. But most of the time Hollywood settles, and we in turn settle, for passably entertaining "content"--bland but satisfying programming to fill the hours.

As I ruminate on this uniquely strange city of dreams, I am reminded of another place in which high and low culture collided for Heather and I to disorienting effect. We were in St. Petersburg, Russia, visiting the celebrated Hermitage museum. This is what I wrote in my journal that day:

Today brought the jaw-droppingly opulent Hermitage and the shameful sight of grown men and women violently shoving and elbowing one-another for position at the ticket booth as if it were the last chopper leaving Saigon. I wasn't cutting in line (I have a secret hatred for line cutters), but even to hold my position and avoid getting bowled over by the crushing throng in the ticket office's opening minutes I had to jostle and push like a starting tackle. One gigantic, middle-aged Russian man was literally stiff-arming his way through a group of old ladies in front of us--blatant, unashamed, two-handed mashing. Heath, outraged, started admonishing him with a waging finger and loud cries of "Nyet!" which had little effect. We were both overcome with a feeling akin to disgust. After all, we had stood placidly in a long, orderly line for over forty-five minutes, awaiting the opening of the museum, and as soon as the gates opened it became a mad, screaming frenzy--a scramble for supremacy reminiscent of a Christmas Eve toy dash for a new video game system or a tickle-me-whatever. As we smashed our way to the ticket counter in what had become a stinky, seething mosh pit of humanity, I had to keep reminding myself this isn't a football game, we're here to look at classical art in a former czar's palace! This isn't right!

When we finally escaped with our tickets and our lives, we both felt disheartened: these people who had so recently behaved like animals, what right did they have to the great masterpieces of the centuries? Hadn't they proven themselves unworthy of the civilization that begat them? But perhaps they simply needed art's humanizing influence more than anyone. And maybe their attitude was a holdover from decades of Soviet deprivation and breadlines. Ultimately, the museum itself and the works within it proved more than worth the brutal price of admission. Though such shocking contempt for others, in a place of such high culture, left a bad taste.

~ Zach

Re: The Fourth Reason (L.A.)

2009-07-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

To add on to the last post, the fourth reason I would have for this blog would be that it can become a resource for anyone interested in "the alternative marriage." If speaking, I would have put that last phrase into air quotes and underlined the point by slightly rolling my eyes or blushing in embarrassment, knowing that I'm echoing my days as a wannabe Marxist. That being said, I genuinely believe that there are a bunch of people out there who are married (and plan to stay that way), but haven't yet settled down. I can't even begin to count the amount of times people-total strangers, fellow travelers, co-workers- have marveled at how long we've been married and how nomadic we still are. From Korea to Europe to Costa Rica, people think we're doing something unique and even enviable by traveling and living abroad as marrieds, although certain friends and family members might label our lifestyle with less complimentary adjectives ("crazy," "different," "hmmm..., well that's in-ter-es-ting"). At any rate, I think we have some advice to give to those people or at least a few battle stories they can remember when they find themselves in the trenches with their mate. It also gives us an excuse to wax poetic about our many adventures while feeling that it's not totally for selfish purposes.

Re: Waiting... (L.A., Europe, Korea)

2009-07-19T18:32:00.000-07:00