There are few places in the world I refer to as “paradise.” Very few.
Solta, Croatia is one of them. A 45-minute ferry ride from the charming city of Split, this little technicolor island is void of tourists. Here, you can get a sweet taste of the slow island life and enjoy everything from fresh-pressed olive oil to homemade wine.
And, then, of course, there is the stunning sea.
“Oh, I wish I could do what you did and just travel but [insert a myriad of reasons why Person X just can’t possibly travel,” says most people who comment on my travels.
Which, of course, makes my blood boil.
Why?
Because — you know what? You. Can.
So, I’m calling bullshit. Yup. Bull. Shit. The only person holding anyone back from chucking it to travel and follow their dreams (even if it is just a bucket list type of dream) is THAT PERSON.
If I can do it, you can, too.
Here comes the slashing of the excuses …
Not having the money to travel is the biggest excuse I get. Yes, traveling costs money. But, so does going out to dinner, drinks, shopping, rent, etc. If you want to travel bad enough, you can make ends meet and do it.
When I decided I wanted to travel (before I actually became an expat) I did what I had to do. I worked a job, and then worked side jobs to save money. The money I made from those side jobs went directly into my savings account. I didn’t touch it. I stopped going out as much. I stopped buying shoes. And purses. And bottles of pricey wine. I went grocery shopping and (gasp!) cooked — and coming from me, who is a definite kitchen nightmare — I made ends meet.
It’s the American Dream to have a successful career. To make enough money so you can retire comfortably. But, doing that means you sacrifice a little piece of you — that wanderlusty beautiful piece — for a future you may or may not have. I’m not bashing the career-focused people. Having a career is great if that is what you are after. Having goals, dreams, ambitions … they are all quality traits.
But, I can promise you this. If you go, your career will wait for you. Taking a trip — a month, six months, a year, longer — does not equate to career suicide. In fact, it makes you an even stronger candidate when you get back to your “normal” life.
I had a strong career in public relations when I decided to up and leave and travel long term. Just before I returned home, I started putting queries out to friends, former employers, scouring job searches, and more. Within a month of landing on US soil, I had interviews and then a job.
Travel actually makes you more marketable. Every company or person I interviewed with was bowled over by the fact that I decided to be unconventional and take a career break. That I decided to say “screw what is expected, I’m going to do what I want.”
And, it paid off.
You own a home? OK. No problem. Work with a property management company to rent out your property while you travel.
You rent? Even easier. Chuck your stuff in a cheap storage unit or sublease.
When I was living in Atlanta, it broke my heart to give up my gorgeous 1920s apartment. I would sit there with my cats and stare at the gorgeous molding, my beautiful living room with sun filling the room with a gorgeous daylight glow and actually get sad about giving it up. But then, I remembered where I was going, what I was doing, and it didn’t sting so bad.
I am writing this assuming the people who read it aren’t married with children. If that’s the case, I don’t think this will help at all. But, pets are another story.
When I told my friends I was leaving, I got a lot of grief for leaving … my cats. I had two beautifully sweet cats I loved with all of my heart. But, the truth is, my sweet cats couldn’t keep me from living. I found someone to foster them and love them while I traveled. Sadly, this last trip which made me an expat, also made me give them to a loving home for a more long-term solution.
“You’re so brave,” people used to say to me all of the time. “I could never do what you do … I’m not brave.”
Guess what? YOU ARE. I swear, it is deep down in there. You just need to trust yourself. To know that you are making the right choice by heading off to explore the beauty of the world. It won’t always be easy, but the world is full of people just like you. They stay at the same hostels. The same guest houses. They share train cars. They sit next to you on the long bus rides. There is an entire support system at the ready for those little moment when you doubt what you are doing.
And, if you need some additional reassurance, hi, my name is Diana. I will encourage the shit out of you.
Are there other reasons you need to get out and sorted so you can travel? Let me know.
From memorials like the one in Berlin to museums in Rwanda to simply a pock-marked building telling the tales of those who were silenced … images like these haunt my mind.
In Bosnia-Herzegovina, the remnants of war can be found in many places. Even in the heart of Sarajevo, there are stories to be told from the war … a shuttered national library … roses marking where people were killed … and bullet-riddled buildings.
This photo was snapped just outside of the Sarajevo airport near the Tunnel Museum which, during the war, served as a place for those fighting for the city to go underground and move supplies.
