Single White Female Traveler

January, 2008

Jordan had balls.  He used to come right up to me and ask me out, not even falter or flinch when I politely turned him down.

“I’m just not looking for a relationship right now,” I’d honestly reply.  “I’m too busy.  And I’m leaving in a few months.”

“That’s cool,” he’d shrug it off.  “Let’s hang out anyway.”

Jordan was a bar tender at Kaminsky’s, the dessert bar attached to and owned by the restaurant I worked at.  I was a hostess, and every so often I was recruited to cut cakes or jot down names on a wait list next door.  Jordan and I became fast friends.  We joked around a lot between shifts, and even tried to start a rap posse.  He was cool, laid back and clever.  He made for a good, honest friend in a place where people wore fake-plastic smiles.

I started going to Kaminsky’s after my shifts, to relax and give Jordan something to do on slow nights.  He was really good at creating new recipes for drinks and coffees.  I became his guinea pig, and gladly.

“Give me something to make,” he’d ask, leaning up against the bar back.  He flipped silver milkshake tumblers like a juggler.

“Um,” I thought about what I was in the mood for.  “Can you make a key lime milkshake?”

He became pensive, then got to work.  Creams and syrups mixed together, ice cream was scooped and swirled.  He handed me a paper cup and a straw.

“How does it taste?”

I took a sip.  “Like heaven.” It absolutely was perfect.

“I put a shot of vodka in there too,” he winked.

Jordan always hooked me up with alcohol; it was a blessing to have him as a friend in a town where you got carded for glancing at a glass of wine.  Whatever I wanted, he gave me - shots, beer, martinis, pina coladas - all in those paper cups and always with a straw.  We’d both get fired if someone ever caught us, so we kept things on the sly.  It was usually always free too.

“What do I owe you?” he never ran up a tab, but I always asked.

He’d shake his head.  “Go home.  Come back tomorrow.”

I’d leave him a ten dollar tip.

The best time was when I brought my friend Lindsey with me.  We ordered cakes, and cocktails.  Jordan poured us shots of Van Gogh.  Ronald, a bus boy who usually worked there was well, was another friend of ours. 

“Whatever you want, I’ll get you,” he told me.  “Don’t worry about it.”

All of our cakes were cut double the size of a usual portion.  The restaurant had started serving dessert shots - little cups of puddings, custards, creams and chocolate - and Ronald was delivering a set while we ate.

He came back with another set and put it in front of us at the bar.

“This one had a ‘mistake,’” he told us. 

We gladly indulged.

So we shot the shit with Jordan and Ronald.  But cake and alcohol can only last so long.  At the end of the night, we asked for our bill.

Jordan gave me his same old sleaze.  “Go home.  Come back tomorrow.”

“Uh, no dude,” I had to refuse.  “This is like fifty dollars worth of shit.”

Again, “Go home.  Come back tomorrow.”

So we left him fifty dollars.

The Financial District is probably one of my favorite parts of New York City.  I took an internship at a museum located in the oldest courthouse in Manhattan.  All of the buildings in that area were old, and that’s why it was so great.  It was falling apart, but people still came to see it.  And I was there to keep it from crumbling.

My father worked at a large insurance company around the corner from the museum.  He was thrilled to know I’d be working near by.  Every Monday we’d get up at 6:00AM, take the train in together, ride on the subway next to each other and walk down William Street to our prospective venues. 

Every day we’d get off the train and he would take the escalator to the main lobby, while I walked up the stairs next to him.  I’d watch him struggle for breath, wheeze a bit, when we’d take the stairs from the subway to Wall Street above.  He took the escalator because he physically couldn’t walk that many stairs up. 

Every day I held my breath.  “Today is the day I may watch my father die,” I would morbidly think to myself.  Watching him go up and down those stairs was one the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

Once we emerged, it was easier.  The walk to Hanover Square was a mild one, and the wafting scent of bagels from a nearby deli was motivation enough for him to continue at an almost spritely gait. 

“They’re filming Wall Street 2 in this building,” he would say as we walked past an ornately Art Deco edifice.  “They film a lot of movies around here.”  He would tell me about his attempts to sneak into shots during his lunch break. 

“Look for the back of my head next to Kevin Costner’s face while he’s riding a motorcycle,” he told me once.

“All right,” he would say to me on cold days.  “I’m done with this snow.  I’m ready for spring.”

He said that every Monday from January until March.

I didn’t always take lunch during my internship - I couldn’t afford it- but on particularly nice days I’d steal out and find somewhere cheap to eat.  Being the Financial District, there was a lot to choose from - Italian, burger joints, gourmet sandwiches, and steak houses. Street vendors seemed to be the favorite, where work-a-holics could throw down a five dollar bill and carry away a greasy container of Hallal or falafel before their ten minute lunch allotment was up. 

The only trustworthy food truck was the Rickshaw Dumpling truck.  It only came out on Monday afternoons, and there were lines down the block for the few hours it was parked.  It was cheap - $6.00 for six dumplings - and they were made with organic, sustainable foods.  The shrimp and lemongrass ones were the best.  They had awesome sauces too, spicy peanut, ponzu, garlic butter…I salivate as I write.

I brought my father there one day.  He doesn’t eat chicken or shrimp, so he got the traditional pork ones.  At the time I was concerned about his health and meal choices, but I knew there would be no swaying him here.  It was only six little dumplings, and nothing was fried or sauteed in butter.  I let it slide.  We sat on a bench in Hanover Square.

“These are pretty good,” he told me.  “Thanks for taking me”

“No problem,” I replied. 

My father and I weren’t big talkers, but not in an awkward way.  We knew how to enjoy each other’s company, the atmosphere around us, and the moment itself, without feeling the need for inane chatter.  He ate those pork dumplings, and I sat on that bench, satisfied. 

All because he lived another day.

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July, 2005

“We’re gonna be late, oh my God, you’re gonna miss your flight!”

I didn’t expect much less from Gina than panic, but in this case, it was very appropriate.

We’d gotten a late start (well, I should say that Gina got a late start…) getting everything together - saying goodbye, packing my bags, eating a meal and leaving the house.  Gina ran around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to coordinate everything when really, all we needed to do was leave.  As we drove to the main square, we saw that the street was closed off.

“What in the devil is going on?” Gina asked, looking for a detour.  “We need to get yeh to the bus stop!  It’ll leave without yeh!”

We had about fifteen minutes before it was set to arrive.

Gina drove around like a mad woman, trying to find a place to drop me off, or park the car, or access the main street.  I saw plenty of places, but her scattered mind disregarded them.

“Oh my God, you’re going to be stranded, you’re going to miss yet flight,” she just kept saying.  “An’ I won’t be able to put yeh up, oh my God!”  Even though the cause of our tardiness was entirely her fault, I was denied accommodations if I happened to miss my ride home.

“Just let me out here,” I finally declared as we pulled down a taped off street.

“Right, good,” she stopped the car in the middle of the road and parked.  If it had been that simple before, I could have been at the bus stop ten minutes ago.

We unloaded my suitcase and ran down the street.  The bus was scheduled to arrive in two minutes.  People were milling about the road and police officers were making their rounds.  Something had happened.

“What’s goin’ on then?” Gina asked an acquaintance. 

“A coach crashed into the furniture store!” the woman revealed.  “The whole street is blocked off, no one can get in except the major transport.”

“Dear God,” Gina said, pressing her palm to her forehead.  “What of the driver?”

“Stone dead,” said the woman.

“Jesus Christ!  Anyone else?”

The woman shook her head.  “None.  The bus was empty.  He was traveling alone. ‘Said he had a heart attack and just crashed.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected.  “Gina, do you think that was supposed to be my coach?”

