Kindness of Strangers

Thursday, December 11, 2008

I realized today, in a panic, that one of my prescriptions would run out a month early, and I needed to place a call to my local Walgreen’s pharmacy to sort things out. (In the end, this will mean that a friend will need to pick it up at the pharmacy, mail it to my mother-in-law in Laredo, Texas, which will then be airmailed to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where it will then be hand-delivered to me when said mother-in-law meets us is in Bolivia in February.) I hadn’t made a phone call to New Mexico since September, when we were in Jordan and needed to request our absentee ballots in the dead of the night, given the time zone change. I was greeted by a county clerk with that distinct Northern New Mexican accent, and I wanted to exclaim, “Guess where I’m at? I’m in Amman!” This phone call felt big to me – I had made special arrangements to place the call – but to the county clerk I was just another caller. It seemed strange to be having such an ordinary conversation when the listener didn’t know how far away I was.

Today I trekked to the local Internet cafe, a run-down place with a mammoth flat-panel monitor that screams ADD compilations of music videos from the 1980s that I’ve never even seen (Phil Collins is especially popular). I bellied up to a computer and placed the headphones on my ears to make my call through Skype, a Web-based program that allows us to call the US for two cents per minute. I was walked through a phone tree and promptly placed on hold (I was disappointed to learn that there was no special bypass code for international calls). It was then that the strains of a familiar song blasted through my eardrums. At first I couldn’t place it, but slowly it sank in. It was I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus — you know, the Michael Jackson version, back when he was a cute little kid? It was so out of context that at first I didn’t recognize this most popular of Christmas ditties. Then I couldn’t figure out why the song was playing now. I was completely disoriented; it was the auditory equivalent of being blindfolded and turned around for a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. It suddenly dawned on me that Christmas is just days away. Except for the lone Christmas tree in the courtyard of the Chilean Aramada’s headquarters on Easter Island, a strange looking pine tree that I’ve only seen near beaches, there have been few signs of Christmas. Calling the United States from one of the most remote corners of the globe, to do something as mundane as placing a prescription refill, just felt unreal. I realized how out of touch and disconnected I am from what is going on back at home – even something as all-encompassing as Christmas.

This overwhelming feeling of disorientation probably explains the dreams I’ve been having lately. Since I arrived on Easter Island I’ve been treated to nighttime dramas that would make an LSD addict proud. Most of them involve Maikael and I making an unexpected trip home to pay visits to friends. We show up on doorsteps, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, but find our hosts wholly unprepared to receive us. The Island is known for having some intense energy, and I figured that my dreams were probably a product of Rapa Nui’s ancestors worming their way into my brain. As interesting as that sounds, I think it probably has more to do with my own insecurities about returning home; as we enter the last phase of this trip, I’m sure my subconscious is working overtime. In one of the dreams President-elect Obama was giving a televised speech on the television that played constantly in the background, undoubtedly a symbol of change in the dream. This trip has changed me, and I know my life will be different when I return; I think I’m afraid that I won’t “fit” into that life anymore, that the space that once contained me has been filled in and there will no longer be “room” for me. In another dream food was served, and our unexpected visit meant there wasn’t enough to go around. Perhaps I fear that my life back home won’t “nourish” me? Whatever the reason, it’s clear I’m feeling out of sorts with my place in the world these days. Despite the fact that we are the closest to home that we’ve been since we left last July – we are practically due south of Albuquerque at this moment – that life couldn’t feel farther away.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

We all entertain irrational dreams, that seem to sprout out of nowhere but hang on for dear life. They need not be big or impossible, only persistent. For years I dreamed of owning a red chenille couch and having a window seat that I could curl up in, and when those things actually materialized, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In this same token, I’ve always dreamed of staying in an overwater bungalow. I’m not sure where or when this dream took root, but I suspect it has to do with watching one too many shows on the Travel Channel. The idea of actually sleeping over the water, in a thatched palapa hut to call my own, completely enchanted me.

