Up Next: New Zealand!!

My time in Switzerland, and Europe in general, is quickly coming to an end (for now) and I'm not ready to return to the States to live permanently - it's just too... permanent... and doesn't involve enough travel. After lots of thought, I've decided to get certified to teach English as Foreign Language to adults. This seems like a good career path that will combine my passion for traveling and meeting new people with some form of income.

I found a couple of schools that offer the CELTA course (a Cambridge certification that is highly looked-upon by English schools worldwide). There is a school in Hawaii, and also one in New Zealand. Both seem like ideal places to live for a bit, but New Zealand will be a lot less expensive thanks to the exchange rate (right now about 70 cents US will buy $1 NZ). Because of this, I applied to the school in Auckland, New Zealand and interviewed with them at 11:15pm on Skype after I finished up work at the Chalet. At the end of the 45 minute interview, I asked when I would find out whether or not I'd been accepted, and Michael (my interviewer) told me it was safe to say I had been.

Not one to wait around, I immediately accepted the admission offer and booked my flight to NZ the following day. I'll be out there for 5 months, flying home for Christmas. I'll get a working holiday visa (available to US citizens 30 and under, healthy and without kids, and with enough money to support themselves and fly home) that will allow me to stay for a year. I don't know if I'll actually stay a year, longer, or just the five months, but the plan is in motion. I'm going to sell my car, and chances are I'll have to leave my job, but traveling is what I want to do, and being able to teach English all over the world seems like the perfect way of supporting my travel habit. So, we'll see what happens!

We Speak the Same Language, Want a Ride?

Finally, I ventured further into Eastern Europe, going from the Czech Republic, to Austria, down to Slovenia and eventually to Croatia. To get back to Switzerland, I decided to take the ferry from Croatia to Italy, and then take the train from there back into Switzerland. I did a couple of overnight ferries when I was going to Greece and Italy with Matthew, but this was my first venture on an overnight ferry alone. I was once again staying in the common area, so the first thing I did was find a good couch that I could use as a bed. It was near a couple of other ladies, so seemed pretty safe, and their was a table attached to the floor that I could wedge my backpack under to keep it secure. As I was getting settled I heard a couple, who appeared to be in their 60's, walking around speaking English. This was a language I'd heard very little of in the last week (it was the 5th language to read the safety instructions aboard the ferry, if that's any indication). Eager to talk to someone in my native tongue, I asked the couple as they were passing where they were from. Turns out we're neighbors - they're from Virginia. We made small talk for about 10 minutes then wished each other a pleasant night.

The following morning at breakfast, the couple spotted me and came over to see how I'd slept - they had their own room, so it was a bit plusher. We once again chatted for a few minutes, and then out of the blue they asked me if I wanted a ride - and not just a 5 minute ride to the train station, but a 3 hour ride to Bologna. I was astonished at the generous offer, but eagerly accepted. Italian trains tend to be expensive even when you have a Eurorail pass, so this was going to really help me out in the financial department. As we were docking, I made my way down to where the cars were parked on the ferry and met up with couple. We all got into the car, and within a few minutes, we were off and driving through the Italian countryside. This was my fourth time in Italy, but my first time being in a car there and it was exciting! We sped through the country on the brilliantly sunny morning, and even saw a guy on a moped almost get hit at a traffic light by a car that ran the red light beside us. An hour or so into the ride, we stopped in San Marino, which is one of the smallest countries of the world, and walked around a bit. We had a great time getting to know one another, and swapping stories about Italy, other travels, and life in general. I was so glad I had taken them up on their offer, and though we may never meet again, I will remember this couple from Virginia as being part of my first pseudo-hitchhiking experience, and all that went along with it.

Broken French

I loved working at the Chalet in Switzerland. There was just enough work to keep me busy, but not too much to ever begin to stress me out or overwhelm me. I enjoyed the opportunity to occasionally practice my French as well, although not nearly as much as I had hoped since the majority of people who came through spoke English, either as their native language, or just better as a second language than French was for me. One evening I had a older man come through who wanted to book 5 dorms, for him and 4 of his "workers." This is what I gathered from a conversation we had in French, as he spoke no English whatsoever. We proceeded with the booking and the exchange of information and money, but then he started to ask other questions that reached beyond my French vocabulary. Fortunately there was a girl in the room from Switzerland who was fluent in French, so she came to my rescue. We figured out what the man needed and I showed him and the other four guys to their room, mostly just pointing to the showers and toilets on the tour with a few key words thrown in. When I returned from the "tour," I asked my friend I thanked my friend for her help and mentioned that I wasn't sure why I'd had such a hard time figuring out what the man was saying. That's when I informed that the man wasn't Swiss, or even French - he was Italian, and his French was as broken as mine!

Table for One

“I hope I didn’t just ruin your diet,” my server at the vegetarian restaurant says as I’m half way through the scrumptious fruit and nut cake he’s brought me “as a gift.” I smile, shake my head, and say “Maybe a little, but this cake is well worth it.” Naturally, it was just this very morning that I decided to go on a diet. That’s how I ended up at this vegetarian restaurant on the riverbank in Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic in the first place. Of course as soon as the cake is set before me, my diet is over, only to be started again tomorrow.

When David, my handsome server with the tanned skin and wavy blond hair, first brought the cake to me, asking if he could give me a gift, I had a flashback to the previous night’s conversation with a few other people at my hostel about eating alone at a restaurant. A Californian man who must be 25 years my senior couldn’t seem to fathom the idea of dining alone in a public place, and he called me brave for venturing out on my own. I wonder to myself if David feels sorry for me eating by myself in such a beautiful part of the world – a place perfect for sharing a good meal with friends and loved ones.

He clears my dessert plate that has nothing on it now but a few crumbs and a spoon that’s been licked clean, and comes back a few minutes later with a pot of green tea to “help my digestion.” I once again bow my head slightly and thank him, telling him he’s too kind. David smiles and flits away to another one of his many tables. It dawns on me that perhaps he doesn’t feel sorry for me after all, but maybe he fancies me and is trying to get me to stick around a bit longer. If that's the case, it's working.

I sip my green tea and peruse the travel book on Eastern Europe that I’ve borrowed from the hostel, soaking up the sunshine and savoring the perfect combination of heat and breeze on this Saturday in May. I am perfectly content and am enjoying finally having a day without traveling to a new place.

One by one, the tables around me clear and David stops by my table a bit more, asking where I’m from, what I’m doing in Europe, and eventually asking if girls from America have names. I tell him with a smirk that most don’t, but I do, and it’s Mary. I’m surprised at how impeccable his English is when I discover that he is originally from Prague and has lived in Cesky Krumlov for about 6 years.

