Indiaaaaahhhhhh!!!!

Well the European adventure comes to a close here in Athens and the Asian vision quest begins....
Five months of travel...done!
What have I accomplished?
How have I changed?
Have I accomplished anything?
Changed at all?
Who knows? It's most definitely too soon to tell. In my pre-trip fantasy, at this point I had envisioned myself as super-fit from all my walking and eating fresh local fruits and veggies;
relaxed and calmed by the solitude of my travels; invigorated by all the wonders I have witnessed and above all-ready. Instead I feel soft around the middle from my steady diet of cheese and carbs; sluggish, tired and broke down from endless hours of walking and mentally exhausted from the sheer amount of sensory information I have taken in these past months.
I could use a yoga class!
And so I am reminded (and was reminded by those close to me) that whether or not it looks like I had envisioned, everything is coming together just as I planned; as it is supposed to be.
And so ready or not...I am jumping head first into my adventure within my adventure.
Ready...
Set....
Indiaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!

Graffitti Barcelona

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Family Ties...

After 3 months of travel, touching down in Italy felt a little like coming home. It always does. Even though each time I go I am reminded that I am more American than I care to admit. Italy is a refuge, a solace, a fantasy. I've been escaping to this place since I was little. It's always been a place where I could relax and reflect. And even though I still had almost 4 more months of travel ahead of me, Italy was not a place to linger but rather a pit stop; a place to recharge my batteries and take inventory of where I was at the halfway point.
Instead it turned into an all-you-can-eat buffet of food and guilt. That is also Italy for you. My family; Aunts, Uncles, cousins, friends, all bent over backwards trying to get me to eat, drink & stay a little longer. If food is love then I was showered with constant kisses all throughout my Italian journey. I felt heavy both physically & emotionally by the weight of the food and the love that it symbolized.
When you live far from your country of birth, there are always going to be people you love who are far away. And though a part of me wanted to stay, ultimately I knew I had to finish what I began.
It felt selfish.
I felt guilty.
Traveling alone is lonely and here was a country filled with people who wanted me to stay.
But vacations end.
And you can't live in a fantasy.
There is a comfort in being with my family that is dark. It's like the part in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy falls asleep in the poppy field.
I get cozy and sleepy and warm and forget that there is a mission; a goal.
The work of living is tiring and sometimes it's nice to sleep and let someone else take care of it all. The old patterns may not serve you but they are familiar and require little effort unlike the constant attention needed to figure out your next stop, your next step and how to get there.

Got a touch of poetic inspiration as the bus left the station and I waved a final goodbye to my "Zio".

Train station in Carrara...close to where I used to live from 0-5 years old.

"Time flies
No sooner have you set down your roots
Then the time comes to fly again
Though greener pastures await you
The thought of sunsets remains
The dark and the cold and the hole that's left as you're walking away
I want to hold the entire universe in my hand
I want to hold the whole entire world in my hand
I want to have my entire universe safe in my hand
Squeeze it tight
Keep it warm
Have it all
Then I could never stray too far from you
From all that is love and all that is dear
Oh these thoughts
Oh the fear
Oh the fear
Oh the fear
To leave
To leave the ones you love"

The Vagina Monologues- Morocco Edition



The busy streets of the Fes Medina
 (Mr. Australia with the backpack)



Morocco is great! The people are friendly, helpful and always willing to show off a little something they know about your language/culture. There was the girl on the train who nudged me awake before she got off at her stop so that I wouldn't miss mine. The taxi driver who realized I was nervous arriving in Fez at midnight and so got out and walked me to the front door of my hostel. And the lady at the bus station who excitedly told me her great grandmother was Italian and spent 20 minutes telling me how much I looked like that side of the family. I have truly found kindness and generosity in the people here. But everyplace has its assholes and Morocco is no exception. At times the nature of Moroccan life itself can be infuriating. This is a hustling, bustling, scrappy, gritty place and the hustle is always on. You can NEVER simply ask for directions; can't be seen looking at a map. Even your gait needs to be steady, for a hint of hesitation is an invitation for an offer to "help".

"My friend! You want to go to old city? Come. Come!"