There are few places which resonate with me more than memorials to those who have been killed due to simply being who they are. In my travels, I’ve always sought out places like this to pay my respects for the atrocities the human race has befallen onto others. In Rwanda, I visited the Kigali Memorial Centre. In Bosnia, I spent time exploring the skeleton of a bank where snipers had taken the lives of people in Mostar. And of course, there was Auschwitz.
In Berlin, the Holocaust Memorial was on my list. Stark columns fill nearly three acres of city space to honor Jewish victims of the Holocaust. Ironically, one of the same chemicals used in the gas chambers was used on the more than 2,700 columns to prevent graffiti on the memorial.
Toledo, Spain. Declared a World Heritage site by UNESCO in 1986 because of its cultural and monumental heritage, is one of my favorite places in my favorite country.
A quick day trip from Madrid, it is easy to spend the day walking through the mazes of ancient, narrow streets en route to finding spectacular vistas likes this.
Editor’s Note: This is a guest post from travel blogger Chris Moshi.
Melbourne is the first place I visited on my trip around Australia and it certainly made an impression on me, so much so that after visiting Adelaide and Perth it’s the city that I want to return to the most.
The most European of the Australian cities, Melbourne is a good place to start and adjust before you hit the Outback or one of the other big cities. I found people from Melbourne very welcoming and friendly and I loved the diverse cultures there — around 140 in total.
One of my favorite things to do was wander around the city in search of the amazing street art. You don’t have to walk far to discover one area full of art and that is Rutledge Lane and Hosier Lane, which can be found opposite Flinders Street Station and just five minutes’ walk from Federation Square. There are other streets and hidden pieces to find around the central business district (CBD), thatsmelbourne.com.au lists the main areas.
Once you have taken in enough street art, take a break at the beautiful Fitzroy Gardens, just a 15-minute walk east of the CBD. I love that Melbourne has many of these large parks within short walking distance; it reminded me a lot of Edinburgh having this spectacular park in the middle of a busy city, great for relaxing and recuperating. James Cook’s cottage can also be found here, shipped across from Britain in 1934 and reassembled.
Another highlight was the Yarra River which runs past the south end of the CBD behind the train station. It’s a beautiful walk alongside the river as you watch the boats, runners and cyclists pass by. There are often events happening along the river or nearby such as the Australian Open, which was on at the time I was there.
Another benefit of Melbourne’s rich culture is the food; there is so much choice when it comes to dining out, Asian food in funky Chinatown, Lygon Street for many Italian restaurants. How about Turkish? Head down to Sydney Road.
However my favourite place to go was the Queen Victoria Night, without fail you would find me there every Wednesday. I could choose from more than 100 vendors, offering shrimp, burritos, paella, gourmet burgers, pasta, Chinese dishes, Caribbean dishes … and many more, plus desserts too. You can even get your fill of Dutch Pancakes or Churros Ole (Spanish doughnuts). The market is perfect for those on a budget too — most main meals run between $8-$14.
Personally, I loved the Paella with chorizo. It was absolutely delicious. As I enjoyed my food, there would be different bands playing each week on two stages as well as other entertainers. It’s a great place for catching up with friends, eating delicious food and enjoying a nice cold James Boag (my favourite Aussie beer).
When it wasn’t a Wednesday, I’d sometimes meet friends for a drink along the Yarra River in the evening. Take note though, it is more upmarket here and drinks can be really expensive.
Go for happy hour for drinks long the Yarra River, you can enjoy the busy atmosphere while only spending $8 for a pint of beer, which (trust me) is a pretty good price when in a city in Australia.
Melbourne looks amazing at night. I’d definitely recommend catching the fire show along the Yarra, near the Crown Casino as well as visiting the casino. I’m not much of a gambler, but it is an impressive place.
If you are going to Australia make sure you visit Melbourne! Read more about Chris’s travels around Australia on his blog My 30s Travel Blog.
“I think I have shortness of breath,” I say when I stop into the clinic my old apartment owner runs. “I just lost a friend the other week and my heart is racing and I don’t feel well.”
A look of concern rushes over the gentle doctor’s face.
“That’s hard,” he says, pondering what to do. “I will give you some medication to help you.”
Yes, that is perfect.
He hands me two little baggies to calm my nerves and bids me on my way. When I arrive to the office a few minutes later, I pop a pink and white capsule for anti-anxiety and then my colleagues and I head off to the first funeral service for Adam.
As soon as we step out of the van and I see the old photo of my friend, he blue eyes and smiling face peering back at me, I feel instantly grateful that the medicine has kicked in. The shortness of breath I have been feeling all day is gone.