French Polynesia happens to be one of only a handful of places in the world where overwater bungalows are commonplace, and when we decided to make a three-day stopover in Tahiti on our way to Easter Island, I was dying to stay in one. A cursory glance at websites months ago revealed nightly room rates that skyrocketed towards $1,000, which I knew was impossible. As of a week ago, we still hadn’t made any reservations, and I had all but given up on this dream coming to fruition. But a few strategically-placed phone calls in the midst of low tourist season and a heightened economic world crisis revealed that an overwater bungalow could be had for as low as $300 per night. It was still a major splurge, especially by backpackers’ standards, but we decided to go for it. We made a deal with ourselves: we would live on fruit and sandwiches for three days to offset the cost of the room.

Tahiti is as fluffy as a marshmallow, the travel equivalent of watching a chick flick. The island vibes starts from the moment you board the plane. We were greeted with island tunes humming through the loudspeakers, and seats draped in every shade of blue imaginable. The flight attendants made three (three!) costume changes during the flight, but the theme was always the same: ruffles, tropical flowers, and bright colors. As we prepared to land, a video played to ready us for our arrival. After taking nearly 20 flights over the past four months, I’m accustomed to these videos by now. They usually involve a tutorial on how to fill out customs and immigration forms correctly, but this video showed three men happily strumming guitars as smiling passengers filed past. Seriously. The customs form was like none I had ever seen. There were separate check boxes for “Vacation” and “Honeymoon,” and they inquired as to what leisure activities I’d be taking part in during my stay in Tahiti.

When we disembarked the plane in the warm, humid air, I could hear the strains of tropical music wafting over the tarmac. There, at the entrance to the airport, sat three men clad in tropical-print shirts, strumming guitars, happily singing, in the dead of the night. I’m pretty sure it was the same three guys from the video. “Oh my god,” I said to Maikael, “it’s the Tahitian Welcome Wagon!” Then, a throng of women passed out flowers to tuck behind our ears. I had just stepped into the most archetypal vision of Island Paradise, which would usually make me want to puke, but instead I sniffed the fragrant flower as a broad grin stretched across my face.

After a garland of fresh flowers was placed heavily over our shoulders, we made our way to the resort, where we stayed in a basic room the first night (another part of our cost-savings plan). In the morning, we were transferred to our overwater bungalow for the next two nights, but not before making a trip to the grocery store down the block. After leaving the luxurious compound, we walked down a busy road, feeling very much like we were back in the developing world again. When we stepped into the run-down “Supermarche,” we felt as if we had stepped into a Bastille Day extravaganza. Although Tahiti is part of French Polynesia, I never stopped to consider the influence that the French might have had on this little tropical island. A giant rack of baguettes greeted us at the entrance, the sign indicating that they were sourced from at least six different boulangeries. Every single person in the grocery store had a baguette – or sometimes two – tucked into the crook of their arm. There were even extremely long plastic bags that had been specifically manufactured to accommodate the elongated loaves. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from the ceiling, and the cheese counter was overflowing with imported French brie. A long row of wine provided one choice: Bordeaux. The checkers did not speak English, and everyone in line sighed as we produced a credit card and tried to stumble our way through the transaction.

It was just like being in France, only better, because I could also buy ridiculously cheap and sweet papayas with my Bordeaux.

We loaded our goods into a broken down Heineken box and made our way back to the hotel. The overwater bunglows sat perched on a small series of boardwalks stretched over a shallow coral reef, and the water glimmered a brilliant turquoise as bright tropical fish darted amongst the dark coral. I was afraid that I’d be disappointed, that the bungalow wouldn’t live up to my expectations, but it exceeded my wildest dreams. It was the size of my first studio apartment, boasting wall-to-wall wooden shutters that could be levered to let the ocean breeze blow through. The bathtub sat snugly in a corner, providing an expansive view to Moorea, the island next to Tahiti. So not only could I take a bath, which is exciting enough for me after four months of showers, but I could take a bath and look at an island. Our private patio jutted over the water, and we proceeded to spend the next 72 hours primarily planted on our deck chairs overlooking this beautiful scene.

That night, as we slathered peanut butter and jelly on the best baguette I had ever eaten, we watched the sun set over the ocean, just beyond the reef. The sky was on fire, casting a watercolor oil slick over the water. It was one of those moments that I have from time to time on this trip, where I wonder, “Am I really here right now? Am I really living in this dream?”