David has intrigued me and I want to talk to him more about who he is and where he’s been, but I stick with safe topics like where to go and what to do while I’m here. I leave tomorrow morning, so I know I will probably accomplish few of his suggestions in the short time I have left, but it’s a good way to get him talking. We chat a while and David tells me he is working that night until 10 or 10:30 – he clearly wants to talk to me more too. I’m flattered and excited, not to mention surprised since I’m sitting there in workout clothes after hiking around the town the entire morning, with no makeup and unwashed hair that’s been slung up into a ponytail.

As I pay my bill, I mention that I might return later that evening since I'm on vacation and don't have any big plans. David looks down and is practically blushing when he says he would like that very much. I scoop up my bag and book and realize as I walk out of the restaurant that I must have been sitting there for several hours.

Laughing to myself at how the feared eating alone can lead to making a new friend, I float down the cobblestone streets having decided that I will indeed come back tonight – just to see what happens when I sit a bit longer.

Directionally Challenged

I’m no idiot, but sometimes I can’t follow a map or directions to save my life. I think this is part of the reason why I so enjoy wandering – when you don’t have a set route, there’s no way to screw it up.

Yesterday I was in Vienna and my top priority was to go to the Spanish Riding School and watch the morning exercise program where the horses prance around the ring to classical music by Beethoven and others. I made it there with little difficulty, figuring out how to navigate the metro and tram without much issue. This proved to be my one and only real navigating success of the day.

Once I had my fill of watching the horses, I decided to head in the direction of the Schönbrunn Palace, which I was told is a must see in the city. I studied the map, determined I was on the correct street, and rather than take bus 54 as I was told I could, I opted to get some exercise and walk – an hour’s walk is nothing to me now that I’m accustomed to my legs being my main form of transportation.

Not seeing any signs that appeared to say the name of the Palace (German is a difficult language when you’re not familiar with it!), I continued marching along figuring the signage would appear as I neared my destination. Eventually I got to a very commercial area that reminded me of Champs-Elysées in Paris. I was (of course) captivated by all of the shops, and found myself weaving in and out of them as I trekked down the street. Finally I reached some grandiose buildings that looked as though they would be part of the Palace grounds – it also said Museum Quarter, which made sense to me since there are tours of the Palace. No such luck.

After finding a park bench, I unfolded my map once more and with a bit of searching, found the Museum Quarter – on the opposite side of my starting point from the Palace. That’s right, I just walked not one, but two hours in the wrong direction. I felt like such a moron, and, thanks to having a train to catch, I knew there was no hope of making it to the Palace on this trip. I turned around and walked back from whence I came, this time stopping and taking the first metro I came across – I was done with walking.

Later that day I found myself at one of two train stations in Prague, and my hostel had conveniently given directions from each of them. As the sun was setting, I exited the station and, not seeing the street name I was looking for, I walked the 10 minutes I was supposed to until I found a McDonald’s (which is about as good of a landmark as Starbucks). I didn’t see the tram tracks that were mentioned, so I looked at my choices – go straight on a street not too crowded, or stay on the main street to the right, which had people buzzing about all over. I turned right and walked for many blocks, clinging tightly to my bag as I’d been warned of pickpockets and felt like an easy target with all of my gear on.

Not seeing anything familiar from the hostel’s directions, a stranger pointed me back in the opposite direction to get to the metro station. After walking a couple of blocks, there was a girl about my age walking nearby – I asked her if she spoke English, which she did, so she was able to not only tell me where the metro was, but walk with me there as she was already on her way. She guided me to the Info Office where I picked up a map, a metro ticket, and guidance on which metro and tram to take. Finally, I was on my way.

It wasn’t until I was aboard the metro that I realized my blunder: I had been following the directions from the wrong train station. Realizing my careless error, I was able to follow the correct directions and find the hostel without issue. Apparently I’m not always an idiot when it comes to following directions, but I sure can goof up something simple.

It amazes me how one can travel so independently, but suddenly in a foreign city where nothing is familiar – not the streets, the people, or the language – one must depend on the kindness of a complete stranger to be steered back in the right direction. Whenever possible, I think I’ll just stick with my wandering ways - it’s much harder to go in the wrong direction when any direction is the right one.

A Safe Haven

It’s no secret that there has been a recent outbreak of a new strain of influenza, lovingly called the Swine Flu. This Flu started in Mexico and has spread to other parts of the world, including Spain, which of course happens to be where I was just the day before the discovery. Fortunately for me, I seem to have escaped the country still in a healthy state and made it back to my politically neutral and Swine Flu free country of Switzerland. What a great place.

A couple of days go by after my return, and the World Health Organization has raised the level of the outbreak to the second highest level that exists – just short on world panic, essentially. I’m still feeling pretty good at this point though since I’m in Switzerland: I’m high up in the Alps, far away from civilization, and there can’t even be more than a couple thousand people who live in my town. I’m safe – totally and completely safe. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that there is no safer place to be right this minute than the Swiss Alps.

Enter Alfredo, a friendly amigo from Mexico City. Seriously? We don’t even have to leave our town now to get Swine Flu, the Swine Flu has been brought to us? My levels of racism are at an all-time high and I consider wearing a mask around the Chalet until my Mexican buddy leaves, I think better of it though, and decide that if he’s come here of the places he could go, if he gives me the Swine Flu, it’s clearly my time to go and I should just get over it already.

Well, I’m over it, and I’m still alive too. Alfredo has gone to spread joy and terror around the rest of Europe and my little nook of the Swiss Alps is once again the safe haven it was meant to be.

Miscellaneous Moments

Moments lived, and observations made (from silly to sad):

Humorous: Walking down the street in Barcelona, I passed a lanky 20-something man wearing an eggplant purple velvet coat – and in the front pocket, instead of a handkerchief, was a single fire-engine red feather.

Sad: I passed by a little boy walking with his mother, who I realized was upset when one enormous teardrop rolled off his cheek and onto his shirt. He looked up at me with his big, sad eyes as I gazed on helplessly.

Entertaining: 10 minutes into an overnight train ride, a man who looks much too young for his gray hair appears to be asking two people about my age, a guy and a girl with dreadlocks, for a lighter. Instead, I realize he’s actually asking if they want to smoke with him on the train. They eagerly accept the offered cigarettes and are instantly on their feet following him into the tiny water closet, where they file in one after the other, and lock the door behind them, reminding me of clowns piling out of a tiny little clown car, only in reverse. Yuck.

Irritating: The three girls across the aisle from me on the train feel it’s necessary to clip and file their nails, creating two of the most annoying sounds I can think of. It’s a 10 hour train ride, but surely they don’t have that much nail to work with.

