Back From Half Way Around the World

A couple of weeks ago, I traveled what seems like halfway around the world (over 8,000 miles) to Almaty, Kazakhstan. I went to visit my good friend Lauren, someone with whom I have had many grand adventures in the past, be it traversing Cornish bogs or climbing Welsh mountains. And this time around was no exception.

However, our adventures weren't necessarily on the same scale as before, and I think that is why I am just now getting around to writing about them. Kazakhstan is different from anywhere else I have ever traveled, a place not really regarded as a must-see tourist destination. That isn't to say there is not plenty to explore and experience...even just walking around the city was an adventure in some ways. But, there wasn't the typical sense of wonder and awe that have accompanied my past travels. I found this trip challenged me more on an nintellectual level, a truly intercultural experience in which I could barely find my footing. It was daunting coming to a country where visitors are often met with suspicion from the outset, and my normal manner of coping with the situation--a quick smile imbued with the apology for my overwhelming ignorance--was quickly dismissed. For once, I found it easier to get through by maintaining a cloak of indifference, not seeming overly interested in what others around me were doing. While it made it easier to blend in (if given a quick look over, I guess I can pass for someone of Russian descent...one of the more interesting things about Almaty is its mixture of peoples found in the area, a remnant dating as far back as Stalin's rule and his penchant for exiling people to as remote of places as possible), I found it discouraging. I had hoped to have a few more encounters with Kazakhs, to be honest. A naive thought in hindsight.

Now, I don't want to give the impression that everyone was unfriendly...I just found that the people of Almaty were far more reserved from what I am used to, a feeling confirmed by Lauren and the other non-Kazakh people I had the pleasure of meeting in my short time there. It takes time to break down the barriers that you encounter, so a quick five day trip doesn't allow enough time to establish any kind of rapport. And I want to note that there were several people who were friendly to me during the trip, it just was the exception rather than the rule. (One man, Kidur, sticks out in my mind. He is one of the guards at the international school my friend teaches at...we went to the construction site of the new school building, and he was there, smiling the biggest smile I had seen since arriving. It made my day, actually.)

Still, being able to walk the city, visit its parks, its markets gave me a glimpse of everyday life in Kazakhstan. There is an interesting mix of East meets West meets Soviet. (I am not really sure how to categorize the impact that being under Soviet rule has had on Kazakhstan, the country's identity, and its enduring culture.) As part of my exploration, I visited one of their malls. It was populated with several brand name stores found in any of your more upscale shopping centers in the United States, yet it felt like simulacrum of the real thing. Even now, I cannot put my finger on what gave it that feeling of artifice. Indeed, many of the more recent updates to the city feels a bit like that...as if in an effort to make its exterior more appealing to the outsider (which, I believe, is one of President Nazerbaev's goals), instead of building something authentically Kazakh, they have constructed a facade that they believe will appeal to the tourist.

It doesn't take long, though, to get beneath the facade. The moment you step on a bus, you are hit full in the face that this is NOT like any Western country you have ever been in. The more people who can be crammed into a bus, the better. No need to worry about maintaining a respectable amount of personal space...it does not exist. At the same time, if you find your backpack jamming its way into someone else's back just as someone's hand draws precariously close to your face, it is all part of the experience. No one gets angry, it is all just taken in stride. (Try that here and if the bus wasn't pulled over for being overcapacity, I do not doubt that there would be some kind of commuter rage that would spark small fights all over the place.) And, having endured the joys of the bus only to find the place you were going to go has been randomly closed (no warning, no real explanation) clinches it...it makes you want to hike the several miles back through the utilitarian concrete buildings littering the landscape back to your room, where you can close out the dirt and the grime for a little while (but only after taking a ride on an elevator so small, four average-sized adults have to strategically place themselves to fit while maintaining the right balance to prevent it from scraping its way up the shaft). It feels as if there is a blanket of unspoken oppression hovering above the city still. Lauren says that, even after twenty years of freedom, the oppressive force of Soviet rule still permeates and that as a result, few people have hope. While I would not go as far as to say that, I admit that something certainly is lacking, so much so that an outsider like me felt it the first day I was there.

