La Mano y El Corazon

From what I hear positivity is a choice and and try as I might I don't always succeed is seeing the bright side.

This difficulty often arises first thing in the morning. As I open my eyes (or eye as the case may be with my current health situation), before I can organize my thoughts, or set my intention for the day, my heart hurts.

I'm not sure where the term broken heart came from, as my understanding after something is snapped in two it can suffer no more, but that is simply not the case. It can be crushed, and smushed. Or perhaps it should be called heart torture, as mine feels like it is water boarded on a daily basis. Attacked from all sides.

I realize there is no point in inhabiting this emotion. After all, it's only a feeling. Something temporary, but when the temporary lasts longer than expected, longer than acceptable, the pain can be quite difficult to ignore.

This very morning I defiantly dragged myself out from under the warm, dense fortress of my borrowed bed and dressed. Dressed for the chilly world that awaits outside.

Needless to say my bad ass pep talk from the night prior was left on the pillow case, along with my drool.

Waking in time for the complimentary breakfast I headed downstairs in order to drink some hot tea and choose from a myriad of food products bound to spike my blood sugar first thing in the morning. Perhaps that mixed with the juxtaposition of piped in Frank Sinatra jams would assist in lifting my spirits.

Rounding the corner to grab the CA1 bus to Tres Cruces I couldn't help but marvel and the stunning and ubiquitous street art blanketing this otherwise drab city and spent the 30 minute bus ride listening to American music popular when my parents were children and watching the world go by.

No one here speaks English yet the Beatles and the Goo Goo Dolls are on the public bus soundtrack... I'm suspect.

Luckily the bus brought me in a new direction, different than my journeys on foot the few days I've spent here, unfortunately this just offered more views of very loosely deemed pizzerias and endless leather shops selling Spice Girls inspired platform boots, the seeming footwear of choice in Montevideo.

By the time STP began to yodel through the speakers I thought for sure I was on the Delorean of buses, traveling back in time to my pubescent, the birth place of my battle with emotional distress; the birth place of my battle for independence - though the two are not inextricably linked.

Safely deposited at Tres Cruces I located COT and paid the 250 Uruguayan pesos for my first class ticket while an old woman yelled at the poor young ladies behind the desk. Wishing desperately I could understand what was so upsetting to her I politely took my ticket and went to wait with the other droves upon the primary colored plastic seats. There are moments in my travels where I feel so comfortable or distracted that I need to pinch myself - remind myself that I am in fucking Uruguay. That I'm half way around the world, alone on an adventure. I think like anything, one becomes so accustomed to something they take it for granted and I am certainly guilty of that. Though sitting in the subterranean mall of the bus station isn't super sexy I do realize it is a place none of my compatriots have been uncomfortably seated, nor have I prior to this, and for that I am grateful.

I am also grateful to watch the Soul Glo John Oats look alike seated across from me partake in the ritual of drinking Yerba mate tea - something commonplace in the culture down here and though steel thermoses now seem to be employed for those wanting to drink on the run the entire process seems arduous with the straw and loose leaf tea and special mug. It is both confusing and admirable - I always appreciate native cultural traditions being practiced, even if exercised while wearing a Quicksilver sweater.

On the bus and on my way I was mildly irked that the man next to me had seemingly stole my window seat, but since the city isn't much at which to gander I let it go and made myself comfortable. It wasn't until about 45 mins into the ride when an adorable young boy sporting his soccer team championship jacket told me 15 was his seat that I was aided in realizing I was on the wrong bus.

Fortunately I dealt with this is the way any educated, sophisticated, well traveled upstanding citizen would - I exclaimed motherfucker.

Unable to calm down and go with the flow in numerous factions of my life, travel is not one of them and I spoke to the conductor, located another seat, and headed for Punts del Este. The warmth of the bus cabin and slow rocking motion put me almost immediately to sleep in my new asiento and by the time I woke, an hour had gone by and the bleak greys of the city had been replaced with Kelly green rolling hills. 

Finally I made it to parrara Punta del Este and de-boarded, checking my notes for the name of my hotel for the next two days. I located the taxi stand and got in the back with my two black bags, letting the driver know I needed to get to hotel Milano. That's when he turned the engine off.

Immensely appreciative that he chose to step out of the vehicle and point in the direction of the hotel, about 3 blocks away, as opposed to driving me around town and charging me tourist prices I wished him well and schlept on over to the Mediterranean inspired abode.

