Crashing Couches Casually Cultivating Close Connections

There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each location resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called to my heart to return, but of all the places I've been, there have only been four in the continental United States that I've returned to time and time again. Monterey, CA, Annville, PA, Tampa, FL, and New York City.

~~~~~

I've found that it is not the scenery, club scene, nor quality of restaurants in these places, that causes me to return. To me, although I generally seek adventure and new experiences, there are certain traits from my exploration to which I find myself drawn time and time again. I've learned in life, you can see the most beautiful sights and participate in the most crazy exploits, but if you cultivate no connections along the way, the road can quickly become devoid of meaning, and then, instead of revelling and enjoying your journey to self discovery, you can find yourself flailing without an anchor, seemingly happy to untrained eyes, but truly empty and alone. Essentially living a Beat Generation existence in true form: travel, passion, alcohol, sex, debauchery, but missing vitality of the soul.

~~~~~

I just returned from one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Republica Dominicana. To date, this is the only international location which I've revisited. I spent a month there last February, mountain biking, wandering, hiking, dancing, and meeting people. This time I spent just one week on the island. The motivation, to the passive onlooker, might obviously have been the First International Bachata Festival. The opportunity to be part of history, where the people who love bachata travel from the other side of the world for the first time to celebrate its existence in the bachata capital of the world. However, in truth, it wasn't the festival itself so much as the prospect of having the chance to experience, once again, relationships I'd created along my path to self discovery at said festival that brought me to purchase the full pass and airfare.

~~~~~~

My participation in Couchsurfing.org has brought to me a lightness of spirit in travel and life in general. In learning to be open to making connections, hearing stories, and sharing moments with new friends around the world, the states, and close to home, I've become much more free with my heart. In past musings, I was known to say I loved horses and dogs, tolerated people...and it was true. In a crowded room, I was always amongst strangers, surrounded by acquaintances, distracted by thoughts of places...potential... practicalities. Half listening to everyone, half wishing I could disappear and hear no one. Half wanting them to like me, half not caring if they despised me. Half wanting recognition, half wanting to be ignored. Always with one foot out the door. Always on the outside looking in, and thoroughly enjoying the seclusion of separation; if only mental. Always judging. Always convinced nobody understood me, my plight, my story, and more so, feeling it wasn't worth explaining the restlessness and subtle boredom I felt around them.

~~~~~

That was then, this is now. No, I'm not referencing The Greasers. Though I enjoyed the genre thoroughly as a child.

~~~~~

Through travelling with nearly nothing, I've been exposed to the goodness of people: that spark in a soul that tempts your heart to reveal itself unabashed, and in turn nourishes the subsequently planted seed of friendship. With this gradual change in ideology, my horizons have expanded infinitely. I barely recognize my recent self when I consider the chained, dark moments of years past. The beauty of the transition is its subtlety. There was never a specific day I consciously chose to open my mind and heart to accept people from different paths. There was no distinct moment where I decided to be connected as opposed to removed.

~~~~~

I woke up one morning on a creaky, damp mattress sans sheets in a jungle cabin with no electricity near Puyo, Ecuador, covered in mosquito bites and smiling. I fought my way out from under the faulty mosquito net, and made my way to the crudely assembled wooden table in the kitchen, revelling in the sound of a torrential jungle downpour beating on the thatched roof. I smelled of sweat with a twinge of mildew, but not enough to overpower the sweet scent of Mother Nature's 100% organic cleaning solution that softly kissed my face in a misty breeze as I passed an open window. I greeted a couple from Riobamba, 4 Finnish girls, and a couple from Seattle that had already been wandering for four months when I sat down. Together we relaxed, shared stories, laughed, and enjoyed breakfast to the melody of a careless percipitation. It was in that moment I realized I wasn't on the outside looking in. I wasn't feigning interest. I was intrigued, and it wasn't forced. The best part? I realized in that moment that I would only be excluded in my future if I chose to be, because I recognized the lightening effect relationships have on your being.

~~~~~

There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each place resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called my heart to return, but it's not the scenery, club scene, or quality of restaurants that tempts me. Solely people have the ability to lasso my spirit and draw it back to a location with me in tow. Whether it's Wlady in Ecuador, Don, Knikki, Tim, or any of my Chilkat Guides family in Alaska, Jota and Dina in DR, Cat in Monterey, David in England, Jorge in Spain, family in NY, FL, and PA, Peter, Aut, or Spaci in Czech Republic, Marydale in Afghanistan, Maurycy, Pawel, Erik or Quin in Seattle, Merlin, Rebecca, or La Familia de la Salsa in Watertown and Syracuse...whoever, wherever. These casually cultivated close connections are the true reason I return.