Some will straight up tell you they expect to be paid. The sneakier ones will say it's free, then ask for a "gift" at the end. On the whole, the concept doesn't bother me. I get it. I read the guide book. I know what I'm getting myself into. I have no problem with smiling politely, firmly saying no and then walking away. I'm also not worried about being perceived as rude for ignoring the more persistent ones who, even after a firm no, follow you down the street or start walking in front and guide you regardless. Most of the time, I found people really nice and helpful even after my "no's". However, things change when traveling with others. You and your co-horts need to be on the same page.

Here in Fez, I was fortunate enough to find a friend; well he found me, a bright, funny, extremely intelligent Australian who was also traveling alone. We got along swimmingly. He; however, was too nice and his idea of a firm "no" was wobbly at best. Most times he would rather slip someone money than deal with the hassle. And let's get this straight, we're talking about 1 or 2 dollars to navigate a labyrinthine city center (the largest in Morocco) that even with the best map would still confound. Overall the pairing was perfect; good cop/bad cop. Sometimes he would acquiesce as I would roll my eyes and other times I would step in when we really didn't need the hassle. This morning, however; something went wrong. Maybe it was because we had acquired a 3rd person; a friendly and quite chatty Chilean guy. Maybe my patience was wearing thin from the day before. I don't know. All I know is that we knew roughly where we were going...the Jewish Quarter to visit a cemetery and synagogue...and we knew we were heading the right way. All of a sudden a guy approaches Mr. Australia (since I'm a woman I'm never approached when in the company of a man). The guy offers to take us somewhere. I can hear Mr. Australia mumble under his breath, "oh not you again" and then continue,

"Oh thank you. We're just walking around. Thanks!"

I don't hear him actually use the word "no" but I do watch him nod his head up and down while he speaks.

It's clear that while he's speaking English, the finer points of the language may be lost on this Moroccan guy. I'm pretty sure that all the nodding and thank you's will NOT lead him to leave us alone and now our little group is stopped in the middle of the square. So I turn around and with my hand on my chest (a gesture of respect in Morocco but one I had the habit of doing even before learning this) and say, "Thank you but no", twice firmly but not angrily or aggressively.

FUCK YOU!
That's his response. And he doesn't stop there.

"Who are you to do this (he mimics my gesture) and talk to me like this. Fuck you and I fuck your mother!"

My companions are shocked. Strangely enough, I'm not bothered. His words cause no reaction in me and I don't fear for my safety. I'm pretty sure a young Moroccan boy is not gonna use violence on a woman tourist in an open square in the middle of the day. Also I find I have a pretty good instinct about who is just blowing off steam and who has a real potential for violence. And so, I am calm-even pleased. My intervention has had the desired outcome. The guy turned, walked away &; left us alone.
I turned around to my new friends.
"Wow...ok...I wasn't even rude to the guy, was I?"
Mr. Chile responds, "Well, yes..you ARE a woman".
I stop short. I feel like I've just been told to remember my place. I feel like I've just been gut-punched. Then Mr. Australia says something about me coming off as masculine or aggressive or something. I don't really know because I can't really hear him. He's standing right next to me but I am crumbling into myself. My entire sense of self plummeting to my feet as a hot molten rage boils and rises; ready to blow. My insides are crying and screaming. I open my eyes and realize the universe is not as I thought. No one here thinks I'm equal. Even these seemingly seasoned travelers believe there is something not right about a strong direct stubborn, outspoken female. I can't believe they would have found anything wrong with the same action had it come from a "dude".
Heavy with sadness, I took a moment for myself to breathe and let the tide of emotions swing wildly until it passed. But I was changed. After that I became acutely aware of my tone, my choice of words. I didn't offer my opinion; kept my thoughts to myself. I realized that it is these subtle beliefs that can be more damaging than blatant ignorant brutality...which can easily be ignored.

Barcelona

Some places you just know.  Barcelona and me...love at 1st sight.  I travelled to many amazing cities; London, Paris, Amsterdam but Barcelona felt like home.  It felt like a place that I could put down roots.
So please forgive me for the sheer amount of photos in this album and keep in mind that I started with over 900!  So take a gander and I hope you fall in love with Barcelona as well...