Creepy: A man dressed head to toe in black leather, accented by metal spikes, has a black cat on a leash perched on his neck and shoulders as we wait together for the tram in Nice, France.


Entertaining: An old man is playing a harmonica in the middle of La Rambla in Barcelona, and as I approach, a crowd has already gathered to observe. When I make my way to the front of the mob, I determine that there is more than inaudible harmonica music – the old man has a live rabbit sitting in front of him, on top of which he is stacking hair rollers and stuffed animals. The rabbit does nothing but twitch its nose and whiskers as the rest of it stays completely motionless. This is the most creative way I’ve ever seen anyone beg for money, so after taking a few photos, I empty my change purse into the cup beside the bunny.


Exciting (probably only to me): In Barcelona, for only 10.60Î, I purchased the following:

One WHOLE Pineapple
Tangerine
Tomato
Onion
Red Pepper
Cucumber
Pack of Sliced Turkey
An ENTIRE Wedge of Brie
2 Cans of Soda
An Enormous Loaf of Homemade Bread
4 Packs of Yogurt

In the States, that would have cost at least 25 bucks. Seriously. Barcelona rocks my world.


Heart-wrenching: Walking along the boardwalk in Barcelona, I spot a little old man in his bathrobe and slippers carrying a stereo with both hands, hugging it to his chest. He has surely come from the hospital right across the street, and as he sits beside me on a bench, I pray someone knows he’s outside. The volume on his stereo is practically muted, but I hope he can hear it and that it’s something good.

Generous: After trying on 4 shirts at a little souvenir-like shop, the owner who speaks as much English as I speak Spanish, personally escorts me out of the store, down the street, and around the corner to another shop where he shows me a wider selection of the same style shirt. He explains my “situation” of being unable to find a suitable shirt to this store’s owner who smiles at me, and gestures towards her assortment of tees. I graciously thank them both, peruse the shirts for a few minutes, taking several out, looking, and then refolding them and returning them to their piles. When the store gets crowded, I seize the opportunity to slip out without buying anything. I appreciated their helpfulness, regardless.

Infuriating: I ordered a 6-euro meal of chicken and potatoes at the train station restaurant. The man who took my order asked me to pay, then have a seat and he would bring me my meal. I looked at the two bills in my wallet and handed him the 20. He took it, put it in the register, and when I handed him an additional 1 euro coin so he could give me bills instead of a bill and coins, he instead handed me only a 5 euro bill. I paused, then said, “…and the 10?” In reasonably good English, the man curtly told me I had only given him a 10-euro bill. Absolutely certain that I was correct in having given him the larger bill, I calmly, and as politely as possible, disagreed. He plopped down a 10-euro bill on the bar, and said “No, you gave me a 10, but I don’t want any problems, so here,” and he slid the bill over to me. My heart pounding, and surely blushing from being falsely accused, I told him that was not the case, took the money, and walked off to find a seat.

It was the most awkward of exchanges when the bartender brought my meal to me. I smiled and thanked him as he set down the stew-like concoction in front of me. As I ate the warm meal, I prayed that my new friend didn’t add a laxative or anything else to it – that would not make for an enjoyable 10-hour train ride. For the first time I can remember, I did not leave a tip.

Laughable: I boarded the metro in Barcelona only to find a group of guys ranging from my age to their mid-30s, averagely dressed with the exception of sashes draped around them like beauty queens, and headbands with red glittery heart-shaped antennae. They looked at me and we all smiled and giggled. I wondered if this could be the Spanish version of a Bachelor party, or if it was remnants of the previous days St. George’s celebration.

Sheer Joy: My own hotel room. Two nights. Just me. Clean, white everything. Queen-size bed. Heaven.

Incredible Discovery: I found the perfect book at a French antique market in Cannes. There was only a small selection of English books and I couldn’t have found a book better suited for me in the biggest bookstore in the States if I tried.

The book is all about a girl my age in the 1930s who abandons tradition in favour of traveling Europe and Asia by train. She starts on the southern coast of France (where I bought the book!), and continues to live a life I could see being my own.

It amazes me how I can find a kindred spirit in a fictional character.

Barcelona: City of Roses?

When I travel to a new place, I enjoy wandering around with no particular direction. If a street looks interesting, I walk down it. If there’s something off in the distance that grabs my attention, I wander towards it, sometimes making it to my destination, other times being drawn away by other interesting and exciting things. Indeed, I’m like a little kid when I travel – easily distracted and easily amused. Travelling returns to me a childlike amazement at my surroundings – the happiness fills me to the point of overflowing into a smile, and often a laugh.

Today in my wanderings through the streets of Barcelona, I couldn’t help but notice that many people were carrying roses. Mostly women, and some men were carrying single stemmed roses, usually wrapped in plastic with a sprig of wheat or other filler, and tied at the bottom with a yellow and red ribbon. There were red roses, yellow roses, blue roses, tie-dye roses – you name it, they were out on the streets of Barcelona with me today.

This being my first day in Spain, I of course wondered why so many people were carrying flowers. Everywhere I turned, they were being sold – and not forcefully, people were approaching the tables and tubs of flowers on their own to make the 2-3 euro purchase. Fresh flowers make life significantly better in my opinion, so I thought this was just great.

After about 4 hours of wandering the city, a 2 o’clock lunch seemed appropriate (normally, I’m told, people here eat closer to 3pm). I found a nice little outdoor café that offered the traditional Spanish Paella as part of a 3 course meal. During my meal of calamari, paella, pineapple sorbet, and half a carafe of wine (yes, it was included!), I continued to observe the roses marching past me and I pondered whether this was a daily occurrence, or if something special was going on.

As other restaurant patrons finished their meals, I excitedly noted that the women were given roses, and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I could join the “cool group” and walk around with a rose too. It really felt like Valentine’s Day in middle school where you have achieved a higher social status if you walk around with a carnation that day – because that means someone clearly likes you. I never walked around with a carnation on Valentine’s Day in middle school. But today? Ah yes, today I had hope. I finished my enormous meal, and was delighted when the waiter brought me not only my check, but also a beautiful red rose. “For you, Senorita.” Hell yeah, I’ve made it. Cool at last.

A bit tipsy from all the wine, I wandered back to my hotel making use of the metro, as I needed to get some things done for work. Once I was satisfied with my accomplishments, and had a refreshing shower, I left my rose in a glass of water and meandered back outside towards La Rambla, an avenue noted in guidebooks for being “busy and full of life.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I arrived: there were people everywhere. The guidebook also mentioned that this was a place to just “go with the flow of the crowd,” which was clearly what I would be doing, as there was no alternate way to move down the wide pedestrian street.