~~~~~

These days I am proud to declare honestly that I love horses, dogs, AND people.

Living Life on Lover’s Lane: Likely a Legendary Love Story

Often times with technology as an excuse, individuals go day to day walking hurriedly past people with whom they would truly connect if they took a moment to communicate. Life becomes a race from one goal - one achievement to the next, all motivated by status and a longing for recognition. Left behind in the settling dust of unbridled ambition are decaying skeletons of relationships. Shadows of what could have been.

I met two people over the course of three days in the smokey saffron light of MJ's Coffee House that I knew would change my life, if ever so subtly. A man and a woman. In speaking with the man, I was reminded that there are still people in this world that believe in achieving their dreams. There are still those willing to fight the good fight to ensure they don't dry up like a raisin in the sun. Or fester like a sore - then run (I adore Langston). This man said things to me that I have written to others. We shared laughter, not like strangers meeting for the first time, but like close friends reuniting after months apart.

The world turns, and if allowed, kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances, random bits of serendipity -and in a moment, it is clear they will be a part of each other's lives in some capacity forever, whether as a sweet memory, a fleeting acquaintance, an active friendship, or unconditional love.

And so, that being said, I recall the woman. Tall and lean, her beauty commanded my attention as she sauntered through the glass doors, passed the old piano, and stepped onto the raised, carpeted level of the cafe, where I sat. I tried not to stare at her long, blond, twin braids, resting on her slender shoulders. She and her two male companions passed me with a friendly nod and sat at the table behind me. As they began chatting, I recognized an unfamiliar accent in her English. Immediately curious of from where she hailed, I found myself focusing less on Call Me Stupid, and more on her conversation.

She was talking to the men, who were completely enraptured by her every word, about a holistic healing class in India. I found myself hanging on her every syllable, musing that everyone in the cafe should be sitting cross legged at her feet, waiting for her next story like children used to do with their grandparents before video games stole the intimacy from the modern American family. Then she said it. Ice climbing. How absolutely intense it had been! How beautiful!

I couldn't hold it in. I turned around, met her eyes, flashed her a knowing smile, nodded, AND threw in a Shaka for good measure. Immediately, she returned my smile, and with a sparkle in her almond hazel eyes, invited me to sit and chat with them. In the next several moments, we discussed ice climbing, rock climbing, hiking, travelling, life, healing, and love.

You see, she was married to one of the men with whom she shared the table, and the other was helping to translate her book from Hebrew to English. Yes, my question was answered. She hailed from Israel. She spoke of her husband often, and when she did, I could feel...yes, palpably feel, the love between them. It tingled the hairs on my arm, the sensitive skin around my collarbone, the small of my back, behind my ears. I felt their love in the air, on my skin, inside my soul. It lifted and cradled my spirit, coursed through my veins on a mission to infect my heart, and my heart, in turn, pumped it to the far reaches of my being.

I stared in wonder at the couple as they told stories of their cross country cycling trip they took together, 18 years ago. I smiled as he looked at his adoring wife, matching her enamored expression with one of his own. They discussed the long distance hikes they had done all over the world, the crazy adventures they had experienced together, and I couldn't help but smile to myself. It's out there. It exists.

The book she had written is based on healing through walking, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself, and learning to grow healthily. The book I am writing is based on healing through running, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself and learning to grow healthily. We had much to discuss. We agreed on the inherent goodness of humanity, the willingness of strangers to feed, clothe, and share with the road worn traveller, the value of a story unfamiliar, the amazing way people can come together to help one another.