There was nothing cultural or “authentic” about this part of the journey. The Tahitian dance performance that we overheard from our patio, with the drums thumping in the distance, was the closest we got to Polynesian culture. But I am bathed, read, rested, and gorged on the most buttery brie cheese imaginable.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Today is Thanksgiving, our first major holiday away from home, and truth be told, it’s a little odd. There is no turkey roasting in the oven, no cranberry relish, no visitors, no pies cooling on the counter, no Macy’s Day Parade humming in the background. It just doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving.

We were planning on spending the day with an American friend living near Auckland, but a last-minute clearing of weather meant that Maikael and Tim had a final opportunity to hike the Tongariro Alpine Crossing (better known as Mt. Doom from the Lord of the Rings), and we decided to take a detour and go for it. The Milford Track provided a month’s worth of hiking for me, so I am spending the day back at the hotel, catching up on email, calling my dad, watching DVDs, reading Twilight, and soaking in the spa. “It’s just a regular day,” I’m telling myself, but my mind keeps wandering to thoughts of Thanksgiving. It seems like a good time to pause and put myself in the spirit of the holiday; to give thanks.

During the course of this trip, there are amazing moments, phenomenal people, and sights so beautiful I want to cry. It is easy to feel grateful in these moments. But for every moment of gratitude, there seems to be an experience that causes you to ask yourself, “Why did I go on this trip?” I am always dancing on the thin blade of a double-edged sword, loving and loathing the journey, often in the same breath.

As I’ve said a million time before, traveling around the world is hard work. There are the obvious things that make life difficult like lugging around a 25 pound backpack in 100 degree weather, riding on jangling overnight buses, getting sick, and finding yourself constantly in the process of making plans. All of it is exhausting, but what takes a bigger toll is the emotional wringer, the messed-up mind games that this kind of extended travel plays on you. This trip is one big mirror that has reflected the worst of my personality. The pace we’re keeping has led to short fuses and the inevitable bickering that follows. I’ve threatened to go home more times than I’d care to count. I’ve been known to declare multiple times a day, “I’m not cut out for this. I’m not a traveler.”

But this is the gift of this trip. I am thankful for the opportunity to genuinely face myself, to see myself for who I am, even if I don’t always like what I see. It is through these experiences, through the journey itself, that I am growing. (What I’ve learned about myself in four months would have taken me countless years and thousands of dollars in therapy to reveal!) The gift of time is precious, and I am thankful to have the chance to take a break from my everyday life and reevaluate my place in this crazy world. If I can stop fighting myself and see the opportunities for transformation that this trip presents, I’ll be the better for it.

I am thankful for ALL of our friends and family back home, who have followed our journey with interest and curiosity, and who I am excited to reconnect with in March. I am especially thankful to Mark Monda, who keeps our household running in our absence, and Tim Eriksson, who not only took the time the time to meet us in New Zealand, but keeps our website running from abroad (and is schlepping a bunch of crap home for us). And I am thankful to all the new friends I’ve made while traveling, whose different perspectives are helping to shape the person I am growing into.

Most of all, I am thankful for my husband, Maikael. Even though we sometimes irritate each other to no end and engage in our fair share of bickering, I can’t imagine doing this trip with anyone else. He calmly steps in when I’ve reached the end of my tether and does what needs doing. He encourages me daily to keep going with this trip, and is my greatest supporter. Whatever changes may come as a result of this trip, I know he’ll encourage me to be the best person I can be. And even though it’s sometimes hard to see, I think we’ll emerge from this experience stronger than we went into it.

So while there won’t be any pumpkin pie this year, know that I am in New Zealand, sitting in the shadow of Mt. Doom, feeling incredibly grateful to be here.

Monday, November 3, 2008

When we were in Bhutan, we asked our guide, Dorji, if McDonald’s had arrived in Thimphu, the capital city, yet. “Oh yes,” said Dorji, gravely. “It is the only place in town where you can buy hamburgers. Would you like to see?” I wondered if the hamburgers would be cloaked in chiles and cheese, and if the Playland would be festooned with merry-go-rounds fashioned after prayer wheels. Or maybe the Happy Meals would come with a McBuddha action figure. Instead, we arrived at a small place called The Swiss Bakery, what amounted to a chalet-style cafe, with no iconic golden arches in sight. Inside, we could choose from a menu that consisted of dodgy-looking pastries, coffee and tea, and hamburgers. It dawned on us that, in Dorji’s mind, McDonald’s wasn’t a brand name but an institution synonymous with hamburgers. And since the Swiss Bakery was the only one serving up patties in this neck of the woods, it might as well have been McDonald’s.