As I write this, I notice that my words seem laced with negativity, and I can only say that comes from my level of discomfort and a little bit of disillusionment. I wasn't sure what to expect, but despite having few preconceived notions, I feel a bit let down. BUT, there is an amazing amount of beauty to be found there. A stroll through President's Park is enough to make anyone gape at its beauty, particularly with the trees blazing in all their fall glory in brilliant shades of gold, the Tien Shan mountains rising in the background. The fountains in this park alone prove a fair rival to those found throughout Kansas City (a mighty feat for those not too familiar with the KC area).  The level of pride expressed in the war memorials found in Paniflov Park resonate with anyone who knows the tragedy of war. The incongruous brightness of the Cathedral found just outside of Paniflov provides a contrast to the seemingly drab surroundings. Driving above the smog-line to be closer to the mountains reveals beauty incomparable, a true gem of natural beauty that few outsiders have ever had the opportunity to see.

I debated for a long time as to how I would answer people when asked what it was like to visit Kazakhstan. I still don't have the best answer. It was not quite what I had expected, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. No, I didn't go traipsing about the mountains or sit down and discuss world politics with the locals over a few shots of vodka. No, I didn't indulge in local foods, haggle at the bazaar, or anything like that. But I did get to witness, observe. I went somewhere that few others have ever thought to go, and I was reminded that what to us may seem so far in the past is still very much a reality for others. Reading about Kazakhstan and experiencing it for myself are two very different realities. And this is yet another reason to travel...it isn't enough to read about somewhere to understand it. The levels of complexity in experiencing somewhere new cannot be captured in words, no matter how skilled a wordsmith you happen to be. It also reinforced the reality that my world view is only one in a multitude and that I really do not know anything. I can travel to every country in the world, read every travel guide, and meet hundreds of people and not seen even a fraction of what is out there. Doesn't mean I won't keep trying though. 

Five Years of the Very Best...

Okay, so perhaps not the best play on words with this post's title (there is a reason I am not employed as a writer or editor), but I must admit that five years into my career at Hallmark, I am reminded just how fortunate I have been. Considering how when I submitted my resume all those years ago, I never thought I would get a call back let alone a job, I have done pretty well. Fate, fortune, or something like that seems to have conspired in my favor, allowing me to move from an on-call position to a permanent, full-time job that allows me to work with some of the most intelligent, talented people I have ever met. They also happen to be some of the funniest and kindest, too. If I could, I would describe what it is I do, but I have learned from past experiences, trying to explain the strange alchemy of metadata, Excel spreadsheets, and Hallmark.com often results in my audience falling into a trance from which it is hard to rouse them. Best not ask for details, and just know that I have been reassured numerous times that whatever it is I do is working, and since nothing has imploded, exploded, or failed miserably, I will go along with this assessment.

But really, I do not want to talk about me or my specific job. Instead, I wanted to shine a light on my awesome co-workers who made me feel like what I do matters and, more importantly, that perhaps I matter. (Yes, my insecurities run that deep. I came into my current position completely overwhelmed, and it has taken me about two and a half years even to think that I have a grasp on what I am doing...and it has taken me almost as long to get to know my co-workers better. If I were to be honest, they still intimidate me a bit. Not in a bad way--it is more like the kind of awe one experience's when encountering someone who seems to know anything and everything...but I digress.) So, anyway, there was a little party to celebrate my anniversary. I had requested cupcakes and celebration that was to be low-key. I am not one for much attention, and I was freaking out even thinking about having to stand in front of the cupcakes as my manager Jen handed me the Crown pin and card. I kept telling myself that people were coming for cupcakes and cupcakes alone. Still, it was nice to see my friends from my old department as well as those from my current department gather round, chatting with one another. When the moment came, there was no speech, no embarrassing spotlight placed directly on me. Instead, Jen simply handed me an envelope with a completely different kind of surprise.

Inside there was a passport, filled with warm wishes and pictures of my travels with my co-workers superimposed onto some of my favorite memories. It was amazing. I stared at it in shock and found myself blinking back tears. Even now, I do not know if I have conveyed to my co-workers why this gift was so touching. It isn't just the fact that it is an awesome idea that does a good job to reflect my personal interests, but that they took the time to think of something so perfect and then took the time to mock it up, adding their personal touches wherever they could.  That they would take the time to do this for ME is more than I can fathom. I am not used to having something like that done for me, (I can only think of one other time, and to this day I am embarrassed by how I reacted to that...but that can wait until another blog post) and since I had thought I had done everything possible to become one with the background while at work, that my friends at work still noticed blew me away. I meant it when I said that the best part of coming to work each day is my co-workers.