We walk through the temple, where our staff has created beautiful posters adorned with photos of Adam working, living, loving life. I want to fight the tears, to keep calm … but there is no use. Seeing him alive, happy … grief overcomes me and I let myself sob openly.
For about 90 minutes, monks chant. Later, I learn the monks are telling Adam that he has passed away, and he is no longer a part of our world and to go and leave this world and move to the next.
“He will collect his footprints tonight,” Lek informs me. “He will stop by your house, Diana, and say ‘goodbye.'”
I leave the service and head to go and see Ron at The Playhouse. I feel OK, but a little off.
Then, as we sit together watching the ongoing battles for affection on Loi Kroh, I start to feel lightheaded.
Really lightheaded.
“I think I need to go lay down, I feel like I am going to pass out,” I tell him, feeling everything in my body tighten and panic being to envelop me. Panic that I am going to collapse right there.
“Go lay down on the couch,” he instructs me. “I will check on you in a little.”
I barely manage to get up and go to the couch. The bar starts to spin. I lay on the little black couch and try to text my friend, but the phone falls from my hands, which have started to shake.
I close my eyes and feel drunk, even though I haven’t had a drink.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My heart is beating out of my chest.
I gather strength and go to the bathroom. For some reason, just sitting on the cool tile floors of the bathroom makes me think it will calm me down. But, it doesn’t.
I’m overcome with nausea and instead of calming down, I get hysterical and sick, vomiting in the toilet. I struggle to catch my breath as I sob and heave. Locked in the bathroom, I call my friend, Aaron, barely able to talk.
“Hi! How are you?” He asks, unaware of what’s going on.
“I … I …” I gasp, trying to speak between cries. “Something is really wrong with me. I can’t breathe. My heart is racing. I just puked. I. Can’t. Stop. Crying.”
“Oh …” he says quietly. I know there is panic in my voice. Panic in my breathing.
Panic, panic, panic.
“I just … help me … talk to me … do something to get my mind off what is going on with me … I can’t do this …”
He begins to recount a trip he took to Las Vegas until I have caught my breath.
Moderately calm and off the phone, I look at myself in the mirror. I look like death. White face. Red eyes. Tear soaked lashes.
I look like I just lost someone dear to me.
I go and sit back outside with Ron.
“You ok?” He asks.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Then, I start to get light headed again.
What the fuck is going on with me?
“I need to go. I need to walk. I have to get out of here,” I tell him.
Then, I leave.
The walk from his bar to my house is about 15 minutes, but I’m not sure if I can make it. I go between fits of feeling like I am going to pass out to fits of wanting whatever is going on in my body to fight this. To walk. To let the warm, tropical breeze wash over my face, my arms, my legs.
Finally, I succumb to the terror that is starting to race through my veins, and I get into a songthaew and head to my street. Along the way, I look for friends to help me, but no one is there.
I get to my house, shed my clothes and crawl into bed. But, then it hits me again. My heart races. I feel lightheaded.
Adam is collecting his footprints tonight, Diana. And, he is collecting you.
Fear grips my heart.
Then, my phone rings.
It’s Paula.
“Are you ok?” She asks me after hearing my breathy words.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No,” I breathe. “I am just going to go to bed.”
“OK, well, if you need anything, you tell me.”
I lay back in my bed and death consumes me.
I’m going to die tonight. I’m having a heart attack. I have to get out of here. Adam, you can’t take your footprints from here. I’m sorry.
I dial Paula back.
“No,” I begin to wail. “I’m not OK. I feel like I’m dying.”
“OK, I’m coming over.”
“No, I will meet you. I have to get out of here.”
I struggle to get out of my bed. Struggle to turn the light on. Struggle, shaking violently, as I put my clothing back on.
You have to do this, D. Fight the urge to pass out. Stand up. Get dressed. Get. Out. Of. Here. You are not being logical.
I make it to my front door and fight with the lock to open it.
“Please,” I sob. “Please open.”
Finally, I get out of the house and begin to walk barefoot to Smith. Hysterical. Crying like I’ve never cried before.
“Oh my god,” she says when she sees me. “What can I do?”
“I don’t know,” I say through cries. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I am going to die.”
“Do you want me to go and get the doctor?” She asks.
“No, no, no. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to miss the rest of Adam’s funeral tomorrow.”
“Do you want a hug?”
But, I am frozen in one position, and one position only. Face contorted into sheer fear and grief, arms up at my shoulders, tense. “I … I can’t move.”
I ask her to call another friend of ours, Ducko, who I know can help talk me down. And when I can’t stop heaving and struggling to breathe, I have her go get the doctor.