We couldn’t bear to let him down, so we ordered a desiccated chocolate cake and settled down at a booth, the only thing that bore any resemblance to a real McDonald’s. Within minutes a Bhutanese woman breezed in the door with a pack of school-aged children dancing in her wake. Her English was impeccable, with a slight British inflection, and the children’s language abilities were equally impressive. These were Bhutanese of a certain class, the ones who go abroad to study and return to cushy government positions. Dorji had told us that they have a propensity towards all things Western, so we weren’t surprised when she ordered a round of hamburgers for everyone. The arrived wrapped in limp plastic steaming with condensation; the whirring of the microwave in the background moments earlier gave a clue as to their heat source. An emaciated patty was sandwiched between a bakery-style bun; there were no vegetables.

As the kids doused their hamburgers in ketchup, they chatted in English. The woman, obviously the mother of the girl dressed in pink, suddenly turned toward me and asked me where I was from. Within moments, the woman, talking a million miles a minute, revealed that she had recently appeared in a Bhutanese film, Travellers and Magicians. Although she worked professionally at the Bank of Bhutan and had never acted a day in her life, she landed a role in the film, and even went to Los Angeles for the premiere, where she was given “the red carpet treatment.” She even got to ride in a limousine. Deki was eager to know if we had seen the film; I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d never even heard of it. “Well,” she sighed, “it was back to Bhutan for me. No more limousines. Just my little red car.” She jotted down the name of the movie and her email address as Dorji approached our table. They spoke a few minutes in Bhutanese, and suddenly she was off.

We watched her make her way out to her little red car as the children piled in. “She was in a Bhutanese movie,” we told Dorji. “I know,” he said, “she told me.” He had never heard of it either.

* * *

Yesterday we found ourselves at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image in Melbourne, a must-see for anyone with an interest in film. Home to a number of exhibitions pertaining to the cinematic world, it also contains a number of theatres that play host to a rotating series of independent films and thematically exciting film festivals. An image of Buddha on a poster caught me eye as we passed by. “It’s a Buddhist Film Festival!” I said. Maikael studied the poster, looking at the list of films that were being screened. “Look what’s playing!” he cried. Travellers and Magicians. We glanced at the dates of the week-long festival: it was ending today. “What are the odds that this film is playing today?” we asked ourselves. Miraculously, its one and only screening of the festival was in a few hours.

The film was the embodiment of Bhutan, and everything was immediately familiar, like a giant memory blowing into my mind. Sweeping scenery, flapping prayer flags, dried chiles, terraced rice fields, gray ghos and colorful kiras, balls of rice, Indian trucks filled with hitchhikers, monks, magic, mystery, and folklore. The opening scene showed three men yelping as they scored an archery victory, and we smiled broadly, remembering the day we watched the Prince of Bhutan play in the national archery semifinals. This audience tittered when one character warned another about ghosts on the highway at night. Unless you’d been to Bhutan, you’d never know that warning was no joke.

The storyline revolves around a government worker who is dying to leave Bhutan for America, and when an opportunity arises he tries to make his way to Thimphu, a journey that takes days from his tiny village and is thwarted at every opportunity. The government worker meets a monk along his journey, and when he tells the monk he is leaving for America, his “dreamland,” the monk warns him against chasing empty dreams. The monk shares a fable with the government worker to illustrate his point, which becomes a parallel storyline.

I squealed when Deki’s unmistakable face appeared on the screen, the starring woman in the alternate storyline. Leaning across my seat I whispered to Maikael, “Can you believe we met that woman?” She was a pretty good actress for a government worker, and we found it ironic that she was starring in a film about the dangers of chasing Western ideals. The film was as much about Buddhism as it was about Bhutan: just as I experienced when I visited, the two things are inextricably bound together. Bhutan is struggling mightily with the encroachment of the Western world; most people used to be relatively happy with their lot, but with television in most homes, people see there is more to want. Buddhists believe the only path to happiness is to desire less.