Throughout the day, I had several others congratulate me and tell me what a good job I do, some of whom I would never have thought noticed what I do. While I cannot vouch for the actual veracity of their statements (I try my best, I really do...but I cannot help but wonder what I can do better), I can say that it made me feel like I belonged. And, to be honest, that is often something I long for. Probably something we all long for. I just wish that I had been better able to capture what it meant to me in this post...sadly, this long rambling missive does a poor job conveying what I wish it could. I don't know why I have had this opportunity to work with the very best (tying in the title yet again), but I am grateful for the opportunity, and no matter where the next five years take me, these five years have meant a lot to me.

One Rabbit's Journey

It was Easter, twenty-two years ago, that I received the best present from my Grandma & Grandpa Tanner.  At the time, I am sure they did not realize what significance this small stuffed animal would acquire over the next two decades, and to be honest, I do not think my six-year-old self could have fathomed the many things she would be a part of. Back then, she just happened to be an adorable gray bunny dressed in a pink shirt and denim overalls, complete with a small hole for her faux-cotton tail. I fell in love instantly, and Peta became a constant presence in my life. 

I was a strange child, as many of us undoubtedly were, and as such, I needed to create a back story for my new friend. Looking to her attire for inspiration, I noticed that emblazoned on her shirt was the word Greatland (at the time, the store brand from Target). In one of my more fanciful throes of imagination,  I decided that this was name of her home planet. The planet itself was not all that exciting, one filled with animals of all kinds of crazy colors (my pink cat...aptly named Pinkie...also hailed from Greatland). Peta was a prominent leader there, but her insatiable curiosity led her to explore other lands, and she eventually found her way to me. I felt lucky that she stayed with me for so long. She would go on to own a restaurant, lead a few coups, and star in a few of my clumsy childhood stories. She had her own voice (which sounded oddly like mine, but with a higher pitch and a bit of a quaver) and often engaged in conversation with my other stuffed animals. To their credit, my parents and sister were quite indulgent in all this, never discouraging me from creating this exotic, sprawling fantasy world.

More importantly though, Peta has stuck by my side through some pretty difficult times. Whether it was a debilitating migraine (of which I had more than my fair share even at the age of six), recovering from sinus surgery, or even when trying to cope with things I couldn't quite grasp at the time (my mother's injuries/disability, my sister's emotional issues, etc.), I had her for comfort. When I felt so sick, just having her in my arms made me feel one hundred times better. Holding her in my arms while I cried made it a bit easier to gain perspective, to take control of my emotions and move on. And it is clear that I turned to her more often than I can ever quantify. Her once lustrous coat is now worn away to the point that she looks almost bald. There has been more than one occasion when her left ear has required surgery, and her glassy black eyes now have cataracts. In all honesty, I am surprised that she hadn't met the fate of the Velveteen rabbit considering how many germs she has come in contact with over the years...thank goodness my parents would have never done that and had deemed a couple hours in the dryer on high heat would suffice.

As I grew older, I turned to Peta less and less. She still was (and is) a constant presence in my room, staying on my bed throughout high school traveling with me pretty much everywhere.  However, I was beginning to feel slightly silly to be so old and still have a stuffed animal with me. She became less of a companion and more of a symbol of my past. She reminded me of my grandparents, my childhood. No matter where I went, as long as she came with me, I had a small piece of home. And for me, that is something I have never outgrown. Despite how conflicted I can feel about Texas, it shaped me more than I can say, and Peta is a good reminder of that.

What is really interesting is how Peta has become an integral part of my family's bigger story. My Grandma Hayes bonded with her over the course of a few years (she is not the one who gave me the rabbit), and in a way that only family can, we have decided that Peta has grown into a bit of a troublemaker. My parents go along with it as do several of my aunts and uncles. My Grandpa Tanner (who gave me Peta in the first place) still asks about what she is up to lately.  As I have grown and evolved, so too has the rabbit. Where once she was a source of comfort and support, she has become a bit wild. No longer burdened with the responsibility of easing the emotional woes of a young girl, Peta has embraced life, and her antics have become notorious. Something broken in the house? Peta did it. Empty cans of beer or bottles of liquor strewn about the house? The rabbit did it.  String of robberies throughout the city? She was the mastermind.  Are we nuts?  Perhaps, but only in the way that all families have their idiosyncrasies, right?