“This happened in the morning,” the woman said.  “Around 6AM.  No pedestrians were around, thank God.”

We looked down the road.  It was like a scene out of an action film - an old fashioned bus sat halfway through the stone ruins of an antique furniture store.  Cranes and trucks surrounded it.  The driver was missing.  A large, jagged hole opened up to the sky like an asymmetrical water well, waiting for the impeding rain to soak its contents within.

Gina had no inner monologue.  Her thoughts raced and were revealed at lightning speed.  “Oh God, he’s dead!” then to me “You won’t make your plane for sure now!” then back to the woman “When did it happen?”  then back to me “I don’t know where you’ll stay!” then back to the woman…and so on and so forth.

I sat on my suitcase, exhausted but calm.  There was nothing I could do about the situation, really.  Tragedy had struck.  The roads were closed, there would be no bus, and there would be no flight.  We’d rushed around for no good reason, except for the fact that I was now stranded in Ireland without a way home.

You just had to sit, really, and think of something to do.

I decided to sit for a little while longer.

We heard a mechanical sound in the distance.  A coach, modern in design, lurched towards us under the direction of the police officers.  It stopped at the place where we stood, and the driver got down to help with my luggage.

“Goodbye, Gina,” I said.  I could have been talking to the air for all she cared.  She kept carrying on about the accident.  I don’t even think she knew I’d left.

In a way, that coach accident was a blessing.  Had it not occurred, the bus would have arrived on time, and I would have actually missed my way home due to Gina’s manic behavior.  That deceased bus driver saved me precious minutes.  Morbid, I know, but things happen in funny ways, don’t they?

I landed in New York and was home in my room by 5PM that same day.  Immediately, I turned on Radio Kerry online.  They were covering the accident.

“A coach driver died in a tragic accident this morning in Castleisland, County Kerry,” the Irish brogue relayed over the airways.  “No customers were on board when Michael O’Callohan had a heart attack and crashed into the McGuinness furniture store…”

Hearing it, made it real for me. 

Every Sunday, we’d get together and watch Bored to Death.  We laughed at all the same jokes, wished we had friends who were cartoon artists, or lived in lofts and exotic hotels.  “Your mouth is like the anus of a starfish,” you once texted me in the middle of the night.  How could I not laugh?   

We watched Bored to Death the night you told me you loved me.   

I remember wanting to whisk you around Brooklyn, to have adventures in the dark of the West Village or relax at a spa in Flushing.  We wanted to get high in Long Island City or drive to a crazy Russian blackmailer’s house in Coney Island.  Just to walk with you in the dampness of the evening, amber colored light stretching for miles on New York City’s blackened streets.   

That’s what I remember about last fall - our shows, chicken and dumplings or grilled steaks for dinner, snuggling with you on the couch in your borrowed PJ pants.  I’ve since brought over sleepwear of my own; bit by bit, coming into your life, permanently placing personal items away from a home they’ve known since forever.  There’s my toothbrush, some sweaters, a box of tampons, shampoo.  You bought me a pillow, my own pillow that only I use when I’m with you.  Soon you’ll have my sheets and comforter, my knife set, my towels, a cabinet, my boots.  

Pieces of me combine with pieces of you to make perfection. 

October 2008

Trying new and different foods in foreign countries was usually the gift I gave myself when traveling.  I’d rather spend a lot of money on an exotic, memorable meal than on junky souvenirs that clutter and pile up.  When else will you get to say you ate goat stew?  Rat meat?  Haggis? 

In Poland, the group decided to dine one evening in the old Jewish district of Krakow.  We found a slew of Hebrew restaurants, some around since the turn of the century, others newly established but steadily gaining acclaim.  I had no idea what Jewish food consisted of - from what I saw in grocery stores, Jewish delis and on television, it didn’t look very varied or enticing.  In fact, envisioning Jewish food brought on images of greasy fish filets, piles of sauerkraut, unleavened breads and soups with murky, unknown contents. 

Even my Jewish classmates didn’t really know what to expect.

“Well, we eat Gefilte at special occasions,” Nate said. 

“I can’t stand Gefilte fish,” Julie replied, making a face.

“Really?” said Nate.  “I kind of like it.”

“I do eat kreplach,” Julie responded.  “Those are pretty good.”

I had no idea what any of those things were, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

The restaurant had Old World charm.  It was more expensive to sit in the room where a live band played traditional Klezmer, and being that we were individually footing the bill, we opted for what looked to me like a Jewish grandmother’s living room.  Tasseled, brocade curtains bedecked stained glass windows, antique lace tablecloths were flanked by sculpted wooden chairs or couches upholstered in worn satin.  Elaborate lampshades sat on bronze spines; some twinkled with dangling crystals.  Old daguerreotypes of Jewish ancestors crowded the walls, papered in a striped pattern that would have dated a home today.  I wondered about the photographic authenticity - had they been salvaged since before the war that nearly annihilated their entire culture?  Were they American imports?  Printed off of a computer and placed in frames?  Were these relatives, or total strangers?

Time to eat.

A few of us ordered table wine, a deep blood ruby color served in a cut-crystal glass.  It was good - sweet, smooth, almost like juice, but potent.  I had to stop myself after two glasses.

Looking at the menu, I was surprised.  There were many unfamiliar and unappetizing things - cold soups, bean salads, pates and cabbage things - but the main courses were sumptuous.  Stuffed leg of turkey.  Salmon with almonds.  Chicken dumplings.  I settled for chicken with honey and ginger dressing.  It sounded safe enough and was definitely recognizable.  Some ordered appetizers but in attempts to save money I stuck to my entree.

Wheezy accordions, brass horns and weeping violins could be heard in the rooms next door.  Our few days in Poland had been almost magical.  The culture was so different, the city beautiful in itself.  People were friendly here, and the main square was accommodating without being overwhelming.  Fashion abounded.  I had theorized that the further East one traveled in Europe, the less fashionable the populations became.  Not so in Poland.  The Czech Republic was caught in a fashion time warp that unfortunately I knew would take long to reconcile.

Our plates arrived by a dressed waiter with a satin napkin folded over his arm.  The portions were huge, and I was happy I had saved my appetite.  Two plump breasts of chicken rested in a thin pool of broth.  A pile of what looked to me like shredded carrots dotted with raisins and almond slivers laid atop it, dressed in the honey and ginger vinaigrette. 

The initial bite warmed my soul.  For the first time since my arrival, I was able to put anxious feelings aside.  Winter was not something I looked forward too, and the air was growing chilly; autumn was finally coating Eastern Europe.  But tonight, it was comfortable in Klezmer Hois.

February, 2005

Pots of tea were always available in the lobby of the Jury’s Clifton hotel.  It was an added luxury of the place - perfectly sculpted silver tea pots with dainty porcelain cups and saucers supported by elegant pitchers of cream and bowls of sugar on a silver tray.  The Jury’s Clifton provided its guests with sizable cubes of brown sugar, which added a whole new dimension to my former tea experiences.

The tea was chocolatey brown and fragrant.  It poured out of the spout like thin velvet ribbons, swirling and settling in the cup naturally and gracefully.  Lipton’s, the kind offered by cock-eyed waitresses in shoddy diners (“you mean you don’t drink coffee?”), this was not.

“What kind of tea is this?” I had come down to the lobby early that morning to indulge in a cup of the stuff.  It was tranquil then, before the mad rush of high school students made their way down for the day’s activities.  

“Earl Grey, Miss,” the concierge took it upon himself to pour me a cup.  He was tall, and lithe, with spiky black hair.  He never looked at me, but I knew he was sincere.  “It’s best taken with a bit of cream and two cubes of sugar.”  