In walking down the center median of the street (I use the term “median” very loosely – it is about half the size of a small block), I continued to watch the roses passing me, and noticed that the vendors were being a bit more aggressive now towards the end of the day trying to unload their fresh flowers while they could. In addition to the flower vendors, the street was lined with table after table of book vendors. I thought this very strange, as nothing I read said anything about La Rambla being known for flowers and books, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a wandering American.

Rather than peruse Spanish books I couldn’t understand, I enjoyed watching and photographing the people who could understand them. On every sign and post I looked for some clue as to what this great book fair was - something that would clue me in to all of the roses and people too. Could La Rambla really always be like this? It was sheer madness with all of the people, and I felt certain something special was going on, especially since there were TV crews on location as I was leaving. Perhaps a fund-raiser or something along those lines, I thought to myself.

Arriving back at my hotel after quite a long walk, I stopped to chat at the front desk clerk who speaks reasonably good English, and it occurred to me that he might know what the fuss was about outside. He said today was a special day – he gave it a name that my ears had no chance of understanding. It is the day when men give women flowers, and women give men books. A simple answer to a day of confusion and wonderment.

Upon further research, I determined that April 23 is called Sant Jordi’s Day, or St. George’s Day in English. It’s a day when Catalans (Spaniards from the Northeast) celebrate their patron, Sant Jordi. The legend goes that Sant Jordi started the rose tradition when he slayed a dragon and the blood produced a rose bush. These days men don’t have to slay a dragon to be a hero in their lady’s eyes, they just have to present her with a rose. Because the roses clearly don’t last forever and are purely for love, the book is intended to be a reference on “what to do” in love and the relationship.

All in all, I’d say this is a pretty great holiday, as it’s hard to go wrong with roses and books. I have just one suggestion to the Catalans on how to improve their holiday. Should they ask, I will advise them with one simple, yet magical word: Chocolate.

A Short Story, Long: How I Wound Up in Switzerland

People often ask how I ended up in Switzerland - which is a good question seeing as it's not the most common of relocation destinations for Americans. So here's the story...: In September 2008, my friend Jane and I went on a two week backpacking trip around Western Europe. We toured bits of Germany, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg and France, and from Paris we wanted to go to Zurich. All trains were booked for Zurich on the Thursday we wanted to go, so we opted to go to Geneva instead (high-speed trains like this usually require reservations). Our days in Paris passed and the morning we were to leave for Switzerland, we went on the internet to book a hostel in which to stay. Having arrived at a couple of other hostels without reservations and being turned away, we realized this was key. Unfortunately, the hostels in Geneva were quite expensive for our backpacker's budgets, so we looked to another city near Geneva, Lausanne. I found the cutest little B&B that overlooked Lake Geneva and was a short five-minute walk from the train station. We entered in all of our information, including credit card information, and within a minute got an email with the same details in it.

The search for a place to stay took a bit longer than expected, so Jane and I made a mad dash to the metro (subway). The ride seemed to take forever, and we had to change trains a couple of times before arriving at the train station. I saw that we were supposed to be at track 14, but all we saw were trains A, B, C, and so on. I attempted to speek French to get help with directions, but Jane in her brilliant, direct British way just grabbed a couple of people and said, "HEY, do you speak English? Where's track 14?" Finally someone understood and pointed us in the right direction. We ran with our 20 pound backpacks strapped on and carrying our shopping bags from our days in Paris in the direction of our train. After stopping for directions one more time, we found the train and got in the first car we came to. It wasn't 20 seconds after we plopped into our seats and threw our bags down that the train started moving. We'd JUST made it and were about to spend the rest of our trip in France if we'd missed this train.

Out of breath and sweating profusely, we tried to relax and talked about how we couldn't wait to get to the B&B and shower, then just relax. It had already been such a rough morning. A few hours later, we made it to Lausanne. What should have been a 5 minute walk turned into a 20 minute walk when we missed our turn. It began to rain as we marched up the steepest hill I've ever seen in my life - the B&B was perched at the top. Finally we'd made it to our sanctuary for the next couple of nights!

The B&B was just as precious as it looked online, and the view of the lake really was quite lovely. Jane and I eagerly went to the desk and told the receptionist my name - which seemed to mean nothing to her. No reservation under that name. "What? You sent an email - I couldn't print it off, but I got it. We have a reservation for two tonight." She pointed to the computers behind us and told us we could pull up the email... but we had to pay to use the internet - and we had to pay in Swiss Francs. "Huh? Swiss Francs? You guys don't take Euros?" NOPE. Awesome. That lady found and printed the email that was sent, which stated - at the bottom of the email - "We're sorry, we cannot accomodate your request at this time." Seriously? You people send an email that looks like a confirmation email to confirm that you CAN"T take us? Wow, these just keeps getting better and better. The receptionist is kind enough to call the hostel in town, only to find out that they too are booked. She hands us a list of hotels - all 4 and 5 stars, and all clearly out of our budget. As though we are prisoners (and we almost felt that way), she told us she would make one more call for us, but that was it - she was very busy (a bit of a stretch there if you ask me). Jane and I scoured the wall of brochures about activities in the area that had brochures for other places to stay in Switzerland. We were about to give up when Jane found one for a Swiss Alps Retreat. It wasn't too far from Lausanne, was within our budget, and had wine and chocolate tastings. We were sold. The receptionist called and found out they could take us, but before we could even give our names, she'd hung up and dismissed us. Back on the streets we went.

After a quick stop at McDonald's (we needed some form of comfort food), we made the trek back to the train station through the rain - fortunately it really was only 5 minutes if you didn't get lost. It wasn't too long before what seemed like our 18th train of the day dropped us off at a small train station named Bex (pronounced Bay). We spotted the cograil train mentioned in the brochure and climbed aboard. Within a few minutes, we were moving up the mountain and all of the troubles of the day seemed to disappear. I felt like we were ascending into Heaven. It was a clear, sunny day that made the Alps sparkle. Rolling green hills surrounded us, spotted with cows, sheep, and the cutest houses I'd ever seen. When we finally made it to the Chalet, the office was still closed for the afternoon, but we didn't mind that we needed to wait an hour - or that we would be eating pasta for dinner since that was the only thing they had for sale to cook. The view was incredible and it felt great not to be in transit.

