A BRIEF intermission: Month Four – Realization and Action

“Don’t aim for success if you want it; just do what you love and believe in, and it will come naturally.” – David Frost

Today is July 7. Four months of traveling under my belt.

It was three weeks ago when it hit me. This sudden realization of what I want from my life.

I was standing on a riad’s rooftop terrace in Marrakesh, looking out at the medina, when suddenly, WHAM!

I know what I want to do with the rest of my life.

In my teens, I wanted to be a publicist, so I chased and chased and chased that dream. In my 20s, I lived that dream.

When I turned 30, I realized after working at firm in Atlanta, this isn’t what I want. I don’t want to tout people or companies I don’t believe in.

So, I set off on this adventure. I expected to learn more about myself, but I didn’t expect to find myself.

But, on that rooftop, I did just that.

It was the first time in my life I wasn’t striving for something. I was not trying to be successful. I was simply trying to be ME.

“Just do what you love and believe in, and it will come naturally.”

I love traveling. I love waking up and not knowing what today … tomorrow … the next week will hold. I love the feeling of being free.

So, success will come from doing what I love.

I have been very fortunate the past few months and have been on some press trips (courtesy of Rwanda Development Board and Land of Valencia) and have loved every moment.

Like a ton of bricks, the realization came to me …

I want to do this for the rest of my life.

And, so now comes the hard task. I have to re-vamp my Web site until I can make enough money to get one designed all pretty for me. I have to write a lot more than I expected. When I get back to America, I have to find the time to get a job, make money, and write my book.

I know it’s not easy. I know it will take time.

But, DAMN, it feels good to KNOW what I want … that when I am 80, i will look back and know I LIVED precisely the way I wanted to.

DooSahnGeeRay. Salud. Saha wa’afiab. Sagligina.

The otherside of the Atlantic Ocean

Covered in sunscreen (SPF 30) and armed with my book and a sheet to layout, I headed to the beach.

The sky looked a bit threatening that morning … teetering between sun and clouds and sunny with clouds, so I wasn’t sure if a beach day was even possible. But, I had to make it to the Atlantic Ocean.

I grew up with the Atlantic Ocean. Every summer my family would venture the three hour trip and spend time at the beach. I would stare out over the horizon and wonder what was on the other side.

One day, I will be on the other side of the ocean.

That day happened in May 2010 … in Lagos, Portugal.

I stepped onto the beach and was immediately struck by its beauty. The ocean in Lagos is so much prettier than the mucky Mid-Atlantic Ocean where I used to swim. It is green and blue and bright and gorgeous and lined with the most magnificent cliffs I have ever seen.

I threw my stuff on the sand, tossed my dress to the ground and walked into the water.

Holy hell, it’s cold.

I had to swim.

I walked further into the water, lungs hurting, goosebumps emerging.

Come on, D.

Then, I went for it.

Balls to the walls, man.

I dipped under.

Coldcoldcoldcoldcold.

And then, it wasn’t so bad. And then, I was swimming! Past the cliffs, turning around and looking back at the shore.

So, that’s what the other side of the Atlantic Ocean looks like.

Hangover cured.

A week of Spanish

When an editor e-mailed me waaaaay back in February about VaughanTown, and I applied and was accepted to a program, I never, ever imagined how greatly it would change the course of my life (and by life, I mean this great ol’ adventure I am on).

But, it sure did. In a beautiful and amazing and wonderful way.

First, it was Anthony. Then, it was Silvia and Emma. And then it was an entire group of fabulous people from Merida. Before the second VaughanTown, I had no intention of going back to Madrid. And Merida? I never had heard of Merida, let alone could point to it on a map.

But, VaughanTown changed everything.

And now, six weeks after the “see you soons” uttered into ears, I was headed to Merida, located in the Extremadura region of Spain (don’t worry … by the time you are done with my adventures, you will be an expert in all things Extremadura, promise) to spend some time with Jose, Alfonso, Maria, Jesus, Macarena and others.

I had no plans as to how long I would stay. I figured a few nights. But, as soon as I got to Maria’s that Sunday and we spoke of visiting Cacares later in the week, the few nights turned into much longer.