He comes out and grabs my wrist.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I sob hysterically. “I can’t breathe. I can’t stop crying.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, taking my pulse.
“Am I going to die?” I sob.
“No. No, you’re not. You’re not having a heart attack. You’re not going to die. You are having an anxiety attack. You’ve been through a lot. You need to sit down and breathe and take one of the pills I gave you earlier. You have to.”
I finally am able to moved to the bench outside where I puke again, but not before I get the pill down.
Paula and Ducko surround me, making sure I am ok.
“I feel like I am going to die,” I whisper. “I feel like he wasn’t supposed to die so young, but he did. And, now tonight, I am going to die, too.”
“You’re not,” they both say to me. “You are going to be fine.”
“What is wrong with me? Why is this happening? I have no control … I can’t stop crying … I can’t …”
I tuck my head between my legs and succumb more to the uncontrollable sobbing, my whole body convulsing with each cry. With each short breath.
The two finally convince me to go up to the little bar at the apartment and sit with them and calm down. Within minutes, the medicine has kicked in and the terror and feelings of death have all but disappeared.
I feel stoned. I feel safe.
“You want to stay with me tonight?” Paula asks. “Or do you want me to come to your place?”
The scared hasn’t entirely left. I worry that once the medicine wears off, I will die in my sleep but no one will ever know because my doors are locked.
“Will you please come over?” I ask.
She obliges and we slowly head back to my house.
By the time I crawl into bed, I am exhausted.
I go through the final funeral service like a zombie the next day, keenly aware that at any moment the panic can once again take over my body and I will be paralyzed with fear. But, I manage.
It isn’t until the next week when it hits me again. I’m at lunch with my friends and my hands start to shake. My heart starts to race.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “I think I’m about to have another anxiety attack.”
“No, no, you’re not,” they both reassure me. “There’s no reason.”
And, they’re right. There is no reason. I try to breathe deep and when we leave, I pretend I am ok. But, I’m not. Within the quick walk from the restaurant to the office, I start to feel light headed again. Instead of walking to the office, I go to the restaurant where my co-workers are and ask one of them to come out.
Carolyn leaves lunch and looks at me.
“I think I’m having another attack,” I say, beginning to shake. “I’m so sorry, but I need your help to get through this. I can’t freak out like I did last week. I can’t lose it again.”
We sit together on a step.
“It’s ok,” she says. “Breathe. You will get through this.”
“I just don’t understand why this keeps happening to me. I was fine before Adam died. I was fine. Why now?”
I feel like my body is rebelling against me. Like there is something I must have done massively wrong to go through the torture of yet another anxiety attack.
“I can’t do this. I need help.”
She goes and gets me a glass of water and I pop a pill to stave off the looming attack.
Again, within minutes, I’m fine. But, I make a decision I need to get help.
I message my therapist in Vegas and tell her what has happened, explain that I’ve never had these attacks before, and how scared I am that something is wrong. That Adam’s death has triggered something in me and now it has its hold on me. Something that won’t let me go.
She advises me to go to a doctor to make sure it’s not medical. Then, I get a message from my parents telling me the attacks, like the depression I used to suffer until I went to a shaman, run in my family.
The next morning, I go to the hospital and meet with the psychiatrist there.
“I am going to prescribe you two different types of Xanax,” he says, pulling out his pen to write the prescription. “One you take twice-a-day, one you take two of if you feel like you are having an attack.”
“But, I don’t want to take them,” I explain. “I don’t want to be on these pills.”
“You are going to have to, at least for two weeks,” he says.
I walk out of the hospital, defeated but at least reassured that I won’t have to go through the attacks again.
In the meantime, I try to figure out what the hell has happened in my life that has triggered this. Yes, my friend just died. Yes, I’ve been under stress. But, what makes this different from anything in my life that could lead to such attacks? Has this always been in me, just laying dormant?
The thought of that alone makes my heart race and my hand reach for a pill.
For two weeks, I teeter between racing heart and calm. Racing heart. Calm.
“Mind over matter,” Ron tells me. “You can get over this”
And then more friends come out of the woodwork.
“I have them all of the time,” one says.
“I know what you’re going through,” says another. And suddenly, this uncommon, alien feeling in my body isn’t alone. It’s all around me. And when I start to feel light headed or like I’m going to have an attack, I simply give one of them a look and they tell me to breathe.
This newest addition to my life isn’t easy. It’s especially hard when my family isn’t here and they know what’s going on. I get worried messages from my mom checking in to make sure I am ok.
I’ve been to two doctors and now have to go to a psychiatrist to see what can be done without having to be on meds forever.
