some people.

“Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.”

This may be the cheesiest, douchiest quote I’ve ever heard. It’s the kind of thing I would have proudly added to my eighth grade yearbook page in anticipation of graduation. In Comic Sans, no less.

But it has been running through my mind periodically over the past few days, and I can’t shake the damn thing. It’s like a black-eyed peas song.

For the past four days, my father and I have been walking the Camino de Santiago (“The Way of St. James” for you english-speaking folk), a centuries-old pilgrimage across Spain to the city of Santiago de Compostela. We have roughly thirty days left. It’s exhausting, it’s humbling, and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced. The scenery is gorgeous and the ability to travel (relatively conflict-free!) with my Dad is a true blessing. But the biggest gifts, I’ve quickly learned, are often the people we meet along the way.

I’d like to respectfully disagree with the author of the above quote. I take issue with the implication that those people who briefly enter our lives, those people with whom we share something and then never see again, are unable to leave a meaningful impression on our souls, on our perspective on the world and its inhabitants. Over the past four and a half months I’ve made many friends — beautiful, fascinating, brilliant, exciting people — whom I may never see again. It’s hard, traveling: you make friends, fall in love (platonically) with these other humans, and then you must go your separate ways. It can be emotionally exhausting. But it doesn’t make those relationships any less meaningful, the memories of those friends any less inspiring. It doesn’t make their “footprints on your heart” invisible or insignificant.

Here on the camino, this idea is amplified in a constantly moving microcosm of human interaction. We are all going to the same place, all moving at our own pace. Like an endless game of leapfrog, we pilgrims are in a constant state of passing each other, bumping into people we met briefly three days ago, having an inspiring conversation with a new acquaintance we met on the road only to quickly say goodbye (maybe forever?) because a pee break is imperative. You never know if you’ll see someone again; last names are almost never exchanged. To pull a concept from yogic philosophy, it is truly an exercise in detachment.

But then something funny happens. People reappear at just the right moment, just when you need a pick-me-up (e.g. when you’re tired and dragging and they yell “bullshit” across a public park to get your attention), just when you wrote them off as another beautiful soul that you’ll simply never see again. It’s uncanny. It’s the type of thing that could turn the most cynical into devout believers.

I’ve learned that these people can still be my friends, can still be influential in my life. Many of them I consider angels. I don’t have to hastily jot down their email address and friend them on facebook just to ignore indefinitely. I don’t have to know everything about them, or their job, or even their hometown in order to share the most basic human things: food, water, conversation, a smile. And very often, I know — really know — that these interactions we share were meant to happen. These people, these connections, are truly a gift from God.

Let me tell you a quick story.

On day two, my dad began to veer from the trail to find a place to pee. I looked over my shoulder: “There’s someone behind us, Dad”. He veered back into place ahead of me as our fellow peregrino blazed past us with strong legs and a confident stride. From his pack hung a small, stuffed heart, complete with dangling arms and legs and – if my memory serves me right – a cheery smile. “I like your heart”, my dad said, never one to pass up a good conversation piece.

So began our hour spent walking with Ricardo, an oncologist and father from Brazil who has already walked the second half of the Camino and is now completing the first. He was full of wisdom regarding how to prevent blisters (oops too late), the importance of taking your time (this is not a race), and the intangible beauty of the Camino. We all stopped to rest together, then once his companions caught up with us, they all headed off to the next destination. I felt grateful for our interaction — such a beautiful surprise — but assumed we wouldn’t see him again.

Today, as we sat outside our albergue in the tiny town of Urtega, talking blisters and travel plans with our new friend Alex, a familiar man strode up the driveway confidently. Before I knew it, Ricardo and his big, exuberant, loving smile were greeting us, and he placed his stuffed heart down in front of my Dad. “Webster! This is for you — I give you my heart. You have to take it to Santiago for me.” Both of our jaws dropped, the edges of our mouths creeping up into awe-struck smiles. First, we never expected to see Ricardo again; I think we both assumed he had zoomed past us somewhere between Zubiri and Pamplona. And second, we both knew that the heart had been a gift from a friend who was unable to walk the Camino because her husband suffered a heart attack two weeks before she was scheduled to leave for France. Her bag was already packed; the plans had been made; everyone was devastated. And now Ricardo was asking my dad to bring her memento, her heart, all the way to the end, since he would be heading home in a few days. As I fought back tears, Ricardo echoed our disbelief at the our meeting today: “I was telling my friend this morning, I hope I see my friend Webster again! I prayed to God that I would see you, and now here you are.” He left just as he had arrived, full of joy with a brisk gait, but only after giving a few much-needed band-aids and some medical advice to Alex.