Earl Grey was not so much a separate species of tea as it was a blend of flavorings.  Its origins date back to the Victorian era, where oil from rind of Bergamot oranges was used to infuse natural black tea leaves.  Nowadays I prefer it over English Breakfast, but it has to be steeped correctly; if left too long, it becomes stagnant and the richness of its flavor is lost. 

I did as instructed.  The cream turned the tea a soft tan, the sugar helped relieve its bitterness.  Sipping from the lip of the cup, I sank into the Rococo-inspired settee.  My eyes were heavy with drowsiness, the tip of my nose stung with cold, but my soul was completely satisfied. It was a perfect moment in a perfect metropolis.  

I have never been able to replicate the finest cup of English tea I ever tasted. 

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September, 2008

Our first excursion out of Prague was to a town called Ústí nad Labem.  It was located in the Northwest part of the Czech Republic, close to the German border.  The city was having a cultural arts festival and Sarah thought it would be a good idea to kill two birds with one stone - see a new place, and get a sense of how Czechs addressed the idea of “diversity.”

We took the train - that is a story in and of itself, involving us sitting in the dining car and all getting breakfast on SIT’s bill - and reveled in the changing seasons of Eastern Europe.  Golden yellows, reds, oranges and browns mixed with the last remaining bright bunches of green to indicate that autumn had arrived.  Crisp, cold air had swept through after one week of summer; we had to change our clothing from tank tops and sun dresses to sweaters and scarves.

“Ústí is really suffering,” Sarah briefed us before our arrival.  “It the largest city in the Northwest but unfortunately it fell prey to the Sudetenland crisis after World War II.  It’s a very industrial town, a lot of miners, and there is tension between the Czechs and the Roma population.  This festival is sort of supposed to ease that tension, by introducing other cultures to the region, although I’m really not sure how effective it’s going to be.”

In fact, before departing for the trip, I had mentioned the location to several Czechs.

“Ústí?” they asked, sneering.  “Why are you going to Ústí?  There is nothing there.”

“Ústí is a dirty place, and full of stupid Czechs,” one of my Czech companions relayed.  He went on to explain how it was the equivalent of Czech “white trash” and that travelers only went there to make fun of the people that lived there.

No wonder it was so unstable.  It wasn’t German enough for Germany, but native Czechs didn’t even like it.  People were ashamed to live there, but they had nowhere else to go.

The festival was to have representation from all different countries I barely knew about - the Republic of Georgia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Albania, Armenia, the Ukraine, Belarus…somewhat neighboring territories which also were previous origins of Roma culture.  Vendors selling cultural wares were present, along with documentary films and musical performances.

Sarah told us to “go fly” and left us to our own devices.  Meet at the train station at two, but otherwise, Ústí was our oyster.  The sun felt fantastic as it warmed my face, creating a heater-effect within my sweater but the breezes kept me from removing my scarf.  The festival was crowded but it was an interesting crowd.  There seemed to be no tension, but then again, maybe all the Czechs had stayed home and these were all foreign visitors such as myself.

We walked around, learned about a few cool places.  A man from Côte d’Ivoire was giving drum lessons at the performance post.  Tom and I joined in, Nate took photos.

One of those photos is on the SIT website to advertise the program.

On the opposite side of the train station, there were Czech vendors.  Although we’d come to see the same merchandise sold nearly at every fair or festival thereafter, it was novel to us at the moment, and we indulged in its offerings.  Rows of candy and sweets, unlike we’d ever seen before, layered on trays and spanning four tables or more.  Marzipan animals, large sour straws, gummy blocks and colorful, twisted lollipops were begging to be bought. 

But the best were the gingerbread cookies.  They were sold in all kinds of shapes - trains, dogs, trees - but mostly as hearts.  Inside the hearts were Czech names and sayings, typically referring to affection.  One in particular caught my eye.

“Jsi sexy.” 

Although my knowledge of Czech was limited at the time, I knew enough that the cookie was eliciting sex. 

We watched a film on Roma gangs and governmental treatment of Roma populations throughout Europe.  It was eye-opening and intriguing.  But it was also very sad. Part of me wanted to study the subject further, but another part of me knew it would be too much work for four months.

On our way to the train station, I stopped by a vendor selling key chains.  She had all kinds of names and shapes.  I grew excited.

“Katka!” I said aloud.  It was small and red and had the Czech version of Katherine.  “No one ever has my name.  There are a lot of them too”  

Purchasing it, I couldn’t stop smiling.  I had felt it the moment I stepped off of the plane, but I knew I was home.  This truly was my culture, and these little clues pointed me to a place where I finally belonged. 

November, 2008

Five minutes away from my flat in Slovakia, there was a supermarket.  You had to cross a bridge to get to it, and when it was cold, the path was often icy and treacherous.  Sometimes, odd-looking characters hung around the back side, by the loading dock.  They were harmless though; it was usually too cold to do anything but stare at my obvious “outsider” appearance.  

My flat did not have many essentials, such as a refrigerator or pots and pans.  I developed a vegetarian kitchen, living on eggs, fruit and peanut butter sandwiches.  Luckily for me it was winter, and a cold one, so I was able to keep dairy products.  I often wondered what my neighbors thought about the milk cartons on my balcony, or the yogurts and cheese sitting on my kitchen windowsill.  It was particularly tricky making sure my eggs were precisely placed, not teetering off the edge for fear of an earthquake or a frigid gust of wind.  I soon learned however, that eggs will last for a week or more unrefrigerated.  Rule of thumb is, it’s alright until it smells like it’s not.  

One of the things I picked up at the supermarket was a box of blueberry vanilla Ceylon tea.  I’m sure it was made of chemicals and fruit flavoring, but it was comforting when the rooms in the flat were ice cold, the heater barely hissing.  It produced a deep violet color while it steeped, and smelled fragrant and enticing.  After the tea was sufficiently used, I tried to scent my apartment with the dried leaves.  No such luck for homemade potpourri, but it gave me something to experiment with on freezing cold nights in the apartment.  

The blueberry tea sitting on my office desk doesn’t warm me the same way.  

Dear readers, thank you for your overwhelming support of my writing!  All of my stories, for the most part, are written in retrospect; however, I don’t think that has been clear, especially those who do not know my travels as well as I do.  Thusly I am now adding dates to my stories, to put things into perspective.  These are not diary entries, but I feel they are important to understanding the context of my travels.

Many thanks and keep reading!

Present

I’m sort of excited for winter this year.

Winter is my least favorite of the seasons.  I chose the College of Charleston because I knew there wouldn’t be snow.  I hated how the cold inhibited activities and how winter clothing always made me look short and dumpy.  In Charleston, it never got cold enough where you couldn’t take a walk if you wanted to.  Winter on Long Island isn’t as accommodating.

And yet, something within me does not dread the inevitable chill.  The thought of wearing sweaters, of wrapping cardigans close to your body as the wind blows by, of tall, leather boots and fingerless gloves, is enticing to me.  In fact, I don’t think I would mind winter at all if the snow was manageable.

I feel that part of this change of heart is due to my own heart.  To have someone with which you can spend your time constructively with is important during the winter.  Another body to keep you warm, to envelope you in their arms, their natural heat radiating from their chest against the back of your neck.  Someone to lounge around in sweatpants with, drink frothy cups of cocoa with, watch movies and make stock pots full of hearty soups with.  Someone who will breath on the glass of the sliding door and draw shapes in the condensation. 

No, winter may not be so bad after all this year.

August, 2007

I never liked walking around the market stalls with the others.  Some were too consumeristic, some were too picky, some didn’t want to spend money and the rest, well, they were looking for something you just couldn’t buy.