But, I’ve learned to quell the attacks a bit. I’ve learned that when my heart races, I’m not going to die. I’m just about to have an attack, and I breathe and I drink a glass of water and I sit in quiet until it passes.
It’s not an easy thing to live with, but the past few weeks I have never felt more loved and supported by people who unexpectedly have come into my life. In Thailand. My community of friends is so amazing. I am so grateful. When I feel like I can’t live like this, I think about all of them, and all of the support and care they have showered on me. And, that blessing helps the anxiety so, so much.
Have you ever had something like this happen to you when you’ve been in another country? What did you do?
The stream of water from the squirt gun hits me dead in the eye. The sting is instantaneous.
“Damnit! My eye!” I whimper as I attempt to wipe the water out. But, it’s no use.
I’m in the middle of the world’s biggest water fight — Songkran — a celebration of the new year in Thailand. And, I’m in the hotbed of all of the action, Chiang Mai.
For four days, the water battle leaves me drenched during daylight hours.
Originally, this now infamous water fight started far tamer. Water was simply sprinkled over the shoulders as a cleansing or blessing for the new year. Today, well … while this still goes on, there’s far more ammo involved.
The first unofficial day of Songkran, there is an electricity in the air as I head to work. The city is quiet. A lot quieter than normal. Vendors have just begun to set up shop across from my office. Water guns, “water-tight” plastic pouches to stash smart phones and money and cameras, buckets outfitted with strings to dip into the dirty moat water … all are offered.
By the time we hit lunch, the battle has begun. Music from the bar down the street pumps, shop keepers stand at the ready with hoses, buckets, guns, aiming at passersby.
I sit and smile as we eat our veggie burgers. Seeing everyone smiling, everyone taking aim and not getting mad when they get doused with water … it’s … nice.
Leading up to the celebration, I am actually dreading Songkran. I don’t like crowds, and this fight sounds like a crowd cluster-fuck.
But, I get into the spirit of the celebration nearly immediately.
“I can’t wait to get off of work,” I tell my co-worker as I jealously eye the people already getting into the spirit of the celebration. “I’m going to go and get my PVC-pipe-gun and just have a quick go.”
As we walk the few steps back to the office, we allow the kids across the street to spray our feet with a hose. But, then, when I head back out of the safety of my office, gun clenched and filled with water, it’s a different story.
The kids eyes light up, and then: Game. On.
Within 30 seconds, I am soaked by a bucket.
And, within 30 seconds, the inner-child in me awakens. I am giddy. Even as I head back into the office to sit my soaked ass in my chair, I cannot wipe the smile off my face.
When my friend comes to meet me in the afternoon, I skip out of work early and head down the popular “red light” district in Chiang Mai, Loi Kroh Road, to go to my friend’s shop, The Playhouse Bar.
Buckets of icy water are dumped over my head. Super Soakers take aim at my body. And all I can do is giggle and walk in sheer delight as we head to The Playhouse.
When we arrive, we’ve walked into the Water War Zone. Huge coolers filled with water sit outside the bar and staff and patrons alike are engaged in epic battles with bars next door, across the street, and tourists who walk by. And, those poor, poor souls who have hired tuk tuks or songthaews to navigate the fights via a quicker mode of transit.
I fall in love with Songkran somewhere between getting another icy bucket of water dumped on my head from the co-owner of the bar, Ron, and a little boy who goes on an icy gun rampage with me, devilish smile plastered across his face.
The next day is even better.
“Hello, darling,” my Thai friend Dah greets me as we sit at Smith, awaiting our group to head to a party a little outside of town. “I have a truck. Want to go in the truck to the party?”
Um, yes. Of course I do.
Me and two of my other friends pile into the back of the pick-up truck and head out to the moat road.
The scene there is utter chaos and joy. No one balks at getting dunked with water. In fact, as I scan the crowd, every single person has a smile on their face. All around, water is being flung. Thick streams streak across the air, giggles, squeals, music permeates what is normally a quiet road sans the normal traffic noise.
We don’t make it two feet without being soaked.
Along the way, we stop on the side of the road so a vendor can take buckets of moat water and load our huge cans. Then, a few feet down, we stop and get large blocks of ice to chill the warm water.
And the party begins.
The truck slowly makes its way down the road, showering walkers, passengers in other trucks and more with water. We get soaked as well, engaging in battles from other trucks, people on the side of the street, people camped out on overpasses and more.
From time-to-time, Dah jumps out of the back of the truck to go and dump water on children’s shoulders and bless them.