One Wild Night

Anyway, my Grandma Hayes is the one who suggested I started taking pictures of her when I travel (you can check more of them out on my facebook page...more pictures to come in a few weeks after we visit Kazakhstan). At first, I was embarrassed to carry a bunny around my backpack and pull her out in front of large crowds of locals and tourists alike. My friend Lauren helped me through this with her enthusiasm for the idea.  It was this that made me realize why there is no reason to be ashamed of it. Yes, I am twenty-nine, and I still have a stuffed animal. So what? I also have lots of fun memories and great pictures. And for those willing to listen, a great story that remains unfinished.

Crater Lake -- Me: Age 25, Peta: Age 19. She looks a little worse for the wear.

Nashville

The past week, I had been counting down the days. Not only was there a three-day weekend on the horizon, but I was heading southeast to visit my best friend and her family in Nashville. It also happened that this was the weekend her second daughter was to be baptized, so I had the privilege of sharing that with her and her family. But all the flurry of activity did not prevent me from having some time to explore the city, and while it was a cursory tour at best, I definitely was impressed by the rich mix of history and culture to be found in Music City.

Were you aware that in Nashville, you can stroll along in a park only to find, looming before you, an exact replica of the Parthenon? Built for a world exhibition at the end of the 19^th century, this homage to Ancient Greek culture dominates the beautiful landscape of Centennial Park. The park grounds are simple but lovely, and I would have stayed a little longer if it were not so oppressively hot. Summer still has its claws firmly in place here (while I hear that in Kansas City, fall is making a quiet entrance), and there is nothing that puts a damper on my adventurous spirit than excessive heat and humidity.

Still, not being completely dissuaded, I headed further into the heart of Nashville, looking to explore a bit of the city center while having my heart set on one destination in particular—Nashville’s downtown library. I had not read anything in particular that made me seek it out, but noticing it on my map, I felt drawn to find it. And, eventually, I did.  However, the directions I had received from Google Maps had failed to take into consideration the fact that a good number of roads were shut down for some kind of festival over the Labor Day weekend. Being at a disadvantage already for not really knowing where I was going, I found myself circling around blocks a few times through, stopping once when I happened upon the Farmer’s Market. (It has nice facilities and some intriguing permanent stores, but I would argue City Market in KC offers more variety of goods and produce. Still, I was able to sample some delicious sour dough bread and some decadent chocolate peanut butter cheesecake. Cannot complain about that!) Eventually, I inadvertently stumbled upon my destination, only recognizable by the sculpture of a stack of books in front of this massive neoclassical building.

Nashville Public Library

My endeavors were worth the effort. From the copper engravings on the front doors to the enormous, airy atrium that greets you upon entry to the three jam-packed floors, I was enthralled. I took my time walking the stacks on each floor, observing the layout, the services offered and the like. Part of this is a professional hazard. More of it, though, was just this sense of appreciation for a space where people can come to read, research, relax even. The number of windows, facing all sides of Nashville’s downtown area, added to the beauty of the surroundings, instilling it with a certain character and charm that helped soften the imposing elegance of its particular architectural style.

While the books were my initial draw, I also discovered that the library has several of its own little art galleries. The one I walked through was a collection of portraits featuring those arrested during the Civil Rights era, the backgrounds of the portraits dotted with ephemera from the era capturing their supposed crimes. Each work seemed imbued with a sense of strength, beauty and sadness. The history of Nashville had not made an impression on me until then, and yet I know  so much more waits to be uncovered. It will be those things I explore on my next visit, when there is a little less chaos and a little more time. 

Nostalgia

There is something about this time of year that makes me reflect on memories of old. Actually, I am fairly certain it has something very much to do with the beginning of a new school year...even though I have been out of academia now for two years (since finishing my masters), I still find myself feeling that the end of August/beginning of September is meant to be a time of new experiences, transitions, change, but feeling the distinct absence of change, I look to the past to remember what all I have done.

It was around this time eleven years ago that I officially became a TLU Bulldog (complete with an orientation that mercilessly had on repeat "Who Let the Dogs Out"...there were some things I could have done without!). While there, I would meet my best friends, encounter great professors, and refine my interests, perspectives and principles. I also learned just how far a metal slinky would stretch before it would no longer retain its springy shape (about the length of a dorm hallway, if I remember correctly), how not to argue for the defense during a mock trial (it is not encouraged to make your 'jury' run up seven flights of stairs to prove a point), and how to avoid going camping with honors students at all costs (intelligence and practical knowledge are not always guaranteed to show up together). 