I left MJ's that evening with a smile on my face. Kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances and open minds and hearts; random bits of serendipity. In a simple conversation, we came together, sharing experiences, stories, and tidbits of wisdom picked up along our travels. We shared moments together, smiling back fondly on memories past, current passion, and future potential. I tasted an unconditional love between two pure hearts, and basked in the ambient light. I was reminded that it exists, and to settle without fighting the good fight would be to waste an invaluable gift.

Live, laugh, love - with pure, raw, unadultered emotion or don't do it at all.

Palpable Perceptions: Positive or Pessimistic?

She feels she has lost everything. It's been three years since her husband left. He walked out the door without looking back, leaving bitter words hanging in the stagnant air of loneliness, and what's worse, he took everything but the furniture. He left her with the furniture. What's a chair without the matching painting? A grandfather clock without the accompanying oriental rug? What used to be their home has since become a shell of her house. Three years it has been, and she has clung to the things he left behind as reminders of a love that once was.

Recently her employer told her she was no longer a necessary asset to the company. Granted, she didn't enjoy her job, but everyday she had been faithful to it, as she had been to her husband. Yet it, too, had betrayed her. 4 more weeks would she have an occupation, a paycheck, an excuse to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. 4 more weeks of dreading the sedentary day, but dreading more the quiet, empty nights in the shell of her house.

Her children would rather be with their father, that's obvious enough. Two of them are grown already, and refuse to come home for holidays. She still decorates the tree every Christmas with their traditional ornaments, bits of memories from the good times, in hopes that one or four of them will drop in to visit. She feels fully and utterly alone in an infinitely cruel world. The bank is threatening to take her home, since she has had a hard time keeping up with the payments after he turned his back. She has sold everything she could without making a visible dent in how she was living. She still eats on the fine china, although she disagrees with the blue swirly pattern slightly, and sips from their crystal wine glasses (a wedding gift) nightly. She and her husband had known the mortgage would be a challenge for the two of them, but when it became just one, it was simply impossible. Three years of defaults. Three years of scrambling to stay above water. Three years of misery, and she would soon have absolutely nothing to show for it.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~
He woke up this morning to the crisp fresh air of another Christmas morning with nature. His breath formed small puffs of steam in the chill as he yawned, quietly taking in the soft pastels of an infinite sky moments before sunrise. To him there was nothing like seeing the first rays of light peeking over the sharp silhouette of a distant snow capped mountain, and he waited with the anticipation of a child listening for the click clack of reindeer hooves on the roof Christmas eve. This was his reminder that there was a world out there yet to be explored, enjoyed, and that he would be free again soon enough.

He scanned the rest of the hilltop, as he quickly thought through past Christmas celebrations he'd enjoyed. Scenes scrolled through his memory, all of them focusing on smiles of loved ones, moments by the fire, the beauty of being alive and comfortable. Back in the world of reality everyone was still sleeping soundly, save the four who were scanning the surrounding valley for any movement through their scopes. He glanced at his bag, black on immaculate white; a stark contrast.

He blinked away yesterday. He had seen the eyes of a man, full of hatred, full of murderous intent. A man at the far end of an AK-47, dressed in black, with an equally black, stony gaze. Half of the man's tight expression had been hidden by an apple tree, but he saw enough. The muzzle flashed, and in a moment he was in a river bed, screaming to his brothers around him, ensuring everyone was responsive; returning fire. They had made it up the hill, the one from which he was enjoying the quiet moments of predawn light, and only then had he realized how close he had been to not being around another day.

In his bag, there had been a plastic bottle of mango iced tea, a few choice bits of MRE, changes of socks, and a sleeping bag. Tied to the outside had been two mortars. Tired from the excitement of the day, he reached into his bag, only to realize his iced tea had spilled on everything. Pulling it out, to inspect the carnage, time stood still for a moment. There were three holes in the bottle. Upon closer inspection, he realized there were also six holes in the bag. The mortars escaped unscathed and so had he.