Never once did I feel in danger - pestered, sure, but after living in Ghana for a month and a half I’d gotten used to the fact that as long as I was in a public place, I’d be safe.  Ghanaians couldn’t afford to kidnap someone.  And in villages as small as the ones we traveled too, everyone knew everyone else, their business and whereabouts as well.  In a culture where people actually “did the right thing,” it was hard to mask deviant behavior.  People wanted your money, not your self.  Give them the money, and they leave you alone.

The skills we acquired from making jewelry in the village had us thirsty for beads.  Cecelia took us to the bead market in Accra, where GRASP picked up supplies.  It was time for a new shipment, and we had come along on the four hour ride.

“Beas” they called them, like some unique Englishism that we never corrected.  So many countries had infected Ghana at various points throughout history - the Dutch, the Portuguese, the Americans, the English - that we were no judge as to their figures of speech.  It was lucky they spoke English at all, we could have been in Togo, where French was the common tongue.

I shoved my hand into barrels filled with plastic seed beads, my fingertips caressing their glossy structures.  It was hard to find a real, authentic Ghanaian bead - even Ghana imported things from China - but you could tell the handmade ones from the commercial.  Ghanaian beads were chunky and colorful, with interesting patterns and shapes.  They were nice to look at, but wouldn’t work for me otherwise.

In search of seed beads, an open stall in particular piqued my interest.  Long strands of beads hung from floor to ceiling, in all shapes and patterns.  A teenage girl held down the fort.

“Small girl,” she called out to me.  “What are you doing here?”

Small girl.  Many Ghanaians had taken to calling me that.  I wasn’t offended, I actually took it as a term of endearment.

“Just looking for beads,” I replied.  “To make some jewelry.”

“No,” she explained.  “In Accra.  In Ghana.  What are you doing in Ghana?”

“Oh,” I had misunderstood her fervor.  “Volunteering in the Volta region.”

“In the Volta region?  That is very far.”

I shrugged.  “It is a trip.  But I like Accra.”

“Do you like my shop?”

“Yes, it is beautiful,” I looked at her merchandise.  Were the beads for using, or were they belly beads?  It was sometimes hard to tell when they hung on their posts, in large clumps like hanging meats in a deli.  I fingered my own set around my waist.  Mine weren’t as nice, but I hadn’t chosen them either.  You couldn’t choose your own belly beads, and you couldn’t tie them yourself.  I was bound to these, and I couldn’t replace them, no matter what I preferred.

The shop girl helped me choose a few strands - 10 cedis each, the equivelant of about ten cents.  They were for my aunt, who made jewelry as a side business and had given me a significant donation for this trip.  She was quirky and I figured she could use some of the more fantastic beads for something interesting.

“Can I take your picture?” I asked, before I left.

The shop girl hesitated at first, but with a grin on her face, she allowed me.  I knew that she would.  Everyone in Ghana liked posing for photos.  More than that however, they liked seeing themselves on a digitized screen.  Mirrors could only tell you the present; photos told you the past.

Please with my picture, we parted ways. 

It became one of the best photos I took in Ghana, and one of my favorites as well. 

June, 2010

A disadvantage of visiting Rob was the significant lack of straight men we’d come into contact with.  It was wonderful that he had such cool, gay friends, but part of the thrill of going away is, well, get-away flings.  There is something so wild and unpredictable about a one night stand with an acquaintance in another city.  Never at Rob’s, however.  The comfort we kept was about as orgasmic as the real deal, but even so, I found it discouraging that all of this straight friends were female.

Rob didn’t drink alcohol.  “Ginger is my ale of choice,” he’d reply when offered libations, and we respected that.  Rob knew about as many bars in Washington DC as he did straight men - approximately one.  Coincidentally, those happened to be his roommate, and his roommate’s favorite pub, The Black Rooster.

Summer in DC calls for cocktails al fresco.  The ‘Rooster provided just that, on a sleepy, otherwise corporate street eight blocks away from the White House.  Plastic chairs and tables, and a black velvet rope denoted the area as pub property.  That’s where we sat.

Carlos was a jovial chap, Brazillian by birth and side-stepping the visa/deportation process until it was absolutely necessary to return back home.  He was quiet but comical, intelligent and diplomatic, cultured and considerate when it came to living with other people.  Although not attracted to Carlos himself, he held the key to my meeting eligable bachelors.  Tonight was sort of that night.

A friend of his - Max, Matt, I’m not sure - was out with the group.  He was tall, handsome but still boyish, still clinging to the last few moments of his undergraduate career.  He worked at a law firm (but didn’t everyone in DC?).  And by some miracle, he was heterosexual. 

You can understand the attraction.

The conversation of occupations came about.

“I don’t understand how anyone could want to be a dentist,” Rob began.  “I mean, you have got to love teeth.  I mean, really love ‘em.”

“Well, it’s just like any crappy kind of medical job,” Carlos explained.  “It sucks, but man, do they get paid well.”

“I know,” Rob added.  “No one wants to be a dentist, they all want to be brain surgeons or general practicioners.  That’s why they get paid so much.”

“Yeah I mean seriously,” I contributed.  “No one wants to be a proctologist, or a gynocologist.  But people need them, and there are so few around, they make bank.”

“Are you kidding me?” Max or Mike or Mark interrupted.  “I’d def be a gynocologist.”

“Um, are you sure?” I asked him. 

“Yeah man.  What is better than getting to look at vaginas all day?”

“Well I mean, it’s not all nice ones,” I explained.  “You have to deal with the nasty ones too.”

“So?”

“So?” he didn’t seem to get it.  “You have to deal with crusty vaginas, STDs, so many nooks and crannies.”

“I would totally do it,” was his reply.

“Even the really gross ones?”

“Even the really gross ones,” he echoed.  “There is seriously nothing better than a vagina.  I could totally just look at them all day and have absolutely no problem doing so.”

For some reason, that conversation turned me on even more.  We never got around to hooking up however - he never bought me a drink, signals got crossed, and World Cup Screenings made it virtually impossible to get anywhere in our capital city.

That was over a year ago.  I’ve fallen in love since.

May, 2009

I will never take a Grayhound Bus again.

Aside from the fact that your purchase of a ticket “does not guarantee” you a seat (um, what?), Grayhound is inefficient and significantly lack customer service skills.  My bus driver was rude and uninformative and actually threatened to deny me access to the bus because I was going to complain about him to Port Authority.  For some unknown, stupid reason I boarded, and was in for the worst ride of my life.

We weren’t allowed to talk on our cell phones.  We weren’t allowed to chew gum.  We weren’t allowed to move around, and at a certain point, we’d have to cease talking completely.

“Once it gets dark out, you have to be quiet,” the bus driver snidely remarked.  “So stop talking once the sun goes down.”

He proudly announced that the trip to Providence, Rhode Island, was slated to take five hours, but really, it would end up being more like eight.  No explanation why, and of course, he had no idea when we would get there, or to any of our stops for that matter.  The natives became restless, and talk of a mass disembarking spread throughout the bus.

I was on my way to New London, Connecticut, to visit Nate.  Originally, I had purchased a ticket for a two-hour bus ride, which was more than I wanted to travel anyway.  But apparently, that trip was never actually scheduled, and I had to settle for this torturous ride or be stuck at Port Authority.  Hartford was a large hub and about an hour away from New London.  Some people were catching rides in all kinds of directions.

“Do you want me to drive you?” his name was Matt and he had just moved to New York City from Rhode Island.  We chatted on the bus about how terrible Grayhound was.  He seemed nice enough.

“Is it out of your way?” I asked.