It smelled of paint but the beach was a block away and the tiny beds looked well taken care of - I was content. A little wifi break would do me good before hitting the mean streets of this sleepy beach town.

Having booked this trip for very specific reasons on very specific dates I can never, especially with the joys of wifi and an iPhone, escape reality.

3 days ago marked the 1 year anniversary of my father's unexpected passing. I had wanted to be away from the world in which I regularly function because it makes it easier not to think about the fear and pain and gaping hole that day left in it's wake. I am so fortunate to have people in my life that love me and who want to make it known they care about me, but a cryptic or prophetic text on a day such as that just sort of stings.

Ellen Degeneres had a joke in a standup special from years back about how when someone accidentally walks in on you in a public restroom and apologizes your immediate reaction is 'that's ok' as if you're inviting them in to watch you wipe. 

Today, when accessing wifi at the hotel I got a message from a friend telling me I could call her tomorrow if I needed to talk. We went back and forth a couple times before I asked why the offer was made and it was then that she reminded me it would be Father's Day. Of course!  I thanked her for her generous offer and display of love but I had almost forgotten tomorrow was Father's Day and was left with no other option that to essentially invite her to watch me wipe.

The pain is there whether someone points it out or not. It's just that sometimes, you wish they wouldn't.

Pulling myself together and my greasy hair back, I headed back toward the bus station which happens to be adjacent to the only tourist attraction I've seen on postcards from this part of the world - a huge statue if a hand coming out of the sand. Photo op complete I went down to the ocean to a) ensure all of my clothing and camera gear would become embedded with sand for the rest of my trip and b) with it being a balmy 21 degrees, the warmest it's been since I got here, To sit on the beach, listen to the waves, and be as close to my father as I can be.

After watching a father and daughter build a sand castle with traces of envy I made my way to the main drag filed with eateries and souvenir shops. Never knowing what to get my nephews, as they don't seem to like anything I ever get them I decided to get a taste of home and head to the local BK for food and free wifi. 

This did not taste nothing like home, but it did give me a chance to FaceTime with a dear friend and her tank topped husband so it was well worth the 350 pesos.

After gazing lovingly at my spirit animal in the form of the most obedient and patient Dalmatian ever waiting for his owners just outside f the glass facade I traversed the peninsula to catch the sunset.

Finding a bench where just BJ (Billy lets me call him that) and I could sit and watch the sunset quietly together seemed like the perfect end to a mellow day, but the bench I selected must have been next to a placard designating this an official selfie spot because it was not long until some Spanish speaking family of tourists smiled and posed until their hearts content unacceptably close to me. Luckily as that door closed, another opened and I found a long, narrow cement dock on which I could dangle my feet above the ocean and watch the sky marble into shades of orange and pink and the sun cloaked itself in spotty clouds and eventually dipped below the line of horizon, leaving streaks of Lisa Frank hues.

A long walk along the planked boardwalk led me to the tip of the peninsula and back again, this time with stops for both yet another pair of new earrings ad, in the dead of winter, ice cream. Knowing that the calories in my pistachio and menthe cone are like resistant magnets to my ass when in another time zone I felt no guilt while devouring the myriad of greens swirled to perfection into a sugar cone think and dense.

Evidently someone had been jay walking in this city that seems to shut down even earlier than the capitol, as there was a sole police car outside of the ice cream shop with no sign of crime or accident. 

Looping back around to my home for the evening the night air sank deep into my bones and I kew it was time to tuck myself in.

As I entered Hotel Milano I got the rush of renting a new apartment, due to the foreign environment as well as the strong perfume of fresh, cheap paint haphazardly splashed upon the walls. Making my way up to the second floor and sliding the key into the door marked room 18 led me to two small twin beds (do they make a smaller size?) and a flat screen TV. 

After a scalding hot shower I took the remnants of my skin and wrapped it in as much clothing as I could before burying myself under plaid blankets and using the remote to locate the only channel without dubbed programming. For the intellectual Uruguayan there were subtitles on a movie that barely held my interest but at least spoke my language.

It took me nearly an hour to realize I was half way into a Father's Day marathon. Proof further there is truly no escape.

'Till tomorrow...

The Day The Music Died/For Whom The Bell's Tolls/I'm On My Way to Uruguay

June 17th - the day the music died.