So there we were, watching a Bhutanese film starring a Bhutanese woman we knew in a movie theatre in Australia, on the only day at the only time it was showing at a one-week film festival. It was all a little too bizarre, and I knew the Bhutanese would say it was no coincidence. We were meant to see that film.

At the end of the screening, a graduate student of Buddhist philosophy, visiting from Sydney, was on hand on answer questions about the film. He wasn’t Bhutanese, but with his shorn head and long, gray robe I guessed he was Buddhist. Someone asked him to give his interpretation of the film, and he stated that the central theme was a struggle between accepting our lot in life and aspiring for something greater. “At the end of the day, do we remain content with what we have, or crazily chase after our dreams? Which is better?” He explained that he wasn’t there to say which one was right, and that Buddhists believe that you have to inquire and question and struggle with yourself to find the right answer; the reason, he explained, why the ending to the film was intentionally left open-ended. “You have to give meaning to your own life,” he insisted.

This Buddhist man had unwittingly summed up the central struggle of not only the film but my own life. For years I have wondered if I should accept the fact that my life didn’t turn out as I had planned and continue with the status quo that I had set for myself, or if I should try to aim for something that’s more in line with who I am as a person. The greatest thing I’m struggling with now is that I don’t have a dream to “crazily chase after.” In the past, I have tried to solve the big questions of my life through occupational means, convinced that choosing a new career would be the key. In fact, I’m fighting not to fall into the same trap again, as new career ideas are percolating in the background.

That night, I had the most vivid dream. I dreamed that I was a substitute teacher for a small, mixed classroom of elementary and middle school children. When I took over the class we were working on an art project that I was helping the kids to finish. As I stepped into this role, largely unprepared, I felt immediately comfortable and at east, as if I had been a teacher my whole life. Suddenly, I found myself in a conversation with my “dream self,” who I can only guess is my subconscious, that great ruler of the dream world. This has never happened to me before.

I asked my “dream self” what this meant. “Does this mean I should be a school teacher?” I asked. “No,” she responded, confident and clear, “it’s a symbol. You will be a type of teacher, but not in a traditional way, or the way you think.” In fact, I have always regarded my role as a counselor as a teacher more than anything. In the dream I was teaching art, and my “dream self” somehow seemed to know that what I would teach people would have to do with creativity.

I’m not sure what the dream means, but I can only guess that seeing that movie unlocked something in me. I am vowing to make a conscious effort to avoid immediately jumping into a new career or endeavor when I return from this trip, to begin a quiet search for the different ways that being a teacher might manifest itself in my life. The astrologer in India told me that I would come into contact with many spiritual people during this year, and so far that is holding true. The path I’m on is invisible at the moment, but I feel my feet are treading on something, real and true.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Until today, I was a Verjuice virgin.

If you don’t know what Verjuice is, don’t feel bad. But if you’re an Australian who has any interest in the culinary arts, chances are good that, not only do you know what Verjuice is, you stock a bottle in your kitchen cabinet and swear to its magical properties. As far as I can tell, Verjuice is like Vegemite: a distinctly Australian concoction that makes Aussie’s hearts sing. The closest American equivalent is Rachel Ray’s ubiquitous EVOO.

One of our goals in visiting Adelaide was to make a day-trip into the Barossa Valley, recently rated as one of the top 10 wine growing regions in the world and only an hour’s drive from the city. The Valley produces many excellent wines, but is renowned for its shiraz. To prepare ourselves, we made a pre-trip stop at the National Wine Center in Adelaide, a modern building adjoining the marvelous Botanical Gardens. Here visitors can learn about the entire wine production process and gain an appreciation for just how difficult it is to create a decent bottle of wine. Through an interactive computer program, we were able to make our own vintage, based on answering a series of questions regarding what affects the wine making process, from soil type and temperature to how the grapes are picked and stored. In one section of the exhibit we could “talk” with chefs who are renowned for pairing food and wine, and I listened with interest as Maggie Beer waxed poetic about eating and drinking locally. “This is the kind of thing I should be doing,” I thought, as I chuckled to myself at the irony of her last name.