“Nah, Conn College is like a half hour outside of where I have to go.  I’ll have my friend drive you, it’s no problem.”

In our conversation I had asked him what he did in New York City to afford a 3-bedroom penthouse in the Financial District.

“I’m a businessman,” he replied.

“Oh cool, what business do you work for?”

“Um…self employed…” he clearly didn’t want to talk about it.  I brushed it off to mystery.

He was young, like me, and it was either him, or end up in New London God only knew when if I stayed on that bus.  I was tired, cranky and resentful.  I just wanted to drink and smoke with my friend.  So I trusted him, and in Hartford, I descended the bus.

His friend rolled up in a grey Escalade, the kind parents give to their kids after they’ve crashed their first nice car and seemingly deserve a better one.  They exchanged childhood banter; I noticed his friend was on crutches.

“How can you drive like that?” I asked.

“Aw, it’s only my left foot, no problem,” he nonchalantly responded.  “I’m gonna have to put the crutch in the back with you, I hope that’s okay.”

I was in too deep now.  I had to go with them.

We drove off.  My seat belt wouldn’t click in place, but there was enough padding around me to secure my body in a crash - piles of blankets, towels, trash bags and other household stuffings surrounded me. 

“So your parents still won’t let you come home?” Matt asked his friend.  We began to drive faster. 

“Nah brah, they’re being such dicks.  I’ve smoked so much in the house before, they never cared.  Now they decide to kick me out because I sell the stuff, so what?  I make more money than them.”

“Yo, werd bro, werd,” Matt replied.  He turned to me.  “Oh by the way, remember when I said I was a businessman?”

I gulped.  Was I going to be raped?  “Yup.  Sure do.”

“Yeah, well, the reason I couldn’t say anything to you on the bus was because I’m a drug dealer.”

“Oh,” I replied, stifling my instant regret.  “That’s cool…”

“The Grayhound bus was fucking terrible, so I’m hitchhiking from Hartford with some random drug dealers,” I texted Nate.

“Oh my God,” he replied.  “Why the HELL did you do that?  I really wish you had stayed on that bus.  Please don’t die.”

“It’s okay,” I wrote back.  “They are like, the whitest kids I’ve ever seen.  I think they are more talk than they are walk.”

It turned out to be the case.  “Wiggers” as we used to call them, these New England suburbanites were nothing to be afraid of.  They boasted of their parties with rappers and their connections with celebrities, but I knew they were fresh out of high school with nowhere to go.

They wore striped polos and khaki pants, for Christsake. 

Matt’s friend not only knew how to drive with a leg in a cast, he also knew how to roll joints while driving at the same time.

He offered me a hit of the Portuguese Carrot.  I declined - I wanted to keep my wits about me, you know, in case we crashed into the median, or had a run-in with the cops.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.  My first attempt at hitchhiking and it was with drug-weilding preppsters who drove incredibly unsafely and were probably going home to some hot cocoa and sugar cookies.  It was dangerous, but I knew nothing would happen.  They totally knew their way, and soon enough, we were rounding into the college green.

“Thanks for the lift,” I handed the driver a $20.  He looked surprised.  “Hope it wasn’t too out of your way.”

“Oh, thanks,” he pocketed the cash.  For someone who apparently made more money than his parents, he certainly had no problem accepting handouts from random strangers.

“I’ll call you when I get back to the city,” Matt said.  “We should party.”

“Sure,” I had no intention of partying with him.  He still had acne.  “See you around.”

Nate met me at the entrance. 

“You are fucking crazy,” were his first words.  “Absolutely fucking crazy.”

“Maximize a long weekend in Ireland with this four-night tour including tours of must-see destinations including Dublin, the Ring of Kerry, Blarney, and the medieval town of Kilkenny. Start each morning with a full Irish breakfast before embarking on your sightseeing program. There’s plenty of time to enjoy the nightlife of these fabled Irish towns and spend time shopping, at the pubs and enjoying traditional Irish music.”  

Your trip includes:

• Round-trip airfare from select US cities to Dublin, Ireland
• Four nights accommodation in 4-star hotels throughout Ireland
• Private luxury motorcoach with services of a professional driver/guide
• 4 full Irish breakfasts
• Complete sightseeing program as detailed in the itinerary, including: Kilkenny; Ring of Kerry; Blarney Woollen Mills; Panoramic Dublin City Tour
• All local taxes, hotel service charges & porterage for one suitcase per person

Cost: packages begin at $699.00

Optional: Extend your stay in the city of Dublin for $99 more per person (2-nights hotel and daily breakfast included).  Relax from your whirlwind trip and explore the city at your leisure before departing for home.  

In My Opinion…: You won’t find many European tours for less than $1000.  Use of a coach bus and knowledgeable guide (Irish escorts are the best!) will alleviate any stress induced from independent travel (“do we make a left past the sheep pasture or the castle ruins??”).  The four-star hotels are a wonderful luxury, and the included cities offer you the best Ireland has to offer- from coast to coast.    Ireland in the winter can be surprisingly charming.  You’ll really get to engage with the locals, as most people travel during the warmer months. Take advantage of the extra 2-day optional stay to unwind from an otherwise fast-paced trip to discover all Dublin truly has to offer.   

Valid for the following dates: Nov. 16, 23; Dec. 7; Jan. 25; Feb. 8, 15, 22 (additional dates through March 28 are also available for a surcharge).  

BOOK BY: September 23, 2011 - online or over the phone at Dooley Vacations, 877-331-9301.

Special thanks to Travelzoo for providing this promotion!
 

September, 2005

Marion Square was so near to my dorm, it was a crime not to take advantage of its expanse.  At sunset after work I’d take my laptop and sit under a palmetto tree, doing assignments or writing stories.  The latter typically overcame my need to be scholastic; I’d get lost in the soft sounds of the city, be inspired by the velvety warmth of the day’s end. 

Perhaps it is my overworked imagination, but I used to secretly wish I’d meet the love of my life during a happenstance occurrence in Charleston.  Young men could be readily found particularly in Marion Square, throwing frisbees, playing soccer, slapping djembes or skateboarding.  I wanted one of them to come up to me and start a conversation.  A flying object would land nearby, we’d exchange some witty banter, he’d compliment my skirt, I’d give him my number. 

That’s how it happened in the movies.  Screen writers don’t just make up their plots, there’s always an element drawn from real life, from their past or present.  The above situation happened to some man or woman, and now they are making millions off royalties.

So I’d sit in the park, waiting for true love.

Most days however, I was ignored.  Perhaps people thought I was too engrossed in my work (which I usually was).  Perhaps I gave off that certain air of “spoken-for,” although the opposite was the case.  I wanted to meet a nice boy in a nice park, a nice Southern boy with an authentic Charlestonian drawl, who minded his manners, opened the doors of his dates, and drew out the words “coffee” instead of making it sound like something a crow would say (“caw-fee”).

And I didn’t want to meet him at a bar or a house party where my name was slurred and he didn’t care about my tendencies to volunteer in homeless shelters, just that I looked “so fuckin’ hot” at the moment.

“Excuse me,” I looked up from my laptop one afternoon to those words directed at me.

“Do you get internet out here?” a literal tall, dark and handsome man was walking toward me.  His hair was black and wavy, and he looked like a cleaner, more chiseled version of Matt Dillon.  He wore rimless aviator sunglasses, like mine.

“No, unfortunately,” I replied.  Internet was spotty, to be sure, but not reliable to receive a good signal.  “It sucks.”

“Oh,” he said.  He sat down next to me, and a dog came up to his side.  “I saw you working on your computer, I thought you maybe had internet.”

He had been watching me.