Confrontational by nature I have chosen to deal with this particular anniversary a bit differently. In October, when His birthday was upon us, I booked a trip to Southeast Asia and spent the 29th changing planes in Tokyo, so jet lagged and wanderlustful that it was easy to let the day go by, almost unnoticed. Now I have two separate days a year from which to escape - a welcomed excuse to travel, if not for the best reasons.

Today, June 17th 2015, I board a plane to Montevideo, Uruguay. I will arrive in this foreign land after touching down in both Houston and Rio de Janeiro - almost guaranteed to be too distracted with overpriced airport fare and restless upright slumber to see the sun rise and set on a day that changed my life entirely and forever.

I could talk about my father endlessly. From what I am told I always have.

Regardless of whether I was on a first date or on a transatlantic call with an old friend, my dad came up in nearly every conversation. He touched every part of my life in an incalculable way. Even when living 3000 miles apart it was he who I called to help me pick out an appropriate pair of running shoes. It was he who I forwarded inappropriate text messages from unsavory men to, hoping for some insight into the bewildering gender. He knew what I had had for lunch on any given day, because he was most likely on the phone with me when I ordered it. When someone is this involved in your life, their absence is felt in such a profound way that there is no safe place to hide.

Movies and books are simply things you want to discuss with the Shel Silverstein inspired missing piece.

Decisions to be made, contracts to be signed. Ensembles to be purchased. With a relationship this intimate and a bond this unbreakable, like the strands of DNA coursing through both of your veins, there is no possible way to detach.

I have a very kind, if very dim friend who recently suggested perhaps it was time to 'let go' of him. Now, I know this gentle giant meant well, but he is an idiot. There is no way I could let go of my father without erasing my very existence; without destroying who I am. What I can do, is manage the feeling of loss and the reality of a new life. In recent weeks I have likened this shift to diabetes. A condition that is not fatal, but chronic. One from which you can never be cured, but hopefully, through trial and error, you can manage - you can live with.

Trying to live with it; trying to #keepwalkingkeepwinning is what I have chosen to do. So here it goes...

What better way for me, a bit of a travel junkie, then to pack up my bag and head south to visit a new land and mark a year of torture, ready to turn the page on a new perspective, a new life?

This new perspective was in no small way aided by a recent health crisis.

Three weeks before my scheduled departure to Uruguay, a country about which I know absolutely nothing, I suffered a bit of paralysis. This was scary, sudden and very very unattractive. This physical manifestation of a 12 months of stress, sadness, love and loss could have made me sink deeper into the pool of depression in which I have been more than wading for some time now. It should have pushed me over the edge, but for some reason, awaking to a face that only half functions and a right hand too jittery from either nerve damage in my once so efficient brain or the meds used to help quell that has left me, better...

When your body starts to scream at you. When it starts to turn on you. You have no choice but to listen.

So I did what any grief stricken, partially paralyzed young woman would do to deal with the world falling down around her. I grabbed my camera, packed a duffle bag, and foraged forward.

Travel has it's ups and downs. There are always the rude passengers and endless lines, but being seated next to a nice young Mormon man on the Houston - Rio leg of my journey south of the equator allowed me to have a conversation about faith, marriage and family with a total stranger and, despite the fact that he asked about my own personal timeline for marriage and children, started my trip off in this positive vein, on in which I am attempting to live.

Having long harbored a fantasy of being a Latina through and through, the Rachel Dolezal of Afro-Latin America (yes - that was for you and yes, you know who you are...), being mistaken for a native in Brazil - flattered though I may be, was fantastically awkward as I don't know how to utter a Portuguese syllable yet alone understand a series of phrases and/or questions thrown in my direction, intensifying in speed and agility the more contorted my already stroke induced face looks.

Wedged into the last seat on the plane, confined to a space few Americans could fit according to the most recent obesity polls did not in any way stop me from uncomfortably passing out before take off on the last leg of my multi-stop voyage to Montevideo. I was awoken by the sounds of a snotty pubescent both figuratively and literally. Spoiled brat seems to transcend language and when my empathy for the teary teenage quickly gave way to disgust once I realized her tears were not over Sean Cassidy or the Biebs, but over the fact that she was not pleased to be served a muffin during the snack coarse on the plane. 

Off the plane and quickly ushered through immigration I grabbed some pesos, hopped in Angel's Mercedes cab and took what I only later realized as a $60 cab ride to Mercado del Puerto, the hotel at which I would be laying my head the next couple of days.