We struck up a conversation with the first American we'd met in two weeks, Brian. He'd been in Switzerland at the Chalet for months already, and it sparked the topic that had been on my mind so much over the last few months - the topic of me moving abroad for awhile. This conversation continued in bits and pieces over the following couple of days, and finally on my last night, I asked the owners about helping me find work if I moved out there. Better than helping me find work, they offered to give me work. It was perfect. From that moment, my mind was made up that I would move to Switzerland at the beginning of 2009 - the door of opportunity had opened, I just had to smart and brave enough to get off my loins and walk through. My plan was instantly in action and I managed to coincide my move with the end of my lease at my flat, as well as to work things out at the office and hopefully be able to do my job from abroad. It took a lot of faith, not only that the folks at the Chalet would be true to their word, but also faith in myself that I could make this happen - and make it happen, I did!

Parasailing Video

Here's a video I took of Ashleigh landing - mine looked just like it other than sitting down at the end (oops):

Victory is Mine!

Good news: I’m alive. Yeah, I’m pretty excited about it too.

To help shake out the nerves, my new Canadian friends, Melissa and Ashleigh, and I decided to walk the 40 minutes up the mountain to where we were meeting our Paragliding leaders. The long uphill climb helped distract me from the ridiculous thing I was about to do.

Shortly after arriving at the train station, we located David and his beat-up old white van, climbed in, and off we went to our jumping site. Within 10 minutes, we’d reached a long dirt road that lead us to the overlook we’d be running off of. A few other paragliders were out enjoying the beautiful day, and somehow it calmed me a bit to see that there were other crazy people already doing what I was about to do.

We put ourselves in order so that Melissa would go first, I would go second, and Ashleigh would complete the line-up. There were only two leaders, so Melissa and I planned, if all went accordingly, to meet Ashleigh on the ground (and take photos of her, of course).

With help from David, I put my harness on and the strangest thing happened: My nerves vanished. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to lose it one minute, and the next I was ready to take on the mountain and fly like a bird.

After Melissa's flawless take-off, David, in broken English, instructed me to take a few steps then start running until my feet would no longer touch the ground. Once off the ground, I could adjust the harness to create a seat to sit in and enjoy the cruise down, which was estimated at about 45 minutes. Somehow this suddenly seemed like a piece of cake, and indeed it was.

We immediately caught wind and up we floated, above the nearest mountain peak. Delicately tugging on the cords, David floated us in gentle circles and arcs, disrupted only occasionally by a gust of wind that would gave us a bit of a jerk. He asked me how I felt and I responded that I felt incredible! Occasionally the gusts of wind would cause me to get a bit light-headed, and when we reached our highest altitude (about 1200 meters), I felt slightly woozy, but nothing to be concerned about. During those moments I just focused my attention on my camera that I had attached to my harness and snapped photos of the view.

I got so comfortable in the air that at one point I asked David if he’d thought to bring a picnic because it had been hours since I’d eaten and I could really go for a bite. Not realizing I was kidding (at least partially), he asked if I wanted to land sooner. I smiled and declined, and instead of a picnic in the air, we ended up doing “acrobatics.” David asked me if I wanted to do spirals, meaning that we would gain momentum and spin in tight little circles. I gave him permission to give one a go, and one proved to be just enough. My serene, non-nauseous feelings were quickly vanishing as I watched the Alps spin around me, so I let David know that one circle was great – and was just enough.

I looked below me and saw that Melissa had just landed on the happy face of the stick figure that had been cut into the grass field and we were up next. As we drifted in, David told me when we touched the ground, to again run a few steps and stand. As we landed, I ran a few steps and sat. Close enough. I had just successfully run off the side of a mountain, drifted through the Swiss Alps, and landed safely on the ground. I’d call that a large victory in my battle against my fear of heights.

Feeling giddy, and unashamedly proud of my conquest, I removed my harness and jacket, tossed them aside, and lay down on the grass to soak up the sun and bask in my glee. It was such a great feeling knowing that I had just conquered one of my biggest fears. Take that, Fear!

Under the Influence (of Canadians, Fondue, and Wine)

I’m not sure that I’ve ever been so nervous in my entire life. In fact, I was just in the kitchen surrounded by three other hostel guests watching me do a jig/ jumping jacks/ salsa and karate moves in an attempt to shake some of the nerves. Unfortunately, it’s going to take a lot more than that to calm me down.

Why am I so nervous? Because I’m about to do the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I’m more scared of what I’m about to do than I am of public speaking, of our current global economy, or of the way I look in the morning when I’ve forgotten to remove my mascara the night before. Yeah, it’s that scary. So what am I about to do? To put it simply, I’m about to run off the side of a mountain with nothing but a stranger and a parachute attached to me. Some call it paragliding, I call it crazy. If I die, you have my permission to call it stupid.

How did I get myself into this? Well you see, it goes something like this. Last night I sit down for dinner with a couple of new Canadian friends, have a bit of fondue, a glass of wine, and some good conversation. Next thing you know, I’m agreeing to go paragliding. To prevent myself from backing out, I had one more glass of courage and then made my jumping reservation with them for 2:30 today. What on earth was I thinking? The altitude seems to have really gone to my head.

Dear God, somebody get me another drink.

What have I done?!?!

Well, looks like I've just secured my one-way ticket to the firey pits of h*ll, and not because I was drinking Bailey's straight from the bottle on Vatican property. Nope.

I just ate a horse.

Yes, a horse. Well, not a whole horse, but a 2 x 3 inch piece of one of those beautiful, majestic creatures I so love and so enjoy riding and being around. What possessed me to do this? Well, to put it quite simply, everyone else was doing it, and sometimes going along with the crowd isn't that bad. In fact, it was like a decent little piece of steak, but cooked well-done instead of my usual medium rare.

Will I eat it again? Doubtful. Am I glad I tried it? Sure, I can check that off my list of things to do in my lifetime.

I think I'll just stick with my Bailey's.

Anything But Dull

Even something as mundane as going to the grocery store is a very different experience in a foreign country. I arrived back in Switzerland this morning, and since I will be staying for well more than one night, I opted to make a pit-stop in a nearby town, Veyvey, to take advantage of their large, well-stocked supermarket. I went there about 6 months ago when I was here with Jane and Katrina, so I remembered how to find the mall in which it is located from the train station. That was apparently the only easy part for me today.

Not seeing the store on the level I was on when I first walked in, I promptly went up the escalator of the 5-story building. Then up again. And once more to the top. Where the heck is that enormous supermarket? When I finally bother to study the sign, I determine that it is on the bottom floor. Lovely. So back down I go…5..., 4…, 3…, 2…voila.

I walk into the store, daypack on my back and purse on my arm, and study the shopping cart situation in the vaguely familiar store. The shopping carts are chained together like you see luggage carts chained together at the airport. There is a slot on each for coins to be inserted. I think about how many ways I could screw this up, and then also think about the fact that I can’t buy more than I can carry since I still have two trains and a five-minute uphill walk to go. I wisely grab a shopping basket, hoping I’m not supposed to also be paying for it, and off I go.