“No, just doing a bit of writing.”

“Oh, nice,” his dog was playful, a beautiful Shetland mix.  It was knawing at a yellow frisbee.  “What are you writing?”

I shrugged, my cheeks glowing red.  I never talked to anyone about my writing, mostly because no one was really interested.  But he seemed to be.

“Oh, just some fiction, for a class,” I lied, to make it sound more like an assignment than a hobby.

“Can I read it?” he asked.

Politely, I shook my head.  “Sorry.  It’s not finished yet.” That was true; I never let anyone read my work until it was done.

“Fair enough,” he stuck out his hand.  “I’m Paul.”

There it was.  The introduction I’d been waiting for had come.  He was good looking, swarthy, dressed well and had an affectionate dog.  It was a promising match.

“Kat,” I introduced myself back.  “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.  So you’re a student?”

“Yeah, at the college,” as if there was another place I could be.

“Oh wow, what are you studying?  Communications?”

“No, Anthropology.”

“Very interesting.”

“What do you study?” I asked.  Everyone in this town seemed to be a student, I figured he was too.

But he laughed.  “Oh, I’m well out of college.  I’m in real estate.  I just moved up here from Florida.  I don’t know too many people though.”

I was embarrassed. 

“What’s your dog’s name?” I tried to divert the subject.

“This is Tyson,” he ruffled the dog’s shaggy ears.  I started to pet him, he playfully licked my hand. 

“He likes you,” Paul said.  He threw the frisbee, and Tyson leapt after it. 

Suddenly, I got a text from Dhiandra - was I coming to dinner?  My stomach had been growling all afternoon, but I didn’t know how this meeting was to end.  Did I make the first move, or would he?

“Well, I have to go meet some friends, for dinner,” I replied.  I never let on to my true age, or the fact that dinner was being held in the all-you-can-eat cafeteria that night.

“Yeah, I’m probably going to head home myself,” he said.  He whistled for Tyson to return.  “I’ll see you around, Kat.  Have a good evening.”

I smiled as I gathered up my things.  “You too, hope to see you again.”

It was the perfect setup to a heartwarming film.  Our relationship flashed before my eyes, and I grew excited at the prospect of this older, more interesting man.  Except that my life wasn’t scripted, and I couldn’t skip through the pages to peek at the happy ending.  Every day, at the same time, I went back to Marion Square.  Never again did I see Tyson’s swift catching of the frisbee in his open jaws, or my reflection in the lenses of his master’s rimless aviators. 

Paul was just another ghost in America’s most haunted city; I was just another girl waiting up all night by the phone for his call.

Once a week, Nate downloaded the latest episodes of American television for us to watch together.  We’d cram onto the worn-out couches at the top level of our classroom and place the laptop on the coffee table, anticipating familiar humor and celebrity crushes.

The Office was a group-wide favorite and was not to be missed.  This particular episode dealt with Michael Scott’s attempt at a long-distance relationship with HR Rep Holly Flax.  She was moving nine hours away from Pennsylvania to New Hampshire; their plan was to alternative visits to make the relationship last.  On the way to move Holly in, Michael realized the improbable nature of his future with Holly, and “cuts the cord” before they reached their destination.

The episode was sobering, and eerily parallel to my own circumstances.  My boyfriend back home was having trouble selling his house.  Until he did, he was stranded in one location.  Talk of a country-wide recession fueled the uncertainty of my future upon returning to the States - and I wouldn’t necessarily be with him.

I had to cut the cord.

Later that evening, after dropping off some friends in Wenceslas Square, I returned home to an empty flat.  Good, I said to myself.  The last thing I need right now is a screaming toddler or the struggled English of my host mother.  Normally, the aforementioned wouldn’t be an issue.  But tonight, it was a blessing to have the apartment to myself.

I let out a deep breath, sinking into the softness of my bed.  My fingers slowly pressed down on the clear plastic mobile phone keys.  Trying to maintain my breathing, I waited as the dial tone commenced.

Once.

Again.

A third time.

Perhaps he wasn’t available.  Maybe I was making a mistake; this was fate’s way of showing me I shouldn’t be so hasty.  How well had I really thought this out?

There was a possibility that this was really over.

“Hey,” his deep southern drawl purred through the phone lines like so many times before.

“Hey,” I replied.

“How are ya?”

“Uh,” it was hard for me to talk.  “I don’t know…”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice heavy.  “I could tell something was up.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” I blurted out.  It was inappropriate, but my subconscious was screaming “BAND-AID THEORY.”

A pause.  A sigh.  “What do you mean?”

“I can’t - I can’t do us,” I struggled for the right words, but emotions emitted instead.  “I mean, I’m not necessarily moving back to Charleston if I don’t get into grad school, you know?” I was beginning to panic.  “And I know you are obviously staying, I mean, you have to stay.  And, well, you know, long distance relationships only work out if you have some kind of goal, something to work towards.  We’re just too, too-“

“Unpredictable,” he lethargically intervened. 

A pause on my end.  “Yeah,” I agreed.  “I just don’t know if it’d be worth it to keep going unless we knew we’d eventually be together.”

Another sigh.  “Well.  I guess it’s over then, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“All right then.”

And then, I said it.  “I mean, it’s not like we were in love or anything, you know?”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Like, it’s not like we were going to get married, or have a kid or anything.  It was just good fun while we had the chance.”

“Um, well, I mean, I guess so…”

The truth is, I wanted him to disagree.  I wanted him to tell me he loved me, like I believed I loved him.  I wanted him to say things would work out, that he’d find a job in New York, find a place that he loved and that he found everything else within me. 

I wanted him to say, to cry, to scream, “Didn’t I mean anything to you?”

The truth of the matter was, that he did mean something to me.  At that moment, he meant the world to me.  But our relationship had been complicated from the start.  After five months of love over phone lines, could I honestly do another five?  Another year?  Two years if I got into grad school?

Perhaps, in retrospect, he didn’t mean as much to me as I thought.

“I have to go now,” I attempted to nip this conversation in the bud.  “I have to meet some friends.”  I wanted to leave it scar free, pain free.  I wanted to come out the good guy, and he the bad.  Maybe not bad, but I didn’t want his words or actions to have an effect on me any longer. 

“All right then,” he breathed on the other side.  “It’s been fun.”

“Thanks,” I awkwardly replied.  “I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Yeah.  Good night.”

I ended the call without saying goodbye.

The disadvantage of “getting together with old friends” is the passing of time.  Some people will come and go into your life without disturbing the connectivity of friendship.  For others, time will have passed so much that every time you meet them, they are a new and different entity.  There will always be that common bond you once had, but what has been built upon that bond will have changed drastically, even over the course of a few months.

It was just like old times - I wanted to go down to Soho with the girls, but my situation prevented it.  I wanted to experience “fashion week,” feel the excitement culture often generates, feel like I was a part of something important. 

But if I went any further Downtown, I risked missing my train.  All they had to do was hop on the subway and be home within an hour.  I would be left standing around a dirty, musty train station for an hour, and desperately wishing I was cuddled up in bed instead of rubbing elbows with some fashion has-been.

That’s what my life was two years ago - a constant weighing of worths.  So I went in search of libations.  Even two years later, I found myself resorting to old habits - always up for a drink, always down to get drunk.  The others were never like that.

My feet ached from standing in four-inch heels, but I trudged onward Uptown.  I could always duck into a subway, but there had to be some neighborhood bar longing for a girl like me.  A bridge and tunnel kid, escaping to the city for a night of “look at me, I’m attempting to be fashionable.”  So I walked.