The drive in was at dusk and gorgeous and once I made an attempt to chat casually en espanol with my driver I settled into my South American sojourn.

Death, taxes and For Whom The Bell's tolls was left back on US soil, at least for the week, and the plan is to return, a woman reborn.

Wish me luck with that...

Family, Friends and Strangers

Four countries and three flights in three days with the worst cold or flu I've had in years has left me worse for wear as I approach my decent into chilly JFK New York City. My healthy glow already starting to crack and peel with the dehumidified air run though my ANA flight, I'm already missing balmy Bangkok. But let me start from the top.

On the cool, crisp, star- filled night Colin and his trusty steed Lucky give both Laura and myself a bumpy ride to a location they swore would be ideal for sunrise watching. In a city where the day's events are planned entirely around the rising and setting of the sun I trusted the local and let he, with his portable Buddhist hymns and the clickity clack of Lucky's feet along one of the two paved roads in town, lead the way through the darkened dawn.

When Laura and I realized that he was bringing is back to Temple #349 on the map, where we'd witnessed the Chagall colored sunset just a few hours before all we could do was smile and hold on - those rides are not smooth sailing, trust me. The air was sharp with a fresh morning and the ascent up the pitch black side of an ancient structure no easy feat. When the perfect spot is located, we post, and we wait.

The sunrises slowly. It seems to take forever as the sky turns from starry black to pale blue. You think it is over and just when you're ready to either a) knock the annoying Japanese tourists who are wearing lights on their heads and creating a noisy production to your immediate left with their picture taking off the top of the temple or b) pack up your Canon and call it a day - it happens. The fire ball known as the sun makes it's appearance and it all changes. You're not moving, not for a second. Your transfixed and your sitting right there, to see this all the way through.

Laura and I had watched some dirty hippies tune out of the tourist trap and into some smooth jams the night before and Laura signed on. She had her ear buds in early and a serenity washed over her already luminous face before dawn even broke. I tend to be a bit more stubborn, take the longer road to realization. It wasn't until the sun showed it's face and shone on mine that I decided to follow suit and, with limited options on my iPhone, it was a sad music makes me happy moment with classic rock and power ballads filling my ears with harmonies and my heart with pain.

Having promised to take my father with me on every trip here on, we have visited the clear blue waters of the Caribbean and shared a quiet early morning in rural Thailand. With a morning as powerful as this, I felt it the best time to share a powerful moment with my father, and leave just a little of him here, atop a beautifully sculpted, ancient Buddhist temple in the still untainted Myanmar. I wish he could have loved it in life, but by god I am going to make sure he experiences it in spirit.

Balloons over Bagan is a tourist attraction for more of the blue haired traveler and though I could not afford to take one of those big bags of hot air up into the early morning sky, witnessing two dozen balloons released into the wild with guitar licks tickling my ears it was a powerful and beautiful morning I will not soon forget.

Back in the horse cart and back to The Golden Myanmar Guest House we rushed to grab our bags, feed our faces and say goodbye to this makeshift family who, for the few days we were here, felt like ours.

Laura and I were sad to go, and sad to know that the next couple of days would be a blur of taxis, and buses and planes on our way to Mandalay and then, back to Bangkok.

The bus ride to Mandalay was long and warm and relatively bumpless as it operated on the single lane highway functioning as the smoothed out road to the destruction of an indigenous culture, and the epic levels at which the single television was playing throughout the duration of the 5+ hour bus ride - deafening. Luckily after my midday nap I was woken up for a stop in the middle of nowhere to piss over a hole, be hustled into another Myanmar buffet and hop back on the bus for what I can only imagine was a made for TV movie. I do have to respect that the worse the television is the more easily it translates without the assistance of language. The plot seemed to center around some Burmese pop star and his tumultuous relationship with his very tall girlfriend and some sort of contest in which the winner would be able to marry said pop star. Not a clear path as to what was going on - but I think I got the gist. The nuance of the humor was lost on me, however, the bus rocked with uproarious laughter on more than one occasion so it must have been hilarious.

When you land in a place called Mandalay you conjure up thoughts of an oasis in the dry dry desert. Palm fronds and sheer genie pants. I could almost feel the heavily scented mist doused with strange spices from the far east breeze across my face. What I was met with instead was a throng of very loud very aggressive men nearly beating the bus door down trying to secure a cab fare to whatever destination we had in mind. After prying our way through the doors and out into the dusty surroundings we hopped in a cab with a man who was not physically accosting me and made the short trip to Hotel A.D. 1 about which we had read mediocre reviews on accommodation and amazing reviews on breakfast. You can see where our hearts truly lie.