I start with picking up a big loaf of freshly baked bread. I’m able to ask for it and thank the lady in French, but when she says something after handing it to me, I just nod and smile. I have no clue what she just said, but she didn’t seem upset, so smiling seemed appropriate. Next I grab tons of fruits and veggies (I need to make up for my eating in Italy and everywhere else), some goat cheese, chicken, shampoo and conditioner, and a couple of other odds and ends. I make my way to the checkout line and attempt to study other patrons to make sure my checkout process goes smoothly. Apparently my study skills are a little poor at the moment, because when I get to the front of the line I’m told I’ve done this wrong and I need to remove everything from my basket and put it on the conveyor belt – the basket is supposed to be left behind in the stack in front of the belt. I promptly unload all my goodies onto the belt and the plump little lady in line behind me is kind enough to take my basket and stack it with the rest.

I feel we’re finally getting somewhere as the lady at the register is scanning all of my stuff and pushing it towards me to bag. I have just paid 60 cents for two nice paper bags because they don’t provide free bags of any sort. I get to work until we realize there’s another problem. There is a man somewhere in the produce department who was supposed to weigh my fruits and veggies that are priced by weight. The line is growing behind me, so fortunately the clerk just takes the few produce items nearby, weighs them, and slaps price stickers on them. From there everything goes well – she scans those items, I bag them, hand her my credit card and off I go. As I am walking away, the sweet little lady behind me told me in English that she hopes I enjoy my time here. I told her without doubt I would, thank you.

At this point I am loaded down with two large grocery bags in addition to my daypack, purse and jacket that I was forced to shed before even entering the store. Wearing a wool sweater with two layers under it, I feel as though I am going to die of heat exhaustion, so I make a beeline to an area with tables and chairs, set my things down and began fanning myself with a piece of paper. A minute later, a lady carrying a tray walks over and says something in French. I respond, “Non, merci,” and she then advises me that I am sitting in an area for restaurant patrons only. My goodness, can’t a girl get a break around here? Apparently not, so I pick up all of my bags, feeling a bit like the homeless person that I am, and head outside where at least it’s cold.

I head back to the train station and have a good 15 minutes to relax and cool down. The train arrives and I hop on without paying attention to the time. A few minutes go by and when I check my watch, I realize that I have probably just boarded the wrong train as it is just now supposed to be arriving. Crap. I stay on until we get to a stop that confirms my suspicions, as it is the last stop and all passengers must get off – and it’s not my stop. Dang it. So off I go. When I check the train schedule, there isn’t a train that needs to go further down the line where I need to go for several hours. My best option is to wait 20 minutes and board the exact same train I just got off of, so I can go back to the exact same town from which I came. If only I had paid attention and waited those 4 extra minutes. When I get back, I have 25 minutes to wait around again for the train to arrive – which it does, on time. I check with the conductor before boarding to make sure I don’t make the same mistake again, and it’s confirmed. I’m on my way. Two trains and a five minute uphill hike later, my groceries, my daypack and I are back at the Chalet, safe and sound… and I’m starving. Time for lunch!

Indecent Exposure

I arrived in Budapest with nothing but a tiny backpack filled with a few days worth of clothes and my laptop. Unfortunately, my choice of clothes did not include a bathing suit. When I left Switzerland, I had no idea I would be going to a city known for its baths, but, hey, such is life. The two must-do things in Budapest, I was told, were to go to a show in the Opera House and to go to the Baths. Aileen and I went to the Opera House for a short ballet (which was incredibly enjoyable) and required nothing out of the ordinary as far as attire. But the Baths... well, the Baths were different. After searching the hostel high and low, I was told that no bathing suits had been left behind, but they thought I could rent one once I got to the Baths. A flashy nude-colored one-piece with a deeeeeep scoop neck and high arches over the leg. I could think of nothing less flattering. Another option was to wear all black underwear - with bathing suits as they are these days, who would be able to tell? Alas, however, I decided on my fourth and final option - to stop somewhere and buy an inexpensive bathing suit. We headed in the direction of the tram station, not seeing the bathing suit store we were told about. This was rather unfortunate, because it meant that instead of a clothing store, we ended up in the sketchiest of lingerie shops tucked into a corner of the tram station. We walked in and were greeted with a shiny black pleather suit with three holes cut into it... in three strategic spots... hanging proudly for all to see. Right next to the pearl g-strings, I found a selection of about fifteen bikinis, ranging in tacky patterns and loud colors. I narrowed my choices down based on what had the chance of covering most of what I wanted covered (this was not a shop that wanted to cover much up) and after a quick spin through the dressing room, I emerged, less-than proudly, with a neon orange and brown string bikini with tiny sparkly flowers. It was hideous and cost me 3500 HUF - about $15 - but they let me into the Baths and I wasn't even the worst dressed person there. Lucky for me (and anyone who had to see me in my suit) it was dusk, so my neon orange wasn't quite as flashy as in the sunlight. So yet another lesson has been learned: from now on I'm taking my bathing suit everywhere I go. You just never know when you'll need one.

Making New Friends

One of the great things about staying in hostels while traveling, other than the low cost of accommodations, is that it is an easy way to meet people. There is generally an obvious shared passion for traveling, but beyond that, there’s no telling what you have in common with others until you ask.

On my trip to Budapest I met a gal from Dublin on my second night and we ended up touring the city together for the remainder of my time there. Aileen and I are the same age and are both traveling solo, so we enjoyed swapping stories about our lives and what it is like in our respective countries while wandering around a country new to both of us. Topics ranged from food (of course), to family/ friends/ boys, to the economic crisis. I love hearing what it is like in other countries, and also what the people of other countries think about the USA and its people. The latter topic can be a very interesting one at times and I do my best to make a good impression of what Americans are like.

It was great to have Aileen with me to go to the baths yesterday and to a ballet at the Opera House this morning. Both of those big attractions in Budapest and are things I certainly could have done on my own, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to about what you’re seeing and doing, and Aileen proved to be good company. In fact, Aileen was such good company, we agreed that she would try to make a trip to Switzerland while I am there, and I will try to go to Dublin in May (which she tells me is the optimal month for a visit to Ireland thanks to the lovely weather). Through the wonders of the internet – and Facebook in particular – we will stay in touch and hopefully make this happen.

A Lesson Learned

I find that traveling teaches a lot of important lessons like budgeting and navigating. One of the most important things that my travels thus far have taught me though is how to be flexible with my itinerary. A late train, a missed bus, no vacancies at a hostel, or bad weather can all change plans drastically.