This is the kind of thing that happens out here.

05.08.2012

Saw the Uffizzi this morning. Beautiful but exhausting. By the end of it, predictably, I was starving. So we beelined through the Michleangelo room, discussed the Visitation, walked through a maze of gift shops, and finally found our way out to street and sky.

Should we find someplace on one of these side streets or should we just go back to [insert made-up name of cute waiter here]‘s place? It’s pretty close, Mom asked. I said sure, we can head over there, but I kind of just want a panini [panino?].

Okay, she said, we’ll find something.

We took a turn, walked about 50 meters, and passed a mob of people on our right. Or rather, a mob of people huddled around a tiny storefront – some sitting and eating panini on stools or the curb; some waiting in line to order; some standing at a tiny bar lined with miniature wine glasses and half-full (I’m an optimist, especially when it comes to vino) bottles of wine. It took about three seconds for me to stop in my tracks and redirect us back towards the crown and the wine and the sandwiches. If I’ve learned anything it’s that when looking for a place to eat in a foreign place, a busy establishment is generally a good sign.

So, being the loving daughter that I am, I ordered mom to grab us two old wooden stools on the street (so perfect and Italin and dark and rustic, they were ) and hand over the cash, prego. I finally figured out how to order for the two of us — almost seamless except for that one time that I used the word tomate and my new friend behind the counter explained that I could order in Italian OR English but that Spanish was a bit difficult. Pomodoro, right. Oops.

I grabbed our panini and two glasses of wine, and we sat. And we sipped. And we ate. Oh, the food was so good. Chewy and crusty foccaccia, strong and simple flavors, my daily dose of mozzarella, and a generous serving of vegetables. A cheap and delicious glass of chianti didn’t hurt either. Exactly what I wanted and the perfect environment in which to enjoy it. While the Uffizzi was amazing — a treat! — this is my favorite way to experience a city, I told mom. It even made me think of the small shacks in Sharamsala where I’d grab chai and chapati to fuel my daily walks.

But of course we were in Italy, not India: the bread is leavened, the wine flows freely (and doesn’t taste like shit), and the bustling of the crowds is more exciting and vibrant than overwhelming and invasive. We sat and sipped, chatted and nibbled. I smiled at how perfect a way this was to enjoy our last day in Florence, my last day with Mom until we reunite in August. The perfect girly date, the perfect Italian food experience. How perfectly European to just pour jourself a glass of wine on the sidewalk, panino in hand, and people watch for an hour, all for the price of a drink at Starbucks. With priceless atmosphere and a girl’s favorite eating partner (her mom!)

After a morning spent worrying how best to see one of the world’s gratest museums, it was a blessing and the perfect surprise to happen upon this little snippet of Italian culture, a respite from a day of sightseing, a stolen moment with my favorite woman in the world. And I think I might even have room for gelato.

***
Happy Mothers’ Day, Mom! I love you always.

the transition.

Roughly one week ago, I stood in a pew at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome and I cried. Full-out, snotty, pathetic sobs. It was a little embarrassing, a little funny (in retrospect), and a lot predictable.

Let’s back up for a second.

Roughly one week and one day ago, I said a dazed goodbye to my best friend in the Kuwait airport. I had told her previously that I wouldn’t cry when we parted; I rarely do at the right moments. So when her eyes welled up and my heart started to wrench and I thought about the past four months that we had spent together and the uncertain expanse of time ahead, I just squeezed her tight, told her I loved her, took an awkward selfie of us, and walked away. I hate goodbyes.

sorry i’m not sorry.

Twelve hours later a taxi dropped me off a stone’s throw away from the Roman coliseum and I looked above me and saw my parents staring down from a window in the most European and adorable fashion. There’s our daughter! I think my dad yelled. Or something. I didn’t exactly know where I was, but I felt home. I sort of collapsed into their arms and spent a few hours telling them stories that probably didn’t make sense in my jet lagged stupor. I think we ate some sort of Italian food that night. I was so exhausted that I willingly passed out on the couch. Do you know how much of a luxury it is to fall asleep on a couch?! But I digress. It was good to be in their care.

The next day was Vatican day. As in, the day I got to see where the Pope lives. As in, something I had been looking forward to for quite some time. The amount of Catholic art and history and churches in Italy is overwhelmingly beautiful and I was so excited to just swim around in it for a few days. I wanted to get drunk on churches. Instead, I got really, really hungry.