Dropping our bags on the third floor we went out to see what Mandalay had to offer. We knew we only had a short time there and the cab ride in, though informative, was not visually impressive. Circles were made and it would appear that Mandalay is a blue collar city, filled with merchants and motorbikes not servicing the tourist population, as is so common in Thailand - but functioning as a real city - worked by and for the people of Myanmar. We were greeted slightly less openly, as we had been in both Yangon and Bagan, but the people were curious nonetheless and after Laura sampled some street omelet of sorts and I procured one of the most nauseating sandwiches I have ever seen and we had to move on from the inner city, in which we were firmly situated and head out to the U Bein bridge, apparently the sight to see while here and, just like everything else we have found in Myanmar, totally dependent on the rising and setting of the sun. We were hoping to catch the latter.

And the latter we did. After the wordsmith that was our cab driver who sat in complete silence the entire 20 minute drive to the dock dropped us off and informed us he would wait in a nearby parking lot - the way cabbies seem to work here - you pay for both the back and forth - we were off for our romantic evening. This long, teak bridge's sturdiness is questionable but popularity undeniable with boat loads of silver fox tourists squeezed into the bay, cameras on necks. Laura and I opted for the long walk, from dock to dock during which we chatted with suspicious monks, helped some local girl with her English-  apparently an outing her family takes multiple times a week to perfect her language skills and assist in her future chemistry degree and noshed on some lollies that had most certainly been sitting at the dock of this bay since the early 90's.

As we strolled, and chatted we got to watch the sky change colors and, once the boater and fisherman made their way to land the water was like glass, gorgeous and clean, untouched and still. We were saddened that it was our last evening together in Southeast Asia, a unique luxury neither of us took for granted but Laura had her studies and I had my impending life changing and stroke inducing moves to make.

The following morning was met with a heavy cough and the promised breakfast that A.D. 1 hosted. It was an amazing spread, at least for those with fully functioning taste buds and a head that didn't feel like it was in an Adam's Family vice, for those who had laboured breath - it was just food to shove in my face. Though I will co-sign as far as hostels or guest house included breakfasts go - this is second to none.

Bags on backs and a 20 minute walk through town to the Air Asia shuttle was treacherous and sweaty, but well worth the free bus ride to the airport and the debacle with the old Burmese woman who seemed to not see a large white woman sitting in front of her and literally walked INTO me and sat her bag on my lap as if I were one of the built in Ronald's at the local McDonald's used for commemorative photos and public acknowledgements of profane language.

It was somewhere over Southeast Asia with a wonderful woman who has proven to be a wonderful friend - so why in the hell am I stressing about bills and doctors appointments, the logistics of life as well as those big ticket items that seem to work best when you pick a lane and go.

I'm now heading back 3 days early, and exactly 4 weeks from my departure date, wondering if I made the right choice, wondering what the right choice even means anymore. If such a thing even exists.

A bus ride, a very lengthy layover (see: I slept on a bench) at the BKK airport, a flight to Tokyo, another layover and then a 14 hour flight, all with SARS coursing through my veins was a challenge. It was exhausting. I felt like I was dying and the 2 hour cab ride to follow it up almost had me in. Then I had a thought:

These are the people that celebrate with us, that help is get through the rough spots; that shape out world.

Throughout my month in Southeast Asia, a month I spent exploring new lands and grieving the loss of my original travel-mate I encountered all threw of the above. My three wise men, my arch angels, my holy trinity of travel.

To begin my journey I was accompanied by a woman who surpassed the title of friend many years ago and became so much more, family nearly two decades ago.

Then I met a total stranger who, on a level maybe only a stranger could, understood what I going through and made me feel slightly less alone in my sadness, if only for a few days.

And I finished my journey with an old colleague who has proven herself to be a very dear friend, and a very loved one at that.

For those of you who know me, those of you who talk to me, and those of you who feel comfortable being straight with me, remind me I said this : it would appear that travel is a lot like life in a smaller, more concentrated dosage. There are moments of excitement, moments of struggle and frustration, moments of peace and lots of times you feel like throwing in the towel and going home but in my experience, each as every time - I'm sure glad I did it.

I'd like to think that is how my dad felt.