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Morocco- Day 1 Part 2-Masamba..ooh say it again..

Masamba...hanging in Tangers.

It only took a few moments standing alone in the middle of a square before I made the acquaintance of a tall, handsome, dark chocolate, deep-dimpled, Sengalese boy named Masamba. I was standing at the entrance to the Medina trying to inconspicuously figure out my map. At first I didn't notice him; didn't even realize he was trying to talk to me. He sat on a ledge about 5 feet away...speaking French. I thought he was on the phone. The 2nd attempt he leaned in towards me. I dramatically ignored him; staring intently at the map in my hands. He tried 2 more times. It was distracting. I needed to give my map my complete attention. I needed to address this. I look up and uttered that familiar French phrase, "Je ne parles Francais". He asked what I spoke.
English?
He shook his head sadly..
Español? He asked hopefully.
I hesitated but finally nodded.
Come stai, he asked...in Italian.
Wait...what?!?
Suddenly things got interesting...
Turns out, Masamba had spent two years in Italy and spoke enough Italian to carry on a proper conversation. We chatted for a bit. He told me how he had followed a friend to Italy (illegally of course) & eeked out a living selling umbrellas, socks etc. on the street. He really liked Italy but with the economic crisis he wasn't making it.  Morocco wasn't any better but at least it was easier to be under the radar. I got a really good vibe from him so when he asked if I wanted some company, I said yes AFTER making sure he understood I wasn't looking for a guide nor would he be paid with money or anything else for that matter. All I had to offer was an afternoon and conversational Italian lessons.
His face dropped. He obviously felt offended and told me I would learn he was not like that.
And he wasn't.
He was clearly interested in me but behaved like a perfect gentleman. We got along like fast friends. I was grateful to have a local to wander around with on my first day in Morocco and I found him to be fun to talk to and easy going as well.
Then at one point late in the afternoon, while we were visiting the American Legion Building (side note: did you know Morocco was the 1st country to officially recognize the United States as a country back around 1789..yup!) Masamba got a very serious look on his face and made me sit down on a chair in the courtyard. He swung his chair around to face mine. He asked if he could go with me to Fez and onward through the rest of my time in Morocco. He had been building up to this all day; joking about coming with me to my next stop but this time he was thoughtful and careful with his words. He made me sit still and look him in the eye as he spoke so I could know he was serious. Then he began.
"If I tell you that I love you, I know you won't believe me."
He went on to tell me how he had gone to a fortune teller 2 weeks ago who told him that he would soon be meeting a woman, older than him, a white woman, who he was destined to marry. He had been waiting in front of the Western Union office across the street from the square when he saw me. He almost never approached women, definitely not white women; definitely not as an illegal black man in Morocco but something about me drew him in.
Uh-huh.
Now this story comes as a surprise to absolutely...noone who knows me at all. I swear my ample ASSets act as a honing beacon to any man within radius that has so much as a hint of African ancestry! After 35 years and the past 4 living in the Caribbean; I've heard more than my fair share of over the top but hollow declarations of true love.
But...
But Masamba was so earnest. He kept looking down and rubbing his sweating hands down the legs of his jeans. He told me he felt embarrassed to tell me all this but he knew I was leaving on a train that afternoon and it was now or never. He wouldn't get another chance to get these feelings off his chest.
Suddenly, my go to move of rolling my eyes and making a snarky comment didn't feel appropriate. My heart leapt from my chest and broke for him. I felt like I could cry from the power of his quiet emotion. The only problem? I didn't share his feelings. He was so nice. Part of me just wanted to make him happy and say, "The hell with it! Let's go! If I can't fall for a sweet, polite, funny, good looking guy professing his undying love for me...well...who then?!?
In the end, we exchanged email addresses. And as I left for the train he told me I didn't know what it felt like to want something so badly that isn't wanted in return.
Oh Masamba...if only that were true..