We awoke to blue glass skies and perfect temperatures and made our way to the Barossa, crossing swooping saffron hills zig-zagged with bottle-green vineyards. The environment here is hot and dry, and the arid landscape reminds me of what I think Tuscany probably looks like: lots of wheat fields growing up beautiful mounds of hills with a solemn gnarly tree perched atop. Our first stop was for Danish at the Apex Bakery in the town of Tanunda, the heart of the Valley, a safe bet given Barossa’s rich German heritage. The region’s first vintners came from Germany, escaping religious persecution: beautiful, petite Lutheran churches sit proudly in the town square of each little town you pass.

Fortified, we spent the morning tasting wines from the iconic Chateau Tanunda, Charles Melton, and Rockford, moving on in the afternoon to Langmeil, Peter Lehmann, and Yaluma, buying a few bottles along the way. As our stomachs began to grumble at mid-day, we perused the lunch suggestions from the concierge at the National Wine Center. My eye immediately fell upon Maggie Beer’s Farm Store. “Hey, isn’t that the chef who we saw talking yesterday at the Wine Center?” I asked Maikael. Beer is one of Barossa’s most famous chefs, who began the movement of eating regionally, and I felt like I needed to see her operation in action.

Maggie’s Farm Store sits alongside a lovely green lake filled with turtles bobbing there heads along the surface of the water. A sign advertising a 2 o’clock cooking demonstration greeted us at the door. “Learn how Maggie uses her signature ingredients (Verjuice!) to create her signature dishes.” “What the hell is Verjuice?” I thought. The store is a foodie’s dream, chock-full of gourmet foods labeled in pretty packages. Diners can choose a picnic lunch of their choosing to enjoy on the outside patio overlooking the little lake, and each comes with a suggested wine pairing. This is exactly what the Margaret River wine valley had been lacking; a concerted effort to pair local food and wine using the best of seasonal ingredients. We chose our lunches, which were packed in a charming woven basket: inventive vegetable pates, fresh-baked rolls, and savory tabbouleh salads, dressed with a fresh sprig of rosemary that I couldn’t help but twirl between my fingers. I was completely content, much how I imagine most people feel when they commune with nature or encounter something beautiful.

At 2 o’clock we were herded into a packed room for the cooking demonstration. I was hoping The Woman Herself would be conducting the class, but instead a vivacious blond woman, who Maikael referred to as The Minion, glided into the room. She explained that Maggie has her own cooking show on ABC, the equivalent of PBS, and that we were sitting on the set of the show, which was modeled after Maggie’s own home kitchen. Everyone nodded enthusiastically; we were clearly the only ones not in the know about Maggie Beer. It dawned on me that Maggie Beer is the Australian equivalent of our Julia Child or Jacques Pepin, and I wondered if Maggie’s kitchen would be torn down and resurrected in Australia’s version of the Smithsonian Museum, just as Julia’s had.

Soon we moved onto the elusive Verjuice. “Do you all know what Verjuice is?” quipped The Minion. Everyone nodded again, smiling, as Maikael and I exchanged befuddled looks. Verjuice, she explained for our benefit, is an acidic juice, much like lemon juice, that is derived from unfermented young Riesling grapes. Maggie created it when she had an overabundance of grapes, and then began using it as a base for drinks, and then finally as a stand-in for lemon juice in her cooking. And thus the Verjuice Revolution was born. She even has an entire cookbook dedicated to the topic, Cooking with Verjuice. Small plastic cups were passed around with the mystical juice, and everyone held it to their lips as if they were cradling holy chalices, sipping delicately. Everyone nodded in rapture.

The demonstration, which I later learned from Maggie’s website was officially called a “Verjuice Workshop,” showed every possible use of the elixir, from roasting fennel to sauteeing mushrooms. As samples were passed around, people swore it tasted better because of the Verjuice. The Minion was obviously preaching to the choir. When a bottle of green tomato pasta sauce was uncorked, a woman from the back row piped up, extolling its virtues. “It was a winner at my last dinner party. A real winner!”

After the demonstration, people stopped to snap photos of the kitchen-cum-television set; even me, who had never seen the show. I was smitten.