With several more days of free time before I need to be at the Chalet, I decide to take advantage of the opportunity to do some more traveling. After doing my laundry from 2 weeks in Italy and Greece, I pack the necessary clothes, toiletries, and technology into my small red daybag and hop a few trains until hours later I find myself in Munich, Germany.

My idea is to catch some shut-eye at the hostel, then get up and hop a train to either Prague or Vienna the following morning. I’d researched both cities and knew of good places to stay, as well as some of the must-see attractions. Being a bit of a sun worshipper though, I get on the internet the next morning and determine that these two cities are not my optimal destinations: both are forecasting 4 days of rain, possibly mixed with some snow. Hmmm.

I look through my book of train schedules at all the cities that the train goes to from Munich, including Ljubljana, Slovenia, Zagreb, Croatia and Budapest, Hungary. I know absolutely nothing about any of these cities, but after a quick trip to a European weather website, I discover one important fact: Budapest is anticipating sun and 60 degree weather for the next couple of days. Sold. I have 25 minutes to get to the train station and find my platform.

I quickly book a hostel that has good reviews on http://www.hostelworld.com/, then pack up my laptop, grab my bags and make a mad dash for the station. I manage to get there with time to spare and grab a cappuccino for 1 euro. What’s supposed to be a 7 hour train ride though somehow turns into an 8 hour ride, but I entertain myself by perusing and editing the photos I’ve taken, by gazing out the window as Austria whizzes past, and by surfing the web to find out a little information on this city I couldn’t even locate on a map the day before.

As we approach Budapest, the butterflies take flight in my stomach. I’ve learned a couple of key facts in my web surfing: the people of Hungary have their own language (Hungarian… duh), very few Hungarians speak English, and they have their own currency (the Florent). This means two things to me: first, I will pretty much be on my own in navigating the city since not many people will be able to answer my questions, and second, it means the 3 currencies I have on me (Euro, Dollar, and Swiss Franc) will not be accepted. Brilliant. No wonder I suddenly feel a little nervous.

The nerves are not helped when I study the map of where we are going and see that my train will stop at two different stations in Budapest, neither of which is the one I have directions from to get to the hostel, and neither of which I can even pronounce. Once again… brilliant. I shoot off a quick email to the hostel (thank goodness for my Blackberry and excellent wireless coverage in Europe) and within 30 minutes have details on where to go and what to do.

I get off my tardy train at the correct train station (Step 1: check!) and wander outside to find a place to exchange money for yet another currency. I hand over a 50-euro bill and am given 14,750 Florent. Dear God, that’s a lot of dough. [I later find myself taking out 25,000 Florent from the ATM, which does indeed include (2) 10,000 bills and a 5,000 bill – never have I felt like such a high roller].

Cash in hand, I am able to complete the final legs of my journey: locate and take the red line of the Metro to Blaha Lujza Ter (see what I mean about being a hard language to pronounce?!), then find Tram 4 or 6 and take that to Nyugati (the other train station). There is only one minor mishap during all of this: I get on the correctly numbered tram, but it’s going in the opposite direction of where I need to go. Fortunately I discover this after only going one stop and hastily disembark. I run across the tracks to board the correct tram and am scared for my life. In my mind, I’m thinking how I am running the risk of being imprisoned for taking a second ride with a previously validated ticket, even if it was only 2 minutes before. I’m okay with being flexible while traveling, but at no point in time do I want this to include a jail sentence in a foreign country. I make it to the other train station without being questioned or jailed and manage to walk the couple of blocks to the hostel without taking a wrong turn or doing anything else stupid.

At the door to the hostel building, it takes me a few minutes to figure out how to operate the keypad, thanks mainly to the directions being in Hungarian. I don’t know what I hit, but it works, and a voice comes on the other line. I awkwardly say “Hi – uhh, it’s Mary. I’m staying here tonight.” An Australian voice replies, “Okay, come on up!” Up? I hear a buzz and am able to push open the enormous antique door, which reveals a staircase that goes so high it surely leads to Heaven. Great. 100 stairs stand between me and my home for the next 3 nights. I plod my way to the top and discover that this is indeed a little slice of Heaven. I’m greeted cheerfully by all the folks sitting in the common area, and then led to my dorm room where I’m given my own little loft with added privacy. As I get settled I’m offered coffee or tea and am invited to join everyone for a traditional Hungarian goulash meal that is almost ready. I hand over many thousands of Florent to pay for my bed and meal, and sit down to eat the tasty dish and hear just what there is to do here in Budapest. The journey here has been long and interesting, and I can’t wait to wander around on my own two feet tomorrow!

It's Begun

Well, I’m here. Been in Europe for two weeks, actually. I have my backpack, complete with a mere 2 pairs of shoes and a pair of flip-flops, a daypack, and a surprisingly heavy shoulder bag. I quickly realized that I should have one straight to the Chalet in Switzerland to drop some of this mess off, but instead I’ve lugged it all around Paris, Italy, and Greece.

The night I landed, Matthew and I met up in Paris and have been going non-stop since then. We were in a different city every single night, except for the last destination, Florence, where we spent two nights. We slept on trains, on ferries, in hotels, and in someone’s flat in Italy – not all of these were conducive to a good night’s sleep, and there were a couple of nights where I was lucky to get a few hours in, but that comes with the territory.

Somehow, all the baggage and the occasional lack of sleep mattered little: we had the best time roaming around each of our destinations, sometimes off the beaten path, and sometimes seeing what the typical tourists go to see. Matthew and I proved to be excellent travel companions – for the last couple of weeks we have been together 24/7 – something we realized neither of us has ever done with anyone before. We never fought, never wanted to kill each other, and pretty much got to do everything we wanted to do – all except for riding mopeds. No one in Greece would rent them to us with our licenses, so instead we opted to ride donkeys through the streets of Hydro, Greece. Not nearly as fast or exciting as mopeds, the donkeys didn’t quite satiate our need for speed and cruising through the countryside, but it was a fun and added substantially to the full Greek experience.

There’s no doubt that I should be absolutely exhausted – but I’m not. I get such a natural high off of traveling and seeing new places. Instead of going to the Chalet and hibernating for days on end, I feel as though I could keep this pace up for quite some time. I was excited to learn that I do indeed have a few more days to continue my pace as I don’t need to arrive at the Chalet until 5 days after originally planned. I intend to keep up my intense traveling, but first I will indeed stop in to lighten my load and do some serious clothes washing. One can only wash so many things in a sink, and for simplicity’s sake, I usually limit this to underwear and socks.