That was yesterday. Today if the snow holds off there would be an air extraction, and he would be able to get a shower and hot soup. He smiled thinking of a cozy night in his warm tent. The first rays of light crawled over the jagged peak, and touched his face. A gentle, warm caress in a bitter cold. This morning he was alive and being warmed by the sun's first light. Life is a gift.

The snow stayed at bay long enough for him and his team to get lifted from the landing zone they set up in a nearby clearing that afternoon. He returned to the Forward Operating Base, hungry and exhausted from the firefights and ground they had been covering over the course of the week. Upon entering the chow hall, he was greeted with the sign, "Well come to Christmas!" He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Far from everything, disconnected from home, alone in Afghanistan, and laughing. Life is good.

As the evening wore on, he decided to get into line to use the computers for his allotted half hour. He wrote his mom as often as possible to let her know he was OK. After an hour wait, he finally got to the computer. The homepage took a full 90 seconds to load, and he sighed as he worked his way to Facebook and GMail simultaneously in different tabs. By the time both had loaded and he was ready to begin communicating, he had 22 minutes remaining.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She had written him an email on Facebook. They had been friends for years, since high school. The bank was threatening to take her home, her things, what she thought of as her livelihood, and she was threatening to take her life. She believed God had taken everything from her, and she saw nothing but dark. No light. No exit, just the darkness of a perpetual tunnel with round disorienting walls.

She, in her warm three bedroom house, decorated with Christmas ornaments, was emailing him from Florida. He, who had just almost died, ate dry turkey on a bench in a tent, and wanted only to curl up by a fireplace with his dog anywhere, just received an email from her. He stared blankly at the screen in disbelief. There is so much good in the world. He knew it existed. He even knew that underneath the hateful facade of the man in black, there was a loving son, brother, or father. There is so much for which to live, but how could he explain this to a woman who couldn't see it through the thick veil of her own tragic portrayal of self?

She was torn apart by an obsession with a man who hadn't wanted her for the last three years. She had pushed away her children because they reminded her of him, and was now losing everything she held dear to her. Her house, her furniture, her car, her status. He didn't understand how she couldn't see this as an opportunity for growth. He began to respond to her email, trying to explain to her that change is not a detriment, but an opportunity for growth. He alluded to self worth, and acknowledgement of such. When you know what you are worth, your need to try to convince others of it fades. If he doesn't appreciate you, you can do it better yourself. Love yourself, people are drawn in by that love. You do not need a fancy car or a big house with nice things to convince people how great you are. Your soul shines through your eyes, your smile, your actions, and in this world, the people worth being in your life see those signs as clear as day.

He was concluding the email, expounding upon her positive qualities, reminding her of her kindness, her intelligence, her ability to love, when the moderator made an announcement.

"Commo blackout, guys. Sorry. Say goodbye and shut it down," bellowed the young soldier. He froze, with his finger poised above the mouse, ready to send the email. How horrible to lose somebody on Christmas. Never is there a good day, but on Christmas...It broke his heart. He changed his mind and added another thought before hitting send: Tomorrow's not guaranteed, my love. Live this moment as well as you can. It will get better. I have to go, there is a commo blackout. He knew she would understand what that meant. The family of the soldier who had been killed would have to be notified before he would be allowed communication with the outside world again. They would get visited this Christmas not by the jolly fat man in the red suit, but by two somber men in immaculate blue and brass.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She received his reply the next morning when she ambled from the bed to the computer to seek empathy or even just some sympathy on Facebook. She read his mail, and suddenly felt foolish. She began to sob, asking herself why she had been so blind. He was her best friend, and separated from his family constantly. He lived in a tent, and looked forward to nights that weren't spent in a sleeping bag on the side of a desolate mountain. She looked at her California king Temperpedic mattress, framed by her cherry oak headboard, and decided to retake control of her life. If the bank wanted the house, they could have it. She chose that moment not only not to take her life, but to truly live from that day forward. She would sell those things she had clung to as lifelines but actually held no value in her life. She would take off her wedding band and would not allow the bitter words she had tasted in his departure to remain in the stagnant air of loneliness one more day. She would make loneliness her home, embrace it, and get to know herself once again.