By day, when everyone I knew was working, I would wander into the city center, crossing the longest Roman bridge in Europe (it measures in at nearly one kilometer) and meet my friends for coffee or lunch. Or, I would sit at Jose’s and write. One day I even borrowed Jesus’s adorable pup, Lucky (“Puppito” as I call him) and explored the islands on Rio Guadiana.

But, by night … I became a part of something so magical. I became a part of my friends worlds.

Jose and I spent the most time together. The four nights I stayed with him, we would sit outside until the early morning (by my American standards, not Spanish) and talk of life, our families, our relationships, moments that defined who we are today while sipping on Tinto de Verano … or whiskey… or beer.

Other nights, I spent with Maria, hitting up delicious traditional restaurants showcasing the region’s amazing gastronomy and talking about love and life.

All the while, slowly working on my Spanish.

The week in Merida went by way too quickly. I explored a little, wrote a lot and got to solidify friendships with people who, two months ago, never existed in my world.

So, a very special thank you goes to these people: Jose, Maria, Jesus and Alfonso. Thank you for making me a part of your lives for the week. I will NEVER forget it. I am so fortunate to call you my friends.

Motor bikes in Merida

I’m not the bravest girl in the world.

YES, I am traveling alone, and YES, that is brave. But, I am not brave.

For instance, I will NEVER jump out of an airplane. OK. Maybe not NEVER, but not any time soon.

I will NEVER bungee jump. NEVER.

And, up until the billiard hall’s grand opening party (Alfonso’s dad owns it), I never, ever imagined I would ever ride on a two-wheel motorized vehicle.

That’s how un-brave I am.

It’s a good thing I am flexible.
Continue reading “Motor bikes in Merida”

Back back back to Extremadura

Nearly six weeks after my initial trip into Extremadura, I was at it again. This time, the bus was replaced by a nice four-door sedan, and the 20 Anglos were replaced by two Spaniards — Marcos and Jesus, a friend of mine from the Monfrague VaughanTown program.

Just like the first time on the bus, I sat with my eyes wide, staring out the window, marveling at the beauty of Spain’s countryside. This time was even more magnificent.

Snow still clung to the mountain peaks, and the fields below were still a vibrant green with yellow flowers blankets the ground. And then, there were more colors. Purple! Red! White! All competing with the yellow, blending into one of the most picturesque sights against the cork and olive trees I have ever seen.

“This … it is just so … amazing,” I explained to Marcos and Jesus, searching for the right words to convey the beauty I was witnessing.

“Si,” they said.

It went on for hours … this gorgeous countryside. Every now and then, we would pass ruins of old castles or palaces, little cities on hills, fields of horses and cows and bulls. Each minute, my heart wrapped itself more and more firmly around the country.

I have to live here.

Jesus and I had been working for a month on finding a job for me. I had even redone my entire CV and written a cover letter on how I wanted to work and live in Spain. And Jesus, bless him, had translated it all into Spanish for me. Up until that Sunday afternoon (the day of the Formula One race in Monaco (Alonso placed sixth), the tennis match with Federer and the Barcelona v Madrid futbol game), we had no luck, but my fingers were crossed.

And now, we were headed to Merida, where I would have a Monfrague reunion of sorts — seeing most of the people who played such an important role in my life during that one week … Jesus, Maria Antonio, Jose, Macarena and  Alfonso.

“We are home,” Jesus announced as the car pulled up in front of a white apartment building. The two men, being the polite and wonderful men they are, hauled my bags and buzzed Maria to let us in.

“Hi!” I squealed when Maria, head full of curls, greeted us at the door to her flat. We hugged, and walked into her beautiful home, leaving Jesus and Marcos to continue their day.

That was just the start of the impromptu (and awesome) Monfrague reunion in Merida.

Getting pricked in Spain

I leaned against a dingy old chair in the back office of the pharmacy off of Francisco Silvela, arm sleeved rolled up, fist clenched.

“No me gusta,” I said to the pharmacy technician as she  removed the syringe from its white box.