I see a girl on the side of the road walking quickly. I take aim. Fire. I see her tense as the cold water drips down her back. She turns to me, smiles, and shoots me back.
I love this. Love.
It’s play time, and every person out in Chiang Mai is playing. And, playing nice. For this brief time, it is as if every stress plaguing people has been erased and joy has overtaken every part of their body.
It certainly has done so for me.
The next day, it is back to The Playhouse for more water fights. With the promise of another truck ride, we head down towards Thapae Gate to meet the truck. Only, it is nearly impossible to walk. As we near the gate, the crowd thickens. Music pumps through massive speakers. Foam shoots out from a stage.
It’s a full-blown party overflowing from the square to the street. Water floods the street as thousands trod, soaked through their clothes, around the massive event.
Incredible.
While we don’t make it to the truck, we do make it to Crazy German bar and have another water fight before we finally head back to Playhouse and calm down.
The next day, it’s more truck action, this time actually attempting to drive the entire moat road. Which does not happen because there are parts where crowds have overtaken the street. Massive crowds that overflow from the sidewalks, blocking traffic as they continue their epic game of throw-the-water-and-be-blessed.
By the end of Day Four, I’m shocked at myself. I’ve enjoyed the crowds. I’ve enjoyed the water. I’ve enjoyed myself.
Less than a year until Songkran. And, you know what? I can’t wait.
All photos unless noted are courtesy of The Playhouse Bar. Thanks my loves for documenting the water festivities.
Editor’s Note: Information currently circulating on the web regarding Adam’s death is inaccurate and the text written here has been taken out of context for self-serving purposes elsewhere. Adam’s cause of death was a heart attack, despite what any other posts may speculate. It deeply saddens me that his death is being used to hurt the reputation of others and is based on misinformation. I stand by my statements and the report from the hospital.
The first thing I notice about Adam are his powder blue eyes. A gorgeous blue. And, as I get to know more about him, those eyes become one of the most powerful things about him.
Why?
Because of the things he’s seen. After living in Thailand for more than eight years, teaching himself Thai and embedding himself into inner circles of circles I don’t know that I could ever be a part of, his eyes not only tell his story, but so does his work as a filmmaker.
The thing about Adam? He lives his passion. Day in and day out, he is found upstairs in our office, in front of the computer, editing, perfecting, piecing together hours upon hours of footage documenting brutality, love and more, and he does so with a smile on his face.
“Don’t ever let them know how you feel,” he tells me one hot afternoon as we talk outside. “You can never let anyone catch on if you are against what they believe.”
I nod in agreement.
“But … these people you meet … how do you hide your disgust for what they do?” I ask, looking for an answer.
“I am not disgusted by them,” he says, inhaling a drag of his cigarette. “I get to know them, I learn about them. They don’t do what they do because they have no hearts. They do what they do because they have no choice. It is their lives. It is what they know. They don’t have farangs sitting there, judging them and telling them to do something different.”
With that, I am silenced. And, with that, my mind is open.
Throughout the months we spend together, traveling, working together, I begin to understand what he means. And I begin to see the beauty in people I didn’t think could have any.
I love poking my head into the media office. I love joking with him and his team.
After awhile, I even can imitate Adam’s laughs … an airy “he he he” that comes from the belly but lights up the whole face.
There are times with Adam where I feel like I have known him longer than the months I have been in Thailand.
I lament about things in my life and he advises me to just ignore them, to go about my business. And, I take it to heart. Eventually, I get comfortable enough with him to even solicit guy advice, which he gives with a smile on his face.
“I’m good at this,” he says over a Chang. “I can help.”
When we go to rescue the elephants in Cambodia, there are signs. But, no one notices.
As we sit under a makeshift pavilion, he complains of his ankles being swollen.
“You should get that checked,” I advise.
“Yeah, yeah, I will when we get back to Chiang Mai,” he says, waving the suggestion off as he limps towards our van.
Then, over the next few months, more signs.
“I’ve been coughing up blood lately,” he says over a cigarette. “I need to stop smoking. My lungs hurt.”
He even leaves one morning to go to the doctor, but decides to return to the office because the line is too long.
“I have too much to do for work, I don’t want to wait in line for this,” he says, brushing off the urgency.
The night he leaves for two-week trip, he stops at my housewarming party for a couple of drinks, then he heads to the bus station.
But, not before trying to convince me to let my cat, Penelope, become an outdoor cat.
“Animals belong in the wild, Diana,” he says, scooping her little body into his arms. “She needs to be free.”