McManus was on the corner, friendly and warm McManus.  McManus - the last hetero hangout in the heart of Chelsea, chock full of ruddy faced men and lively conversation. Surely they would welcome an attractive girl stopping in for the relief of a pint.

Not the case.  Grizzled old men occupied the bar stools, the kind that did not get up to offer their seat to a lady.  Wrinkled, weather-beaten women sat at their sides.  It was time for regulars, not newcomers.  I left.

Stepping out onto the corner, it hit me.  I couldn’t cut it in Manhattan, because I didn’t fit in.  Anywhere.

I wasn’t trendy enough for Soho.  I wasn’t gay enough for Chelsea.  I wasn’t a trust fund baby so I couldn’t live on the Upper West Side, and I wasn’t Yuppie enough for the West Village.  I was too poor for the Upper East Side.  I was too practical for the Lower East Side.  And I certainly wasn’t Asian enough for Chinatown.

Defeated, what was another few blocks to walk up Seventh Avenue?  I lost track of my path to thoughts of getting drunk and forgetting my pitiable social situation. Swept away by my time, I was suddenly standing before it.  Like a federal prison, the gray behemoth of an educational institution loomed above me.  Frozen, I could only think one thing -

I was here.  This time, two years ago, I was here.  That was me. 

Who was I now?

Graduate school is supposed to make you a better person.  But FIT had made me worse.  I recognized this enough to make the incredibly hard decision to leave, but tonight, the temptation of “what if?” and feelings of regret frightened me.  They had decent jobs in the field, and good connections.  Those girls had what it takes. 

I never did.  All I could hope for upon graduation was a part time, contract job.  Realistically, where would that have gotten me?  Not out of my parents’ house.  Not on my way to a doctoral degree.  I don’t have what it takes.  I’m too warm, too mailable.  People appreciated my motivation but didn’t take my work seriously.       

Just as I was ready to give up to the unknown fates before me, I saw my father waiting at the bottom of the escalator at Penn station.  He met me there, just like we had done so many times two years ago, and my anxiety subsided; reality set in.  He was a symbol of comfort and pride. I knew everything was going to be okay and go on as wonderfully as it had for the past year.  The city would always be there for me, to visit and enjoy without becoming intimately involved. 

Manhattan was a friend that came and went into my life without disturbing the connectivity of our long, arduous friendship.

The close of the summer had never been so displayed as it was during the Slavonický Jarmark.  The fair, to commemorate the changing of the seasons in this Czech hamlet, was an event that all the town came out to explore.  Although it was slightly cold and damp that morning, the village was in full swing.  More people came out in that one afternoon than we had seen all week in Slavonica.

A stage was set up in the middle of the town square, for dance performances and live music.  Food stalls sold candied fruits and sweet delights, gingerbread cookies with colorful icing and cheeky phrases, garlic, paprika, honey and crisp, smokey pork sausage.  Vendors displayed chintzy clothing imported from Vietnam, craft goods and tables strewn with household knick-knacks - mass-produced soaps, used tubes of lipstick, socks and table linens in cheap plastic packaging.  There were no deals, no authentic Czech goods I could ship back home as a testament to my travels.  A search for Moravian lace reproduced no results except for some examples “Made in China.”

I purchased a cannabis chocolate bar.  That was novelty enough, I suppose.  Pending US Customs didn’t tear through my package.

One stall in particular caught our eye.

“Oh my God,” I said, the three of us frozen in observation.  “These are priceless.”

The vendor produced silk-screened images onto plain white t-shirts, similar to something you’d find on a trashy beach boardwalk or indoor flea market.  Except the images to choose from were so dated and cheesy, it would take a nostalgic mind to appreciate them.  Two Cocker Spaniels flopped on the floor with big, dewy eyes.  Horses running majestically in the wind.  An Angel fish blowing kisses, a gecko slithering up your torso.

It was a hipster’s postmodern fashion paradise.

“I want that one with the wolves,” Tom remarked, mesmerized by the gray silhouette of a wolf’s head thrown back in a howl at a full moon.  “That’s amazing.”

“You should get it,” I egged him on.

“I should get it,” he echoed. 

The Žampas recommended we try “young wine,” alcoholic beverage made of grapes that have not fully fermented into wine but have created more of a very strong cider.  We purchased some from the window of a local pub.  It was golden in color, opaque and cloudy, and absolutely delicious. 

Tom never bought his dream shirt.  We’d consumed too much Young Wine, and forgot to go back.

We shucked corn husks on the porch, revealing soft, buttery yellows and creamy white grids beneath.  The husks were silky but firm, and I pulled at the strands of embedded fibers.  As the sun set behind sprawling hills, the farm grew silent, the property peaceful.  My inner self could be nothing but at ease.

As a girl I longed for a house in the country.  My cousins had property Upstate, their front lawn a series of curving grass, their split-level home backdropped by deep, dense forest.  The undisturbed fresh air and the darkness of the trees lead to unknown worlds for me; places of escape and wonder, to befriend animals and meditate deeply by calm lakefronts.  

I remember sitting on that wrap-around porch, next to you, knowing what was ahead and thinking that my life, in that very moment, was only about to get better.

The group was sitting in a circle on the floor.  They seemed familiar, from the few Facebook photos we had exchanged, but they were still complete strangers to me.  I was never very good at making first introductions, and I didn’t want to seem overly zealous. 

“Is this the SIT Czech Republic group?” were my first words to them.

In that circle, we talked about past travel experiences, the colleges we attended, our towns back home.  They were excited, and anxious.   Many of the students were traveling outside of the US for the first time.  

That was something I just couldn’t fathom.  Why choose the Czech Republic as your launch pad?  They didn’t speak English and their language was not taught in schools.  It got seriously cold there.  To me, the Czech Republic was a place seasoned travelers went to after going through the motions of larger, more accommodating cities.  London.  Paris.  Rome.  Those were places to get your feet wet.

Not Eastern Europe.

But, to each his own.  Some in the group had been to places I had never gone, so I guess we all balanced out.  Only one in our group was missing.

“Nate is flying out separately, I guess,” Tom replied. 

“Yeah, he didn’t get his visa in time.” I explained.  It had been sent to me, by accident.  We both lived in New York, but nowhere near each other.

We exchanged visa horror stories - scrambling to get all the required documents in less than a month’s time, photocopying or mailing prepaid envelopes five minutes before the mail went out, having documents returned to us a week before the deadline because they were “not photocopied enough” (no specific amount of copies was mentioned, of course).  I was fortunate enough to have a Czech consulate nearby.  Others, like Betsy, had to send hers to Chicago.  It was a game of “hurry up and wait and stress out” but the majority of us - Nate notwithstanding - had made it on time.

I was nervous as we boarded.  I tried to be aloof, to discard my anxiety through crude jokes and one-upping achievements, but it was no use.  We were scattered about the flight, and I sat next to strangers.  My fear of flying took over, but we were already in the air.

A charming British flight attendant let me sit in the jump seat for a bit and served me bottle after bottle of wine.  I watched episodes of Mr. Bean and drunkenly fell asleep on my tray-table.  As we boarded our connecting flight at Heathrow Airport, I noticed someone had placed a sticker on the flight attendant’s podium.  It was the cover of A Hard Day’s Night.  I smiled at the reference.

The elderly, well traveled German fellow I sat next to on the plane was very courteous and allowed me to clutch him as our 2 hour flight to Prague began.  I wanted to be the girl at the window, sound asleep, dead almost.  She didn’t even stir when the plane took a nose dive to the right, causing drinks to spill and children to cry.  Oh, to be her on this flight, on any flight.  That was my goal.

It was overcast in Prague when we stepped off the plane. 

Our adventure began.