“Si,” she said, sympathizing with me (?).

I felt the needle break the skin. Then, it was over.

“Gracias,” I said, smiling with relief. “Hasta luego.”

“Adios,” she responded.

I gathered my belongings and headed out the door back into the overcast Madrid day.

That was shot numero dos, Hepatitis A.

Earlier in the morning, I received my first shot for Yellow Fever and a prescription (which I promptly filled) for Malaria.

Now, being abroad and having to get vaccinations is not the easiest thing.

After I found out I was going to Rwanda and booked my tickets, the next thing I HAD to do was figure out all of the vaccines. I looked GoBackpacking.com, recommended by the firm hosting us (and one of my favorite travelers sites, Dave Lee, @rtwdave) and saw the long list of vaccinations needed.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I had even messaged Dave, asking him for his (non-medical) opinion on what I needed.

Then, there was the issue of actually having to GET the vaccines. In a foreign country.

I found out about Rwanda in Berlin, had it confirmed and booked my ticket in Amsterdam and then headed back to Madrid — the perfect city for me to figure everything out, not only because I am familiar with the city, but also because I have such a strong support group there of Anthony, Emma and others who could help me.

Armed with messages and links from Emma, I sent those on to Anthony, asking (begging) for his help in translating and making some initial phone calls before I arrived so I could figure everything out.

He made some calls but hit dead ends.

When I arrived, after showering him with love, the first thing I did was place a call to the US Embassy in Madrid. I explained to them my situation (traveling … not going back to US … headed to Rwanda in three weeks … need to get immunized) and they quickly gave me the number for Sanidad Internacional, the organization which provides travel immunizations.

I had difficulty getting them on the phone, so the next day I woke up early and took the Metro to the office, figuring it would be the most efficient way to get things handled.

I was right.

I stood at the counter, speaking poor Spanglish while I explained to the woman where I was going, etc., etc., etc. She helped me fill out some forms and then I told me to grab a ticket which would alert me to which room to go to.

Once my ticket number flashed on the screen, a whole 30 seconds later, I went back to the room and found another woman, sitting behind a desk piled with papers, ready to help me.

Except she didn’t speak any English. And, well, we all know how good my Spanish is (isn’t).

We tried to communicate, but after I “No comprendo-ed” her for the millionth time, she waved her hands in the hair and said “Vamos.”

So, I followed her back to the main area where she began knocking on other doors, trying to find a doctor who spoke English.

“Espera,” she said, motioning for me to stay where I was, and then left back to her office.

A few minutes later, a woman opened the door and invited me in.

As soon as she began speaking to me, I felt better. I was concerned during the earlier conversation because I thought mixing vaccines with a language I didn’t understand would: a) be lost in translation; b) possibly kill me.

She patiently explained the shots she said I had to have — Yellow Fever and Hepatitis A — and the pills I needed to take — Malaria.

Since I had done my research earlier, I asked her about the other immunizations and medications I needed and she told me most of them were not necessary since I would be there less than a week or there was not enough time to have them administered in order for them to be effective.

After our consultation, she instructed me to go and pay and then I would receive my Yellow Fever shot.

The total cost for the consult and shot? Under 20 Euros.

I like this free health service thing.

At the pharmacy, the Malaria pills (which I have to take from the day before I leave until a week after I return) cost about 43 Euros each, and the Hepatitis A shot cost about 30 or so.

I was worried at first about not getting all of the vaccines recommended, but the doctor explained I just needed to be careful — so no opening my mouth in the shower to drink the water, brushing my teeth with mineral water, eating fruit and veggies you peel — and I can avoid getting Typhoid. Hep B, well, no stupid sexual encounters. Rabies, avoid animals foaming at the mouth.

Getting vaccinated in a foreign country wasn’t the easiest activity in the world. But, it ended up working out perfectly. Quick. Inexpensive. Not too much of a hassle.

Rwanda, I am ready.

A backpacker goes shopping

I stood in Anthony’s bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror.

Same jeans. Same gray T-shirt from Target with doves flying on it. Same old gray fleece. Same hiking shoes. Same, same, same!