“I don’t want her outside, what if she gets killed?”
“Then, that is life. That is how it goes,” he says. “Animals in the wild … I’ve seen it … they are just happier.”
I give him a hug goodbye, wish him safe travels and tell him I will see him soon.
Only, I never will.
Five days later, on April 3, I walk into the office.
Lek is sitting at her desk looking troubled.
“Diana,” she says, looking up at me. “Adam died.”
I freeze.
“What?” I ask, running through a possible list of Adam’s I could know.
“Adam,” she says, then repeats his last name to me.
No. No. No.
I slide into one of the cat-scratched black chairs at her desk.
“What?” I ask again, my body crumpling. My head falling into my hands.
I can’t believe it. He was fine.
“He died this morning. His girlfriend called me at 5 a.m.”
I sit there. I can feel the tears gushing from my eyes but cannot move. Everything turns surreal. Lek gets up from around her desk and puts her arms around me.
The tears fall.
I fell … numb. I fell like I am in a movie and the camera is circling around me.
This is not real. This is not real life. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.
Then, she begins to explain to me what happened.
He was at his girlfriend’s in Surin and couldn’t breathe. He went to the hospital. She spoke with him last night. She told him he wasn’t going to die.
Then, this morning, he did.
“Shit. Fuck. Shit. Oh my god,” I say over and over and over again, until the words lose their meaning and are swallowed up by my sobs.
My friend. Gone. Like that.
Heart attack. Girlfriend at his side. At the age of 42.
“I can’t believe it,” I whisper over and over.
I stand up and walk outside to see his co-worker, Ter. I sob.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I know I shouldn’t be showing my emotions … but it is Adam …” and then I cannot speak anymore.
When he goes inside, I sit on the steps, put my head in my legs and sob like I haven’t sobbed in a long time.
This goes on intermittently throughout the day, as the realizations slap me in the face over and over that I won’t be seeing him again. I won’t be laughing with him again. I won’t be rescuing an elephant with him again. I won’t be sitting next to him on a plane again. I won’t be stealing him for advise again. I won’t be doing anything. He’s gone. And he won’t be walking through that door again, clad in a plaid or striped shirt, blue eyes glowing.
I leave work early. The hysterical intermittent sobs finally doing damage to my head and causing me so much pain I can barely open my eyes. I stop at Paula’s and fall into her hug, sobbing more. Then, I go home and crawl into bed, staring at the dark wood walls of my room.
My friend. He’s gone.
Later in the night, my friend invites me to his bar to get out of the house. I leave my place and begin walking. I can feel my eyes swollen to the point of closure. I can imagine my face as I walk, void of emotion. Exhausted. It takes me back to when my grandma passed away in Croatia. That numb feeling, having a song on repeat in my head.
I’m not even here. I am nowhere in this moment. I am numb.
When I wake up in the morning, I can’t even open my eyes because they are stuck together from crying in my dreams. And, when I get to work, I find out the truth about what happened.
Blood poisoning from a cut he obtained leaving my party, which caused his body to go septic, which led to a heart attack. Plus, a massive blood clot.
I think back to Cambodia. I think back to the coughing up blood. I think back to every moment I had with him. My heart breaks all over again.
However, there is one thing that is getting me through this: he lived his life. He lived his life with passion. With love. He did exactly what he wished. And, he had so many people who cared about him. Even on bad days, you would never know because his smile, his sparkling blue eyes, they’d ease you into a calm you didn’t think you could have. And for that, I will always be grateful.
Today, I remember him as a dear friend. An animal rights activist. A vegetarian. A lover of Thai whisky. And my good friend. And, tonight and tomorrow, when I pay my last respects to him, I will treasure every moment I spent with him that much more.
I will miss you forever, Adam. Thank you for touching my life and being a part of it.
What’s in a bucket list? Or, on a bucket list?
I mean … I’ve never really had a bucket list. I’ve tried to have one, but the amount of experiences in this world I would love to have cannot be contained on one clear, succinct little list.
Instead, they flutter about the crevices of my mind, occasionally popping into my consciousness when an event, a person, a word, sparks them. For instance, I see someone’s post on Facebook about what they have just done, and BAM, I remember that is on my list.
I also don’t really have a list because right now, I don’t travel too much. I focus on my work with Lek and the elephants, so there is little time for me to daydream about skinny dipping in the Maldives or camping in the middle of no where and looking up at the Milkyway in front of a fire on a crisp fall night in the desert.
Sure, I say things in passing, mostly to the extent of “Oh, man. That [fill in the blank] would be SO cool to do. I need to remember that.” Then, I promptly forget what that activity is.