Morocco: Day 1-Part 1

Sitting on a hot train in Tanger on my way to Fez. I have (nearly) survived my first day in Morocco. I'm not gonna lie; I was nervous. I've just spent a month in Spain comfortable enough with the language & culture that I could explore without any fear. It also didn't hurt that with the appropriate sized hoop earrings...I could easily pass for a local. Morocco, although a place I was extremely excited to include in my itinerary, posed many obstacles. In my mind's eye, Morocco came jam-packed, loaded with tons of preconceived notions. The guide book I bought to arm myself with knowledge vs stereotypes did nothing but heighten my anxiety. I should tell everyone I was married. I shouldn't walk alone after dark. To prepare myself for the slack-jawed stares of the Moroccan men, I should avoid eye contact and arm myself with a good pair of dark sunglasses. The streets were filled with nothing but people trying to hustle you at every turn.
So I prepared myself. Armed with a steely gaze and surliness perfected from nearly a decade of living in NYC, I stepped off the bus in Tanger. No sooner had my foot hit the pavement when an old leathery man in a plaid shirt and dusty jeans approached me.
Taxi?
I firmly shook my head no, careful to not make eye contact. I grabbed my bag and hurried purposefully down the street keenly aware that he was following me and asking me questions. I ignored him which was easy to do considering he was speaking in French. He caught on and switched to Spanish.
That's when I realized that I was walking down the street in a foreign country without any clue as to where I was or where I was going; and all without a dime in my pocket. Whether I liked it or not; I needed help.
I turned to him and said that I did not need a taxi or a guide or help; I jut needed to be pointed in the direction of an ATM. He told me I was going the wrong way and immediately began to lead me down the street.
Oh great! I panicked and my mind began racing. Now this guy has latched onto me and is going to pressure me to drive around with him as my guide all day! At the very least, he's gonna follow me around until I give him money which he knows I have because...well...he's walking me to the ATM.
Fail! I can't believe I let this happen. Then a funny thing happened. We chatted a bit; he showed me the ATM and then hailed me a taxi. As he shot me a wide toothless grin and wished me well on my journey; I realized he didn't want anything at all from me.
The cab driver; the guy who helped me figure out the train schedule; the porter at the left luggage office- everyone was so open & kind. After the 1st 30 minutes in North Africa, every stereotype I had was shattered. By the time I made it to the entrance to the medina, I was ready to drop the surliness and explore the old city streets.
Then I met Masamba...but we'll leave that story for another day.

The French Riviera - Final Thoughts

Outside of a day in Nice and one in Monaco...I spent the rest of my Frenchy time loungy on the beach...travel is tiring & it's always nice to have a somewhat free day...I did decide to go on one other adventure...to Cannes...but I was REALLY dissappointed by it. It reminded me a little of L.A. a little superficial with a huge theatre (along with the requisite celebrity handprints running along the front of the buiding) and a mediocre beach. Maybe you have to see it from a yacht during a film premiere to truly appreciate it! less…

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The French Riviera - Nice

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Versailles

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Paris

So I have finally gone through my pictures of Paris. It was a daunting task. 1...because I took loads of pictures since Paris is iconic and stupid gorgeous. But also my camera broke in Paris and I got a new one and when I uploaded the pictues they were all in the wrong order and such. They still might be.

Paris is an amazing city. I have a love\hate relationship with my time there. Had it tough in Paris, personally and emotionally but I also saw some amazing things. Had a life changing moment with the Monet waterlillies...saw fireworks....made friends...

Hope you all enjoy the photos!

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Toro! Toro! Oh, no!

  This morning, my last in Seville, I found myself anxiously pacing back and forth outside the bullfighting ring like..well...like a bull sizing up the enemy. On the one hand, I am in Spain trying to soak up and understand Spanish culture & history. On the other, I'm a year old vegetarian who studies yoga and has trouble killing a bug. Still, how can I criticize something without understanding it and what better way to understand it than by touring the oldest bullfighting ring in Spain? But what is there to understand? Bull enters ring. Bull more than likely dies a slow painful death. The crowd cheers. Do I really want to give my money to support that kind of "entertainment"? Defiantly, I walk away. I realize my statement is small and the €6 I've kept in my pocket will not crumble the National Bullfighting Association of Spain..or whatever it is they call themselves.

Tradition, History. It's a part of the Spanish identity and cultural heritage; just as important as its language, music or art.