The sound of a clowny horn interrupted our piecework.  As if by silent signaling, all ten of our heads perked up at the same time.  We couldn’t see him at first, but he knew we were there.

The FanMilk man was stopping by.

Dairy products are hard to come by in rural Ghana.  Few cows exist and pasteurization is not widely practiced.  Milk comes in powdered or evaporated form, butter is more so margarine than anything.  And forget about cheese.  It doesn’t exist.  If you can’t live without cheese, don’t come to Ghana.

Inevitably, ice cream would be something we’d miss on this trip.  When times were tough at home, it was easy to reach for the carton.  Here however, you couldn’t mask your feelings with creamy sustenance.  It forced us to be a bit bolder, a bit braver, and a bit more brazen.  I suppose that’s a good thing.

But FanMilk, oh Fanmilk, that was readily available. 

A small triangular pouch held the frozen treat, either vanilla, chocolate or strawberry (depending on how stocked your FanMilk man was).  Like a miniature milkshake, FanMilk satisfied the sweet tooth and nourished us in the hot sun.  We happily, and readily accepted it as a source of calcium.

At first, I had FanMilk all the time.  But then I became more observant to the company I was keeping.  Few of my Ghanaian counterparts indulged in the treat.  Obviously, it was a luxury that came well after food, water and other necessities of life.  If I offered, they’d take, but they could never afford such a superfluous foodstuff.  My FanMilk consumption was then dramatically cut back, saved for trips to the capital or chatting at the guest house.  I wanted to be culturally sensitive and situationally appropriate, even if others in my group disregarded the hierarchy completely. 

What I wouldn’t give to have a FanMilk right now.

“Are you coming?” Impatiently, I sat on the bed.  Our group had some free time; our tour director Chris was going to bring us to the Trocodero, a famous London shopping and arcade venue.  My intentions were not commercially based - I wanted to spend more time with him.  Plus, where else was I realistically going to go at 8:00pm on a Wednesday night in a sprawling, foreign city?  It was either this, stay back in the hotel, or see another show in the West End.  I wasn’t tired enough for the first option, and I didn’t have enough money for the second.  

But Ann Marie was wasting too much time.  

“I just need to style my hair,” she told me, looking around for her hair straightener.  I knew that meant at least another 30 minutes, but she assured me it would be a quick process.  “I think I left it in Jen’s room.”  

That was the last straw for me.  She went to track down her styling tool, and I sat on the bed for a bit, as a courtesy.  I didn’t want to abandon her.  But after five minutes, my impatience got the better of me.  I grabbed the hotel key card resting on our bed, and left.  

My classmates converged in the lobby, a golden, warmly lit room bordered by the inky blueness of the night sky waiting outside.  We were supposed to leave around 7, but Ann Marie was still not present.  

“Is she coming?” Ms. Ingram asked.  

“She’s doing her hair,” I snidely replied.  I had no patience for materialistic people who put their self image before exciting opportunities.  I didn’t want to waste a moment in this city while I was here.  Throw your hair into a ponytail, for all I give a crap.  Twist it into a bun.  Wear a hat.  All of which take less than 5 minutes to complete, and looked perfectly acceptable.  

After a few more moments, we gave up.  “I’ll stay behind, she can’t be took much longer,” Mr. McKevitt offered.  We left the hotel and traveled to the Bond Street Tube Station.

I kept turning my head, hoping to see her squat figure catching up behind us.  Nothing.  She was nowhere in sight.  It pissed me off, but I just followed the group.

Waiting on the subway platform later, there were still no signs of Ann Marie or Mr. McKevitt.  I figured she decided not to come, too many split ends or something.   But why wasn’t our teacher here already? 

Maybe something happened.  

Almost a half an hour later, they emerged from the escalator.  Ann Marie’s face was red and blotchy, her mouth in a permanent frown.  Mr. McKevitt looked harried but he didn’t say anything.  They simply stood on the platform with us and waited for the next train to arrive.  

“What took you so long?” I snipped at her in a hush.  

She didn’t answer.  I looked at her.  She was crying.  

“Oh my God,” I suddenly felt sympathetic.  “What happened?”  

“You locked me out of the room!” she hissed.  “I didn’t have my key with me when I left and then you all left and just locked me out of the room!”   Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.  She had a hat on her head.  Her hair was curly.  She hadn’t had time to straighten it.  

I didn’t know what to do.  So I kept apologizing.  I had embarrassed her, I had made her look bad in front of the teachers, and Chris.   

She didn’t talk to me for the rest of the evening.

In the fall I began commuting to New York City.  At first, it was exciting - traveling amongst business people, herding ourselves through train stations and walking at a very speedy pace.  I had a reason to be there, a purpose.  I was going to make it, after all.

No such luck, I suppose.

The sun would rise in the mornings, lines of deep orange melting into soft blue as we waited on the train platform.  7:00am is chilly that time of year, and I always wore a coat.  In the evening, as I walked back to catch the train at dusk, my coat was superfluous, annoying in the muggy heat that had transpired throughout the course of the day.  I was never comfortable, never had anything appropriate to wear.  I was always a mess.

The evening trains were far less crowded, but still alive with late evening commuters.  A sudden chill raced down my spine as I emerged from the train onto the platform.  It was now as cold as it was this morning.  My coat now served its purpose.  Every evening, I  came full circle.

The air always smelled cold, and fresh.

In the mornings, I’d be alone and at my leisure.  It was hard to contend with the early morning screeches of my host brother readying himself for Hebrew school, but I think my host mother understood my predilection for sleeping late - there was a varying difference between a 7am and a 9:30am wake-up call which, for free spirits such as myself, was sacred and not to be disturbed.

Renata even took the dog to work.  So I was completely and utterly alone in that turn-of-the-century flat.  And quiet, is what I remember.

I’d fix some tea and spread a bit of butter on a slice of hearty brown bread for breakfast.  Jam was usually added, depending on what was available.  I love European breakfast, which is so much simpler and more fulfilling than the processed junk we get Stateside.  Take your pick - apricot, red currant, raspberry.  All were fresh and canned by Renata.  My favorite was her plum jam, so sweet and deep violet.  I’ve searched for something comparable but nothing has ever satisfied my appetite like that plum jam did.

Renata’s kitchen reflected her love of the countryside - chiffon yellow walls, bleached stone floors, unstained oak furnishings, mason jar glassware.  She had two large french windows looking out to a courtyard.  The windows let the most incredible light into the place, dappling the floor through bright green leaves, replaced by stark white shadows in the winter when nature took its course. 

The courtyard was not usable; years of Communist change-around had caused its functionality to fall prey to overgrowth.  Now and again I’d see neighbors across the way, sitting, drinking beer on a patio while the weather was still fair.  A sprawling patch of curling ivy and lush ferns, the courtyard could have been a place for children to explore and hide, developing worlds of their own, and rules to live by.

So quiet.

I could sit there for hours, warming up my tea.

When traveling to a cold city, the last thing you want to do is be discouraged to go outside because of “cold feet.”  The Merrell Spire Peak boot is a lifesaver.  Not only are these boots stylish, the are waterproof, weatherproof and beyond comfortable.  Lined with Thinsulate and Polartec fabrics, you will never have chilly, wet toes again.  The materials are durable (I’ve had mine for about four years now, they still look brand new) and I get compliments on them all the time. 

I shovel my driveway in these and then go out for cocktails after.  No need to switch between an ugly, bulky pair of snow boots and your fancy shoes, this packs punch in one form.  Merrell’s Spire Peak’s are worth the investment.  But grab yours quickly, I do believe the style has been discontinued.

After the winter we’ve had, these puppies paid for themselves real fast.