She decided to get out and job search, but this time, she would only do a job she enjoyed, even if it meant a pay cut. She would strip her closet of the endless throngs of stilettos, slingbacks, and clogs, and replace them with satisfaction in her naked self. This would be the first day, the first step of a journey to self love. She responded to him in an email saying such. He was her angel. He opened her eyes to the world, and she was eternally happy to have a friend like him in her life.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
The afternoon of the 26th, the blackout was lifted, and Morale Welfare and Recreation room was unlocked. He entered to check his email once again, and write to his mother, who was probably beside herself with worry by now. He received his friend's response, and relieved, couldn't help but smile yet again. Hers was a soul too bright to be dimmed by the cruelties of accumulation, and the worship of inanimate objects. He closed his eyes, seeing clearly his mother's loving expression, hearing her light laughter, and for a moment, he was back in her warm home, enjoying a cup of chai by her side with a movie playing and the fireplace roaring.

He opened his eyes, wet with memories, and began his email to his mom: Hi, mom. I love you. I'm one day closer to coming home today. Merry Christmas.

Soul Separation

I walked away numb. It wasn't real to me yet. I'm still in Germany. My lips still taste of his. My hand is still warm where he had been holding it. He had turned to walk away and so had I, but it felt like any other time we'd parted ways only to fall into each other's arms hours later.

It was only as I neared the subway station that I realized that this is it. My time with him is over, and we won't be meeting for dinner, dancing, or even a cup of coffee this evening. I passed a busy intersection where a dark man with messy curls and a mischivious grin played the acordian. He was playing quite a melancholy song.

Something about the music made me stop in place and turn around. I couldn't leave yet. I needed to feel close to him for a few minutes more, so I crossed the same place where we had crossed hand in hand both yesterday and today, and entered a cafe to enjoy the sullenly sweet sounds of the acordian.

As I entered, I realized I had gone into a Portuguese cafe where I could get by in Spanish as opposed to the ever difficult frantic hand waving and mumbling I've tried to pass as German. Aventura's "I'm sorry" was playing softly above me as I sat down in front of a wide open full length window. I felt a part of two worlds as I sat motionless at the small square mohoghany table listening to both a heart wrenching bachata and acordian simultaneously. Spanish here, German there. I felt a pressure building in my throat, and a single tear made its easy escape, leaving a sleek trail of remembrance on my cheek. I smiled though my heart was in pain.

And so, here I sit, at the Delta Cafe in Hamburg, living with one foot in each world for the moment. Inside the walls is warm and well taken care of. The floors are swept, the tables spotless. Portuguese and German flags hang from the ceiling. A giant red lobster perched unflinchingly on the yellow wall seems to be watching me from his one remaining plastic eye. Maybe he's empathizing. Is his love on another wall in the restaurant that he can't reach?

Meanwhile outside the acordian has stopped. The musician is walking around with a small, broken plastic container requesting coins for his music. Across the street is an entire brick wall covered in street art. Grafiti of all colors, of all styles. There are several sleeping bags strewn about in chaotic order. There are three sets of old, torn shoes sitting on a step, placed carefully, heels touching, toes all facing forward, and a few dusty young men sit nearby idly chatting through shattered teeth while passing a cigarette and bottle of cheap wine.

My heart is not breaking. It's not broken. It hurts. It's bursting. It's happy. There is so much positivity and not enough space. There is perfection, and although he had turned to walk away and so had I, he remains with me in every moment, in every action. Every sound. Every smell. I've known him for lifetimes. Maybe then I was his husband and he was my wife. Maybe I was his dog or he was my cat. I can't help but smile through my tears at the thought of being a dog in a former life. As I sip my cafe con leche y mucho mucho azucar, I remember how as a child, I used to believe I had been a dog in past lives. Maybe he was my master then, my equal now, my soulmate forever.

A calm comes over me, as forever is a long time, and as long as we walk this world it will be hand in hand, in whatever capacity. I've found a home in his arms, and although I feel a bit homesick, I've got a bit of work to get done before returning to where I belong. And so, I smile through these tears of happiness, contentment, and assuredness of fate. I smile because our paths will cross again in October, and until then, we will be apart, but only physically.