One strange yet kind of awesome side effect that I experience when I am jetlagged is insane hunger levels. I don’t really understand it but I also try not to complain because it means I get to eat a lot. But sometimes it hits me like a freight train, out of the blue (bleu), unmerciless. As we stood in St. Peter’s during a regular old weekday Latin mass, I became ravenous. Tired and hungry and all of the sudden hit with the emotions of everything that had transpired over the previous 72 hours. I had joked to friends that I was expecting to just walk into St. Peter’s and cry from its sheer beauty and significance. This, unfortunately, was a little less poetic.

I held it together until mass ended and then broke down to my mom. I’m so sorry. I’m so hungry. I need to leave and sit down and eat something. I’m so sorry. I just sort of surrendered to my own pathetic state.

Katie and Webster, of course, went into mommy and daddy mode. An apple was put in my hand (just now realizing the dumb but amusing symbolism here) and I was gently ushered out of the Basilica by those who know me (and therefore my tantrums) best. They found me food. In fact, they found me an entire pizza and roughly half a loaf of bread. They soothed me and made everything better just like parents are supposed to do. I finally mustered up enough strength to make it to the Vatican Museum, through which I shuffled with a mix of interest and reverence and exhaustion. By the time we reached the Sistene Chapel, I felt like I had run a marathon: I had anticipated the moment for so long, but all I wanted was a bed and maybe a few orange slices.

RECOVERED.

I had a similar breakdown a few days later in a Florentine church: the beautiful Cathedral of the Sacred Heart. Put simply, I was at mass and I started crying because I missed Mariel. I missed her and I missed the places we had been and I didn’t really know what to do about it. So I cried, and my mom hugged me, and she took me to a restaurant with good food and a cute waiter, and everything was better.

I had wanted to visit Italy for years. The history is so rich, the culture so vibrant, the food so delicious. I wanted to experience the country fully, to learn an see and taste and understand. But my jet lag and emotional backlash meant that a good amount of my time in Italy was simply spent adjusting, dealing, feeling. Oh, and I got to cook again. That was, to put it lightly, nice.

So I just sort of resigned to seeing Italy on my own terms. Or rather, the terms of my fatigue and my emotions and the schedules of tourist attractions. I saw the coliseum from the outside, the David up close, and the Duomo at least five times. I missed countless must-sees, and I just stopped caring. That’s really the nature of travel, I’ve learned: there’s never enough time, and the universe will always have other plans.

Finally, though, yesterday my dad and I found ourselves in St Jean Pied de Port, the beginning of a 500 mile pilgrimage and the gateway we’ve both been anticipating for over seven months. I’ve experienced a wide range of emotions over the past few days–from nerves to excitement to complete and utter fear. But we arrived in beautiful St Jean, received our compostelas (pilgrim passports), and let it all sink in. It felt right. The puzzle pieces had fallen into place. I often have moments where I can’t believe where I am in the world, but yesterday, that feeling was countered by the feeling that we were right where we were supposed to be. All the adjustment from Asia to Europe, the transition from traveling with my best friend to traveling with my Dad, the seven trains that got us from Italy to the French Pyrenees: it was all for this.

So tomorrow morning, we set off. The first 25 kilometers of the 800k between us and Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain. The first day is the steepest, and by many considered the hardest. But more than anything, I’m excited. And I know we’re ready.

With that, I’m off to pray, buy an extra pair of socks, and use the concept of carbo-loading as an excuse to eat large quantities of freshly baked artisan bread. Au Revoir, Hasta Luego, and Buen Camino, y’all.

right now.

I just got off a boat that took me away from the most beautiful, happy place I’ve ever been. I’ll be getting on a bus soon, then a plane, then another plane. then I get on public transportation in Rome (this part scares me the most) and then I see my parents.

I’ve been so sad all morning. leaving our little home and our friends was so hard. I felt like someone had died. I’m sitting here looking out over the ocean and I don’t want to leave it. I’m scared of Europe. I’m afraid that I’ll lose those precious personal things that I’ve gained over the past four months.

I say goodbye to Mariel tonight, or rather tomorrow morning. In the Kuwait airport. I dont know how I’m going to do this. She’s been my ally and my best friend and challenged me and served as my boyfriend, mother, medic, and confidante. I don’t know how to travel without her.

But I get to see my parents. My mom and dad. Katie and Webster. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next 40 hours, but part of me knows that once I’m in their arms everything will be at least marginally better.

This trip has been a blessing so far. The past week was a blessing and a half. I feel happy and I want to hold on to it. I want to smile at people on the street and be fearless and walk around barefoot.

I have to leave this place, but there are so many things that I can take with me.

And now my bus is here and my rant is over. Let’s do this thing.

trust; fear

Today I climbed, and subsequently jumped off of, a 50-foot rock into crystal clear water in the Gulf of Thailand.