As we strolled out of the shop after enjoying a cup of Vanilla Bean and Elderflower Ice Cream (elderflower!), I paused at the front door to read about the history of the this space. What started as a simple retreat from city life in Sydney and a passion for local food had grown into a mini media empire. In between it had been the home of the Pheasant Farm Restaurant for over 15 years. What struck me was this woman’s ability to grow and adapt with the times, while consistently keeping good, local food as its core focus. That’s what the Barossa Wine Valley is all about.

I’ve been thinking more and more about incorporating food and writing (and travel?) into a future career. I recently had a vivid dream that an editor stumbled across my website and admonished me for not writing more about food. It seemed like a divine message from the great beyond. While I have zero training or experience in the culinary arts, when my heart sings over learning about something as simple as unfermented grape juice, I wonder if I’m not on the right track.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Today we hit the double digit mark: we’ve been on the road for 100 days, which seems somehow momentous. Just as presidents give an update after their first 100 days in office, we’ve decided to give our own “state of the union” address. How are we faring? What have we learned? What have been our favorite and least favorite parts of the trip? How will our lives be different when we return?

Surprisingly, Maikael and I share many of the same favorite experiences. We both loved Portugal’s Douro Valley and Turkey’s Cappadocia, places we plan on returning someday soon. Maikael was captivated by Pamukkale and the Bedouin camp we stayed at in Jordan. We both enjoyed Bhutan; Maikael for the hikes to cliffside monasteries, and me for the cultural aspects. The place I have felt most alive is Bali; we both agree that the highlight of that experience was the Ubud Bungalows Think Tank. Maikael resonates most with Australia. But the most memorable aspect hasn’t been the sights but the people we’ve met by chance along the way. Maikael put it best when he said that, from these people, we’ve been given the gift of exposure to the multitude of ways in which one can live their life.

We are very fortunate that nothing calamitous has happened: we still have our passports, our money, and our bags (insert knocking on wood here). There hasn’t been a single worst experience, but we hit our lowest point in India, when everything just felt too difficult. Another tough aspect of the trip has been the ongoing stress and worry. Contrary to popular belief, we are not living a Carnival Cruise commercial. Juggling our household, ongoing trip planning, website, and Maikael’s career has been more difficult than we could have imagined. It’s hard not to bicker when you’re tired and constantly adjusting to new things. We’re doing our best and learning not to be too hard on ourselves, or each other.

We’ve both learned a tremendous amount about the act and art of traveling, and will never travel in the same way again. We both agree that seeing less usually amounts to a richer experience. We are learning to take a proposed itinerary in the Lonely Planet and cut it in half for the time allotted. I’ve learned that I’m quite content doing nothing: if I can eat good food and meet interesting people, I’m genuinely happy. (Belgium is next on my list after meeting a lovely Belgian couple in Bali who told me that there are French fry “huts” on every block.) I could do without long, crazy, hot hikes. Packing light is not only doable, it’s preferable. We’ve both become braver and more assertive through this process. I would no longer hesitate to travel to a non-English-speaking country: while it’s a challenge, it’s very achievable. I know how to travel smarter (always know when your major holidays fall). I’ve learned that tuning into my intuition rarely fails me. Most importantly, I’ve learned that travel, like life, is a personal experience. I take recommendations of places to see and things to do with a grain of salt, because how another person experienced it is bound to be different than my own.

And what have we learned about ourselves? How will our lives be different when we return? We both feel a willingness and confidence to try new things – that bathroom remodel we’ve been dreading for years seems like no big deal after buying train tickets in India. Maikael and I have also come to realize how much our lives had become dictated by habit and routine. In many cases, we spent our time unwittingly doing things that we didn’t even really like. I doubt we will resume our subscription to cable TV after we return home. We would both like to be more intentional in how we shape our careers and our free time. I would like to start some new endeavors and get into the best shape of my life, starting yoga or another spiritual practice. I’d also like to get back to the things that used to make me happy: taking dance classes, singing, performing. My creative self desperately needs to be rekindled.

At the end of the day, we are generally happy and healthy. We have higher highs and lower lows than we are accustomed to in our everyday lives, but we are never, ever bored.