The fact that Bullfighting still exits in 2012 in modern western society is quite curious to me. Italy hasn't carried the tradition of gladiator fighting into the 21st century and as far as I know, jousts or duels to the death are no longer part of western culture. And no, the show at Medieval Times does not count!

Bullfighting is so blatantly violent and bloody though. I just don't understand how the Spanish people (more more specifically, the Andalucians) can accept and celebrate it under the guise of sport, tradition or art.

On the other hand, I don't think most of us have to go looking too far to find something we participate in or

readily accept that flies right in the face of our core beliefs. I know

I don't.

I just need to look down at my wrist.

June. Toronto. The distillery district. My friend had taken me to a really cool spot that had lots of working artists selling their wares. I found a bracelet and immediately fell in love with it. It was a cuff shaped of leaves and flowers. It highlighted the dove tattoo on my wrist so much so that it looked like the dove was perched on one of the leaves. I decided it was made for me. I got home & showed off my purchase to my friend's husband.

"Is that made of leather? Hey! Aren't you vegan?"

No! I am not vegan.

Technically true but the point was clear. And it stung.

At what point to you go from being an ignorant bystander to active participant?

I decided to stop eating animals after studying "ahimsa" or non-harming during a yoga retreat; yet, if I really stop & examine my daily life, there are many ways in which I do harm every day whether it be in the products I use or the companies I choose to support or even the thoughts I have.

I'm not saying we should take up every cause; grab a bullhorn and go preaching through the streets or conversely to throw our hands up in defeat because we are overwhelmed by it all. Becoming a vegetarian was a huge step in aligning my core beliefs to my daily lifestyle but I realize it is just a step and not the end goal. It won't happen overnight but I want to remain vigilant and keep my eyes open to the silent complicity in my choices and see if there isn't a way to turn it into a roar of quiet protest; like keeping that €6 in my pocket.

IAMSTERDAM!

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La muerte de Señor Cucaracha

A funny thing happens when you become an observer; you begin to see things...