It’s weird being on my own now after these couple of weeks. In Charlotte I had tons of alone time, but they say you can develop habits after a couple of weeks. I guess I got used to having a co-pilot in my travels. Now I feel as though I need to break myself back into doing all the navigating on my own. I don’t mind this at all, and really look forward to it, but it was a nice change of pace to see the sites with someone and be able to share and discuss the experiences and all of the interesting and funny cultural differences. We had many laughs, indeed.

The Last Supper, Italian Style

One of my favorite books is Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. In this book, she spends 4 months in 3 countries: Italy, India, and Indonesia, each country coinciding with a word in the title. Italy is of course paired with the word Eat. I’ve been to Italy a couple of times before and have always adored it. In fact, it was my first trip there when I realized that I wanted to live there at some point in my life. I love all things Italian, and their food is no exception.

As luck would have it, on our last night together Matthew and I are in Florence, Italy. It's our second night here and we opt to return to the same restaurant as the last night because it is so delicious, authentic, and reasonably priced. When we arrive, we sit at a different table from before, but still with a view of the brick oven and pizza chef who makes one masterpiece after another. The one from the first night we dubbed “Mario” and the one tonight we creatively nickname “Luigi.”

Luigi looks like he needs something to do, so we order a Calzone, as well as a plate of Ravioli with meat sauce, both to share. This place makes calzones bigger than my head. It’s a good 12 inches in length, about 6 inches wide, and another few inches deep when straight from the oven. This thing barely fits on the plate it’s delivered on. Within 10 minutes of the calzone and pasta being set before us, the plates are clean. Apparently we were hungry from all the walking around.

I’m comfortable after that, but Matthew (who is perhaps the female version of me when it comes to appetite, and even being moody when hungry) thinks another dish is in order as he is still starving. We order what we think to be Mushroom Risotta, but instead another large plate arrives with Mushroom Rice. I tell Matthew to eat most of it since risotta was what I was really after, and he happily obliges. Finito. Still hungry.

One order of Brushetta, please. 4 big slices of white toast rubbed down with olive oil and garlic, carefully topped with the chopped and seasoned tomato mixture are brought to our table. We eat 2 apiece. Hungry still? Why yes.

We’ll have the Fried Calamari and Shrimp. The waitress who speaks very limited English is no longer hiding the fact that she thinks the spectacle of us eating is hilarious. When she goes back to the kitchen to tell the chef, we hear laughter and look up to see her, the chef, and several others looking our way. Good thing we’re not embarrassed easily. Really, though, we think it’s pretty funny too.

The Calamari and Shrimp were lightly fried and deeply delicious. We polished them off as expected and decided it was time to call it quits. After dessert, of course. There’s always room for dessert. We order pineapple (which turns out to be 1/3 of a pineapple carefully sliced and presented still in it’s peel) and ice cream with Bailey’s liqueur poured over it. Done and done.

Our check is in front of us and has been handwritten by the waitress. You can see how her handwriting got noticeably smaller as she realized we were ordering so much she might need to start a new ticket. We stopped eating just in the nick of time. Rolling ourselves out of our chairs, we take our hefty ticket to the cash register and pay about 25 euro each (about $32 USD) for what will surely stand as one of the best meals of my life.

Ahhhh, Italy, how I do love you and your food.

A Message Out of Nowhere

It amazes me how an email out of the blue from someone you haven’t talked to in ages can make your day. I recently received one of these from someone (who will remain nameless) whom I haven’t spoken to in about 4 years, and I was so touched I have gone back and read it several times since then. Without much chit-chat, he went straight to the point:


So you’re backpacking across Europe! That has to be one of the most awesomest (and yes, I know that’s not really even a word) things I’ve ever heard anybody do. I wish I had the tenacity to do something that extreme. The crazy thing is though, there’s no reason why I couldn’t. I don’t have anything holding me back besides myself, but I guess that’s a big enough hurtle to prevent me from doing something like this. I’m truly in awe that you’re actually going to do this.

You know, Mary, I’m not really 100% sure why I’m writing this to you. I know it’s partly to say “hi” but also it’s partly because I admire what you are doing and just wanted to convey that to you. You are one of those rare people that is going to take a real chance and not just let things pass them by. Congratulations, and I wish you the best of luck on your adventure.


I was truly touched by this email – thank you to that person!

A Thank You to Apartment 212

Two weeks from this very moment, I will be attempting to sleep on a plane that's about to land in Paris.

This particular moment, however, happens to be my final night sleeping in my own bed in my own apartment. Tomorrow I deconstruct my bed, wash my linens, and have my light fixtures taken down by the maintenance man. I'm truly going to miss this place. Sure, it's just a tiny little 635 sq. ft. apartment, reminiscent of playing house in a refrigerator box as a kid, but I've loved living here. The last 15 months that I've spent here have been a time of immense personal growth and self-discovery, and this apartment has seen it all.

15 months - it hasn't been much longer than that since my world as I knew it came crashing down. My husband of 9 months walked out on me, only for me to discover a week later that he'd spent the summer having an affair. "How did I end up here?," I asked myself, "Is he really the person I married?" Knowing I would never again be able to trust him, I took stock: I had a house, two dogs, and one cheating husband. So what did I do? I sold the house, gave away the dogs, and divorced the husband. Poof!, a fresh start.

Okay, so it wasn't nearly that easy, but the important part is that I endured the hard times and came out on the other end a better and happier person. This apartment knows all the details. It knows the tears, the frustration, the anger, the grief, the irony... and the laughter. This apartment watched me find my happiness.

To the next Resident of Apartment 212: May you find your happiness... and may these walls keep my secrets.

Goodbye Apartment 212, and thank you.

Boxes and Backpacks

Yesterday it hit me: I'm doing this. I mean, I'm really doing this. Surrounded by boxes and emptied drawers, I glanced nervously over at the backpack in the corner of my studio apartment. In a few short weeks, almost all of my possessions go into storage and that backpack has to hold everything I'm taking with me to Europe for at least three months. Everything. For some, this might not be a problem, but I'm the girl who once took 11 pairs of shoes on a 6 day beach trip. My backpack probably won't even fit five pairs of shoes. What am I going to do? Obviously not take a lot of shoes.



Indeed, I'm about to experience the simple life - the life of a nomad. I never thought I would yearn so badly to be homeless (well, houseless... Charlotte will always be home), but it's been on my mind constantly for the last year. Now the time is quickly approaching for me to leave all things familiar and see what's out there and what I'm really made of. If my backpack can change me into a light packer, there's no telling what many months of wandering Europe on my own will do.


Where will I go and what will I do after those three months? At this point, your guess is as good as mine. Stay tuned....