It was thrilling; it was fun; it was one of the coolest things I’ve done.

Getting up there was hard. Lots of climbing and trying not to fall to a scary death. It required trust in myself–something that’s grown stronger over the past few months. Trusting my body in my yoga practice. Trusting my ability to navigate the difficult situations that inevitably arise when traveling. Trusting myself to drive a motorbike 200 km through hills and dirt roads. Trusting my ability to climb mountains, make shit happen, get what I want, and keep myself safe.

This trip has also chipped away at my fears. As a child I was often afraid: afraid to fall, afraid to die, afraid to offend. As a society we are afraid of change, scared to leave our comfortable yet unsatisfying lives in pursuit of the unknown. But I’m not afraid anymore.

So I jumped. Towards my fearless travel partner, towards new friends encouraging and coaching me in their British accents, towards life! The fall was so long that it allowed a good long “oh shit” moment. I crashed hard. It was awesome.

Travel opens your eyes to the world, but it also opens your eyes to your own power. A certain level of caution is healthy, yes. But after this trip I am confident in my abilities to get through whatever life may throw my way. I know that I can achieve whatever the hell I decide that I want. I know what I’m capable of. And I’m not afraid to live. So live I will.

And yes, mom and dad, I promise to make it to Rome in one piece.

Here is an instagrammed picture of an island.

Go forth and set the world on fire.

tiny moments of joy.

Traveling is like real life in a lot of ways. Sure, I don’t have a “job” or a “bed” or a normal routine or even a set of keys that jingle with me everywhere I go. But I still wake up in the morning and brush my teeth and struggle with the same anxieties that haunted me back in my old life halfway across the world. I still have good days and bad days. Oh, the good days are great! But I still have days where I feel uncomfortable in my skin, or restless, or annoyed, or sad. I try to make the most of these days–I view them as learning experiences, as hurdles that make the happy times even more profound.

So I’ve stopped expecting this to be a trip untainted by sadness or free from emotional difficulty. I’ve stopped expecting strings of perfect days. And I’ve started savoring the moments of pure, unadulterated joy. Sometimes they’re tiny and insignificant to anyone but me. Sometimes they’re huge life events or revelations or dramatically beautiful landscapes. And sometimes, like yesterday morning, they’re like little presents from God, delicately and deliberately hand wrapped and unexpectedly delivered to my doorstep.

I awoke yesterday in Vientiane, Laos–after a night of freezing under the breeze of a super-powered AC unit–with an hour and a half to spare before leaving for the airport. I wanted to at least get a glimpse of the city (we had less than 24 hours there) as well as a good dose of caffeine, so I happily hurried out of our little ice box and into the city. It’s a lovely place: nothing too exciting, but calm and beautiful and a nice little dose of city after lounging at an organic farm by the Laos riverside for a week. Honestly, it kind of felt like Florida, and I kind of liked it. I wandered to the riverside, turned down a little side street, and ran into the most adorable little cafe I had ever seen. The sign read, “common grounds cafe and bakery playground and kids area”. Of course.

I was greeted by a reasonable level of air conditioning, a friendly and clean aesthetic, and lovely music. The menu was written on the board in multicolored chalk, and tubs of homemade peanut butter were showcased just under a row of perfectly frosted cupcakes. There was local art on the walls. There was espresso. It was like my own tiny little version of paradise. And it was quiet enough to classify my quick breakfast as alone time.

I sat down at a little table, looking out at the street through the front windows and sipping probably the tastiest cappuccino I’d had in months. If I hadn’t been carefully planning how to spend my last few thousand Laos Kip (they had to last me through snack-buying at the airport), I would have ordered five more. Each sip was savored, each bit of foam carefully devoured with consideration of its ratio to coffee and sugar. The multigrain toast with homemade peanut butter and jam (which tasted like it actually had fruit in it!) arrived at the perfect time: late enough for me to savor my first few hits of caffeine while staring wistfully out the window, early enough that I could enjoy my appetizer and main course simultaneously for at least a minute or two until my espresso was no longer. I carefully spread the peanut butter and jam onto the toast, enjoying the fact that I was enjoying such a perfectly kid-friendly treat while seated at an establishment that advertises as a playground. There’s something so comforting about a PB&J, so simple and perfect and reminiscent of your mom serving up a plate of love as you came in from outside (or, uh, up from the TV room).

With a day of travel ahead of me, I knew these precious moments of calm and quiet and peace had to be savored, that the pure enjoyment of being exactly where I was was something special. I drank in that sense of excited gratitude, saying a quick prayer of thanks for this tiny moment of pure joy. Something so fleeting, so meaningless to any passerby, was enough to make my week. Enough to make me look back on my less-than-24 hour trip to what many people have told me is a boring city with nostalgia and appreciation.