So, when push comes to shove, no. I don’t really have a bucket list in the sense of something I am ticking off per great adventure. But, I do have things in my life I would love to experience.
What are they?
I think this one time, I might have actually seen the infamous wonder, but it was on an airplane coming home from Alaska. My eyes could have been playing tricks on me, but I swear, for a minute there, I thought I saw some dancing green and blue from out my little window.
Since, clearly, that was not enough to satiate my desire, I want to go back to Sweden and see the magical lights way up north. In doing some research, I think the best place to go would be Abisko National Park.
Because, why not? I’ve seen the pictures. I’ve seethed with polite jealousy at others’ trips down there, and the penguin and ice cap and serene, empty beauty. I. Want. It.
Oh, Mongol Rally. This little experience has tempted me for years. A car. A few people. And a trip from Europe to Mongolia to raise money for a charity. I mean, I can’t change a tire, but I know people who can. And, seeing all of that immense beauty of the world and culture? Come on. I have to do this. One day.
Forget that Beyonce and her ostrich-elephant-python-every-other-endangered-animals-grossness-sneakers and Jay-Z just were there. There is something so incredibly romantic about the little country south of Florida. And, I want to experience it for myself. Before Americans are technically allowed in and, in my opinion, it loses its exotic luster.
Two of my good friends, Mindful Wanderlust’s Cody and Giselle, went here on their recent travels before coming to Elephant Nature Park. India was never really on my list as one of the places that captivated me. I always thought of it as super crowded (and we all know I freak in crowds) and a country where the runs are about as normal as breathing.
Then, I learned about Varnasi and my entire opinion changed. I’d go to India just to visit here. Of course, once I arrived, I’d probably take a month or so and gallivant around the rest of the country (which everyone I know loves … so thinking I will end up loving it, too).
Why Varnasi?
To take from Wikipedia, this statement alone fascinates me:
“The city has been a cultural center of North India for several thousand years, and has a history that is older than most of the major world religions.”
The spiritual center of India sounds like a place I need to experience.
I don’t really like climbing hills or anything, but the pilgrimage in Spain — the Camino de Santiago — isn’t only a challenge but an incredible way to see the more untouched beauty the country has to offer.
I have a few friends who have done it, namely Daniel from Canvas of Light, and his stories alone about the hiking, the camraderie, are enough to get me to push myself to do the month-or-so long trek.
Living in Las Vegas as long as I did, I never made it near Area 51. And, I would have really liked to do so. Sure, there were loose plans discussed, but nothing ever came of any of it.
I love the desert, I love camping and being able to combine the two in a moderately eerie spot … yeah, perfect. Oh, and it has to be a crystal clear night so I can see all those beautiful stars.
I went to Paris in 2002 and was underwhelmed, to say the least. I was 22, missing my boyfriend, at the end of my trip, and just wanted to go home. Instead of embracing Paris, I simply went through the motions. I rushed through school groups at the Louvre to see Mona Lisa. I took the metro to Moulin Rouge and took a photo outside. I didn’t even drink good wine or eat cheese because I think back then I was a) unappreciative of wine, and b) not a cheese snob — I hated cheese except on pizza. So, returning to Paris at 33 (or older) seems like something I need to do. I’d also like to explore the entire country since I didn’t get to do so on my last big visit to Europe.
My friend, Lindsay, did a 10-day version of this recently and fell in love with it. I have this huge problem where I cannot get my mind to shut up, even when I really want it to. She learned how to meditate and got more connected to herself. And, I’d like to do the same. Ten days with no internet, only eating from 6 a.m. to noon, learning more about Buddhism and speaking with monks sounds like something that could really benefit me.
So, this isn’t really a “place” or anything, but it is truly what I want from every moment of my life: meaningful experiences. Connections. And, mindful. When I first came to Thailand, I wanted to ride an elephant. Of course, I quickly learned how horrible that is for them, and instead now work to educate others on what they go through in the name of tourism. But, I also learned how my tiny little decisions can cause a ripple in the world. I want to do things in my life that are responsible, meaningful, and above all, kind.
My top 10 bucket list post is a part of Save Elephant Foundation’s blog carnival to celebrate the 10-year anniversary of Elephant Nature Park. Elephant Nature Park is celebrating 10 years of success protecting the Asian elephant, educating tourists and tour operators alike that there is another way for us to interact with these wonderful animals. Please take a moment to visit their website, visit their Facebook, and connect with them on Twitter.
D Travels 'Round