GROSS.

“Anthony, I cannot stand it! I have to go and get something new. Now.” I moaned to him, throwing up my hands in frustration and then sinking back onto the Moroccoan-style couch in his living room.

Fortunately, Anthony is a good friend and a patient person (you have to if you shop with me since I get moody) and instantly agreed to go with me.

We headed to Gran Via to hit the shops.

The problem with shopping when backpacking is money. Meaning, I wanted all of these lovely things (hello, soft and sweet hoodie; dress to frolic about on the Greek Islands; killer heels that would most likely force a fall; strings of necklaces) and could buy … nothing.

Well, nearly nothing.

“Anthony!!” I squealed each time I found something. “I just love it.”

“Budget,” he would remind me, shaking his head, laughing his infectious laugh and walking away.

I had allowed myself 20 Euros. That was it. I could buy one big-ticket item, or get a bunch of little things. I would have loved one nice, pricey piece of clothing, but one nice and pricey piece of clothing doesn’t get you nearly as far than a few little things.

I found a 5 Euro shirt at H&M, then a pair of 10 Euro knock-off Chucks at a shoe store.

And, that was it.

I was done.

“Look, I have five euros to spare for my next shopping adventure,” I informed Anthony.

He looked at me and laughed.

Like I was going to be able to do that again.

That night when we went to an intercambio at J & J’s, I rocked my new shirt and shoes and felt magnificent. Awesome. Like a million bucks. Clean. Refreshed. Revived. (You get the point.)

It’s amazing what a 15 euro shopping spree can do for the backpacker’s soul.

Home?

I traded rainy and cold Belgium for sunny and magnificent Spain around noon the day after leaving Amsterdam (about the same time I regained my sanity).

Only, when I arrived in Spain, it wasn’t really sunny or magnificent. I just pretended it was because that’s how much I love freaking Spain. In fact, it was sunny for about 10 minutes (enough time for me to get to Anthony’s from the Metro) before the clouds opened and the theme of rain and cool continued.

Something funny on the Ryan Air flight happened to me during the time of ignoring the obnoxious teens rapping in French and making the volume on my iPod louder, and looking out the window.

We were descending into Madrid, flying over the mountains and the turbulence was bouncing everyone around a lot. I looked outside and saw dark gray clouds towering high into the sky, enveloping the plane.

This kinda sucks.

We dipped down quickly and the teens screamed.

Doesn’t help.

The turbulence continued.

I just need the clouds below us to part. I just need to see the ground. To see Spain. I know once that happens, all of this will stop.

And, justlikethat, the clouds cleared for a moment and I could see down to the earth.

Spain.

At first, it looked like any other place with its cross sections of greens and browns and farms, but as we got closer, it turned into one of those landscape oil paintings … little puffs of trees dotted on rolling emerald hills, red soil, water reflecting the cotton ball cloud sky.

It instantly put a smile on my face and warmed me.

Spain. I’m back.

Spain is the only country I have been to twice on this trip and the country in Schengen Europe I will spend the most time in. It is also one of the only countries I have ever visited more than once, let alone in the span of 31 days.

That’s how long I was gone from Spain — 31 days. Yes, I counted.

Mom e-mailed me that afternoon asking me if it felt different landing in Spain than it did anywhere else … if it felt like home (because if it did she was going to be concerned).

“Yes,” I had written her, “It does feel like home.”

Since I had left Spain the first time, I had kept in close contact with many of the people I had met — Anthony, Emma and some of the people from VaughanTown — one of which decided to help me and see if he could find me a job opportunity here.

When I walked down the street from the Metro to Anthony’s, I had a spring in my step, a smile on my face and a feeling … Honey, I’m home!

It’s a feeling I have never really experienced. When in Spain, everything just feels right. I could have a bad day, but walk outside and there, in front of me, is this entire world of beauty, of culture … lapping at my feet. I can’t help but smile.

I think I am pretty lucky. Some people search their entire lives to find that one place that makes them feel safe. I found it on March 19, the day I stamped in to Madrid from Ireland.