Sure, the big moments and the sweeping landscapes and the epic experiences are fun. I’ll certainly be telling my kids about the times that Mariel and I had to run off of a bus in the middle of India in the middle of the night and pee behind a wall because we wouldn’t see a bathroom for hours. Trust me, I’ve got some good stories. But these little bits of happiness that are all my own–these are different types of treasures, the types that are special because of how unremarkable they are. Divine sparks of happiness gifted to us sporadically, which we can only respond to with a smile and a quiet “thank you” and a squeeze of our eyes to stow away the feeling for our own personal records.

how stella got her groove back.

“I think it’s going to be one of the hoy-loyts of your entire trip,” Irish Dave said from behind the check-in counter at Spicy Pai, “just be careful and stay out of the middle of the road on those hairpin turns.”

Right.

Mariel and I were trying to figure out how to make the 120 kilometer trip to a small village outside of Nai Soi in northern Thailand to visit a village of long necks for the night. (Got all that? Good.) We had missed our 8:30 AM bus (apparently that happens when you attend a face painting party – slash – flash mob the night before your bus leaves) and were considering doing the whole thing on our rented motorbikes. We had only been riding them for three days; we were amateurs at best. But logistically, this seemed the best way to do it, and our trusty and responsible friend Dave assured us the roads were safe and gorgeous, and I couldn’t help but think that this was the type of adventure I’d want to look back on.

So we filled up our tanks, borrowed a map, said our prayers (I had a little chat with St. Christopher), and we were off. Five hours of the most beautiful scenery, lush green and rolling hills, some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I’ve never felt so free. And as always, Dave was right.

It’s been an interesting few weeks. Wrapping up our time in Nepal, jumping a few time zones over to Thailand, adjusting to a new country, new culture, new pace of life. I’ve observed the passing of another year (24!) the passing of a loved one back home (crying over Skype is awkward), and the increasingly swift passing of time as our remaining days tick down towards zero.

I was in a funk for at least a week. After our trek ended, I felt a very distinct lack of purpose, a confusion regarding what it really was that I was doing out here. I felt uninspired by life. Not challenged, not excited. Restless in cities where I couldn’t understand how people spent their time. Restless in a lifestyle of travel when I wasn’t sure what that lifestyle meant or entailed. Over the past few months – in India especially – daily life was so hectic that simply getting through the day and finding things to appreciate brought on a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment. So when getting from point a to point b wasn’t a day’s adventure in itself, when the culture of a city wasn’t thrown at me from every angle once I stepped onto the street, the absence of challenge and stimulation created a noticeable void. What to do? How to find meaning in each day? How to shake a funk when your life holds no routine, nothing solid to hold on to but a backpack and love sent through skype and emails and the best travel companion a girl could ask for?

My parents asked me in concerned tones if I’d been writing, the way some parents may check up on their children’s oral hygiene. It was cute. But the answer was no.

And then suddenly I found myself exploring my surroundings on my second day here: wind in my face, new friends in front of me, looking out over the hills to my left, the countryside a contrast of lush green and parched brown. I had finally started to feel alive again here. Pai is the kind of place you plan on visiting for two nights and can’t manage to leave because the community and the lifestyle are so cozy and joyous and relaxing. I couldn’t help but immediately surround myself with kind, loving, happy people who were enjoying life. I learned how to appreciate travel for its own sake, just being in a new place and enjoying what you can and remembering each day that this sucks infinitely less than sitting in a cubicle for eight hours on repeat. I am blessed beyond belief. And I have remembered how to relax. Not only do I feel like myself again, but I feel a lightness and a freedom and a deep optimism that I have missed terribly. I am confident, and I am happy, and I have laughed more here than I have in months. I feel beautiful. Pai brought me back to life and reintroduced me to my best (and favorite) self. To oversimplify and understate, this is a special place. These are special people.

We are leaving today, jumping on a minibus for a 24 hour journey to Vang Vien, Laos. I’m sad to leave despite my persistent happiness. The goodbyes I have said have been painful and the hugs have been strong. And I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ll lose this feeling of freedom and joy and liveliness and confidence. I’m afraid I won’t remember it. But all I can do is trust that it’s become a part of me, that the names of all of these people and places are now written on my heart like a constantly evolving mural, that this is not an isolated experience that exists in its own reality but rather one step along my path that I can always look back on.

This is getting wordy, and words seem useless when feelings are so strong. So I’ll end with one fact. The following quote, the last line of possibly my favorite poem, is currently written in henna on my back:

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.