Although I have already seen many iconic sites on my journey; from the Golden Gate bridge to Big Ben to the Eiffel tower, the purpose of my travels is not only checking off items on some invisible inner bucket list of places and things. There is also a second, concurrent journey happening; an inner journey, a time to reflect and take inventory of where I truly am and would truly like to be. And just like the trusty Michelin Guide I picked up on my first day here in Spain, I am not without "guide books" for the inner journey as well. Among other things, lately I have been reading and rereading passages from "The places that scare you" by Pema Chodron and auditing a UC Berkley "Intro to Buddhism" class via iTunes.  I find most of this stuff boils down to the same practice.  Be in the moment...observe. Perhaps it's an oversimplification probably informed by the fact that all my days consist of is observing: go someplace, see something, process & repeat. It's an interesting parallel. So I study and reflect and meditate, not quite sure if anything is changing. I don't feel zen or peaceful or one with the universe. Quite the opposite. When you begin to open that channel, you feel like a crazy person.
Enter Señor Cucaracha.
I have just put my bag down and am waiting for my overnight bus to Bilbao when I see him; merely inches from my foot, motionless. I wonder if he's dead.  If anyone knows me they know my aversion to cockroaches. Now I know no one "likes" them but my dealings with them border on the irrational. I once called a boyfriend in the middle of the night because I had found one in my apartment. It was clearly dead; on its back, yet I was having a near panic attack, frozen with fear and unsure what to do. He stayed with me on the phone and after 20min I was able to summon the courage to sweep it into a dustpan. But I couldn't throw it in the trash; couldn't have it in the house so I opened the front door, ran to the curb, and flung it across the street. That's just one example.
But as I am now a Zen master, I have learned that just because I am bothered by something doesn't mean I have to react. I can sit and observe. So I tell myself, "This cockroach has as much right to be here on this earth, in this bus station, as I do. He's not actually doing anything to me". So I sit and I breathe and even though the inner panic starts; instead of pushing it away, I bring it closer. I try to quell my thoughts and focus on the feeling of fear underneath that's fueling them and  I just try and experience the physical sensation; the hairs on the back of my neck; the twitchiness of my muscles; the heaviness in the pit of my stomach. It's intense but instead of continuing to panic the emotion subsides. Señor Cucaracha & I? We cool.
As I sit and wonder at the power of my mind and pat myself on the back for being able to harness my thoughts, a bus worker comes by to smoke a cigarette and steps on the cockroach; not enough to squash it, mind you, just enough to mangle one of it's legs and flip it onto it's back.  I jump up and move away.  I look down at the cockroach and watch it's legs and antennae flail around as it struggles to right itself.  I watch the cockroach struggle and then...well...then I start feeling the cockroach struggle.  I want to help it but I can't bring myself to.  I haven't magically stopped being insurmountably grossed out by cockroaches, I've just been able to tolerate this particular one's  existence for a few precious moments.  But now I am in a panic.  Noone else notices what is happening.  DOESN'T ANYBODY SEE WHAT'S GOING ON!  Maybe I can find a broom or long stick and nudge it right side up.  The only other option is to ask someone to help me which is absurd.  I imagine the quizzical looks as I ask someone in Spanish to help me "salvar la cucaracha", save the cockroach.  At best I would be ignored as someone who did not have a basic understanding of the Spanish language or at worst only serve to hasten the cockroach's death.  I watch it struggle and think, "it's struggle would be no different from mine in the same circumstance" and still I can't bring myself to help him.  I can only watch from a distance and feel crazy with guilt and shame.  Only when I realize they are making the final call for my bus do I tear myself away from the scene.
As the bus rolls out and I calm down, I am amazed by what has transpired in me; the internal drama of what would normally be an ignored scene.  This is absurd, I tell myself but in a deeper place I realize that it's not.  It's open. It's connection. It's yoga.  It's just new and unsure and unfettered.  I feel bad that I didn't help the cockroach but I couldn´t.  Really, I felt paralyzed.  I could not help it even though I wanted to.  Then my mind's eye began flashing on moments in my own life when I felt people could have...should have...helped me out but didn't.  Then I started having real compassion and understanding for the possibility that maybe they wanted to but were also paralyzed by their own fears.  I, know! I know!  It all seems a little insane that my heart and soul crack open from a momentary encounter with a Cucaracha but that is the reality of inner exploration.  Damn this stuff is potent! I am completely petrified and exhilirated by the prospect of what's next....

All directions...one way

I keep seeing this sign around Catalonia and each time it strikes me as funny; all directions...one way. Really now? But when I met this sign yet again as I was walking between towns along the mountainous ridges of the Costa Brava, I had a moment of reflection and revelation.

Indeed, I thought; it doesn't matter which way you go; you ultimately
end up where you are; and oftentimes exactly where you need to be. In my current incarnation as professional vagabond, this is a point that is not easily lost on me. Every day, without fail, I am called to make decisions about where to go, how to get there, how long to stay and when to move on. Sometimes everything works out perfectly and those days are AWESOME. But most days, something goes horribly wrong. Buses are missed; train schedules are wrong, places are closed, items misplaced, language barriers insurmountable. Those moments, if you let them; and I have, can derail the rest of a perfectly good day. If you let them. But I have also found that there is always a next train or a bus to someplace else that's interesting. Leaving something behind is an opportunity to gain something new. And language barriers can be a path towards new understanding. Ultimately, it doesn't matter which road you take, you will always come to the same end. I have come to learn, in a very practical sense that every day begins & ends whether or not I want it to; whether or not I have crossed everything off my sight seeing list. Whatever direction I decide to take, wherever I go or don't go; whatever I see or don't see; each step is moving me forward to the same place-the end of this journey.

In the penultimate sense, it's also true. All directions...one way. Every road leads to the same place for everyone. There is only one real direction we are traveling in, from the moment we breathe our 1st breath, and it is the march towards our last, towards death. And I don't mean it in a macabre and depressing way. It's actually quite liberating. It is a fact of life. One we are startlingly adept at trying to avoid. And I am not an exception. Yet again traveling like this, to so many places and for such a long stretch of time; the concept of monumental beginnings and endings is always staring me square in the face.
"Wow! I'm in London!"
"oh, I'm leaving London"
"Wow! I'm in Paris!"
"oh, I'm leaving Paris"
But beginnings and endings are all around us, always. And now that I have begun to settle into the lifestyle of a solo traveler these subtle beginnings and endings also start to reveal themselves; of breath and thought and emotion. I have started watching these things much like I'm watching the scenery outside the train to Valencia. Mountains come and go, cities pass, the sun begins to set and ultimately disappear into the horizon which itself disappears into the oncoming darkness of night. Soon I will be at the end of this day of my life; this small trip within my larger journey. Where to next? Mmm..All directions..one way.

God save the Queen: the UK Jubilee Tour

Here for your viewing pleasure..
Pictures of my chilly July in the Northern UK...

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Stumbling into darkness in the city of light

*Prologue*
I wrote the post below over 2 weeks ago, while in Paris. I wondered if I had the courage to share it. To be brutally honest, It wasn't exactly the same post. The post I initially wrote was accidentally erased as I impulsively tried to upload it. "Well", I said to myself, "must be a sign from the universe! It wasn't meant to be shared." But it keeps popping back up in my thoughts; unfinished business. Before leaving on this trip, the fact was, I wasn't happy in my life and I didn't know where to go to find whatever it was I was looking for. So now I'm going everywhere and shaking things up and seeing what transpires. Not everything I've found is pretty. But if I can't even be honest in this blog, and with the people who love me, how will I ever find the courage to be honest with myself. So here goes...scarred and all...where I was..2 weeks ago...

..,It's 4 in the afternoon and I'm licking Nutella off my fingers; not because I've just indulged in a delicious French pastry in some adorable street cafe but rather I am getting rid of the evidence. Evidence of polishing off a jar of Nutella and a full size baguette, among other sundries, as if I were an athlete training for some championship eating competition.
I have always turned to food for comfort. Or at least that's how it began. But like a bandaid, food was never a cure; merely a temporary cover so the bleeding could stop. By the time I left for New York after college, turning to food was like breathing air. Hurt, angry, depressed, anxious, joyful, tired, bored: food was the solution. Soon my source of comfort became an act of violence. A textbook case of battered woman syndrome; I returned to my lover again & again, always thinking things would be different this time.
But that was years ago. I paid my dues. Hit bottom, strained friendships, lost boyfriends, got help. I opened my Pandora's box and waded in the shit. And yet it seems, a stubborn spot remains.
Don't get me wrong, Traveling has been wonderful overall and I understood from the beginning that it was also going to be a challenge. I purposefully placed myself in a groundless situation. I have nothing to hold onto here. No person or place is familiar or constant. The only "things" I have are the few clothes & toiletries strapped to my back. All I have is myself. It's freeing to live this way; with nothing to hold you down. But even though I chose to walk off the cliff, I kind of feel like Wiley Coyote now; who only upon looking down realizes he's not on solid ground and begins to fall. And I am falling...

*Epilogue*
Since the day I wrote the above, I am in a different place...literally & figuratively! Distance allows perspective and I can honestly see the gift in having gone through that particular low point. To try & explain what's changed is challenging. In some ways nothing has changed...nothing concrete that i can point to. I'm still traveling, still exploring, still having highs & lows; challenges & triumphs. But there has been a shift. I still experience excitement and wonder & loneliness every day. I still experience peace & chaos; times of clarity and doubt. I still wanna eat. The difference? Instead of feeling strapped to this roller coaster of emotion; I'm learning to be a spectator. The feelings are still there, still intense but a space is opening and a road unveiling itself. And so I take a step forward even if it feels like I'm walking backwards and I remind myself a stumble is not a fall.

How it was supposed to go...

My bus isn't until 3am so I spend a large part of the evening drinking coffee & finally uploading my large cache of photos. I leave the hostel just in time to catch the last night bus, which will bring me just outside of Terminal 1 at the airport. That gives me about an hour to wait before catching the overnight bus to Barcelona. Nearly 12 hours later, I make my way to the hostel just as check in begins. I settle in, do a load of laundry, shower and nap. I wake up refreshed and ready to watch the Olympics opening ceremony over tapas y cafe con leche. THAT'S how it was SUPPOSED to go.
But I am still at the airport..in Nice..in France. I made it to Terminal 1 by 2am. Bus didn't leave until 3:15. True there weren't as many people as I was anticipating but I did spy a couple of people dozing near the door with backpacks by their side. And even though I was standing under a door with a stenciled picture of a bus and the same words that were on my bus ticket "Gare Routiere" in big block letters next to it, apparently, I was supposed to be across the street.
I really have to learn French.
So now it's 18 hours later and I'm still in this airport but now with a reservation on the 10:55pm to Barcelona which costs more than double what the bus cost. To be exact, because of a
Wifi/computer glitch, I have 3 reservations for this flight and as many charges to my debit card. I spent the afternoon practicing the phrase "si vous plait, je ne parle Francaise, parle vous Anglais" before being transferred to someone else and getting to practice some more bad French.
I am surprisingly non-homicidal.
I have had lesser deviations throw me on this trip. Maybe it's the fact that I've been working on my tan for the past 4 days or the utter absurdity of it all or maybe I am settling into the unpredictability of this trip. The best laid plans...what can go wrong inevitably will...the only constant is change...
I've had my moments today. After spending over an hour on the phone trying to sort out my reservation only to be told not to worry and they would cancel my reservation when they found it...(but how would they find it and let me know when they didn't take any info from me?)...I made a beeline for the newspaper stand and comforted myself with a can of Pringles & some Malteasers. But I got back up, dusted the crumbs of my chest and went back to the phones. Nothing has been settled. But I am here. And I have a seat. And I will get to Barcelona & probably spend some time at the airport there. It's been a long day and a hard day and it's not over. But I am here. And I'm not grumpy or angry or twisted up from the inside out. And that is a gift. It wasn't how it was supposed to go but it was a good day nonetheless.

LONDON TOWN

As it was the 1st stop on the European leg of my world tour and a city I have been longing to visit for a while, I took a lot of pictures in London...here is the best of what I saw.

Click here to view these pictures larger

Mona Lisa Smile

I have saved my visit to the Louvre for the end of my trip in Paris. Mostly, I planned it this way but also I have struggled here in Paris (more on that later). Paris is grand in every sense of the word and though I traveled to large cities before; c'mon I lived in New
York for 10 years, Paris is larger than life and overwhelming and it's hard to wrap my head around it.
Nowhere is this more evident than the Louvre. It's huge and filled with more artwork than one can possibly contemplate in a lifetime much less a day. So I decided to break it up into manageable bites. And I go straight for the meaty center. That's how I find myself making my way past the throng for the first time at 5pm on a Wednesday; practically a week into my stay. I've come late in the day to see the "highlights", the best of, the top 10. Then tomorrow I can arrive and lazily stroll around knowing I won't miss any of the "biggies".
First up, obviously, the Mona Lisa or more properly, La Giaconda. I brace myself, literally & figuratively. I'm hoping there will be a small mob as opposed to a stadium sized crowd as I've come at the end of the day. Just a quick look to say I've done it and move on, I say to myself. I'm already geared up for disappointment. I mean, this is an image i have seen..who knows how many times. Also, Ive heard, in person, it's small and behind glass and you have to jockey for position among the hoards. All this is true, although it's actually larger than I had imagined in my head. Also, it's spectacular. This is an image I have seen hundreds of times in my life and think I know intimately. Even so, I am surprised when I see her. It's familiar yet completely new. I had often wondered why out of all the wonderful paintings daVinci did, and I have seen many, why was the Mona Lisa the most enduring? And then I stood in front of her and it made me emotional. All around me people were snapping pictures and I wanted to shout,"what are you people doing!" I have stacks of pictures of this image and now know no camera lens can capture it. And so I stand and I stare and she stares back. And I smile and she's smiling back. And even though the 20th person elbows me out of their shot, I feel like ML and I sharing a private moment, a secret and it fills me with emotion and I feel like if I let myself I could cry right now, let go the way you can with a good friend. Hello art, old friend. Thanks for the warm hug.
http://www.lairweb.org.nz/leonardo/monalisa.jpg