About halfway through my time at TLU, nine years ago, I found myself hopping on a plane to London, convinced that a semester in Wales would sate my ever-growing wanderlust. Looking back, I cannot help but laugh at such naive thought--that one semester would ever be enough to 'see the world'. I embraced the experience, forging fast friendships and throwing myself into what it meant to be an American abroad. Within three weeks of immersion in the land of missing vowels (tell me how you would pronounce the following: twydd, gwlyb, heddiw), I knew one semester wasn't going to do it. (I distinctly remember being on a train from Munich to Wurtzburg in Germany, watching the Alps zoom past, when it struck me that I couldn't go back to TLU that January. I blame this revelation for making the mistake of my travel companions and me getting off at Wurtzburg South. Note to future travelers--they are NOT the same place.) Good thing I stayed, otherwise I would have never had the chance to get hopelessly lost in a Cornish bog, sing in a Welsh choir, or make a brief cameo on the local television news (it was a walk on role, and really, my friend Lauren hogged the spotlight...). I became a much more confident, independent person during my time abroad, and I often think if I had a chance to revisit any part of my life, this would be it.

Seven years ago, I moved to Chicago for a year of volunteer service with Amate House. Having packed all I would need for the next year in two large suitcases and an overly-stuffed carry-on, I boarded my one-way flight to Midway, and I began my life in a convent with eight other volunteers. Not that I was a nun. Or any of the other volunteers for that matter. Far, far from it.  Nuns did live above us though.  My housemates taught me so much about what it meant to be socially aware, passionate, loving. While there were times I hated living in community just for its occasional claustrophobic grip, I couldn't have made it without each of my housemates. Their humor, their compassion, their love. I miss them more than I know, really, but in many ways, I know that they all are making a huge difference wherever they are today, and seriously, I am not sure how I ever got to be a part of such a wonderful group.

Beyond the interesting living quarters, my time with Amate House was perhaps the most formative in learning how different life can be for those who did not have the benefits and privileges I had growing up.  I taught English to high school freshmen, sophomores, and juniors during my time there. I was in over my head in not knowing how to control my classroom or be an effective teacher, and it was the first time I had ever been confronted with a challenge far bigger than I could handle. That didn't stop me from loving my students dearly and pushing myself constantly to do the best I could do for them. I learned just how difficult a career teaching is...that the good teachers out there share not only their knowledge but their hearts, their energy, their time...everything, really. But there was something about the community at St. Greg's that was more like a family. I never missed a boys' home basketball game. I helped out with the girls' softball team. Thinking back to my students, I cannot help but smile. By now, all of my students should have graduated from high school, and hopefully, some of them were able to attend college. I started out my year with the intent of changing the world through my students, and brashly dismissed the idea of planting a seed--I was going to do so much more than that. But as is always the case in these situations, I probably came out the better. 

And just like that, I have already written so much, and I have barely scratched the surface of these memories. I should stop now, lest this post become even longer. One day, I will come back, flesh out some of the more entertaining memories (for those of you who have been part of the journey all along, you will find I am repeating myself, I am sure).  But until then, what do you think of this time of year? Were you like me, excited by the prospect of new classes, new friends, new experiences? Or did you want the summer to linger that little bit longer?  What are some of your fondest memories, the ones you revisit time and again?

On the Adriatic

Several times this week, I have been asked to name the favorite thing I did while in Croatia. After debating for a couple of moments, weighing each activity against some imaginary scale of enjoyment, I inevitably settled on saying kayaking the Adriatic Sea.  While not a lie, it is also not the whole truth. It was a markedly different experience than that of hiking, so of course it stands out in my mind for that reason. And, I would argue, it is something that most people would readily agree as being a highlight of any vacation. Some of the other experiences that I would rank as the most enjoyable (which I hope to explore in a future blog) would require a more in depth explanation that no one really wanted to hear about when asking that question, so short and simple was my goal.

That said, kayaking and I have a kind of love/hate relationship. I enjoy kayaking immensely, but I find it challenging. I am not always at my best when faced with a challenge...and when I woke up the morning we were headed to the sea, I admit that I was filled with a sense of dread. A thick mountain mist blanketed the area near our hotel, and it seemed that our time on the water was destined to be shrouded in a haze. Yet, after breakfast we forged ahead toward a small town called Vrsar on Istria, the peninsula in the northwestern corner of Croatia.

As we were driving, I kept an eye on the outdoor temperature hovering around a cool 15 Celsius (60 to all of us in the US), and the lingering gray. I wasn't so sure about the whole thing, but then, after traveling through a long tunnel, it was like we were transported to a completely different place from before. Not only was the sun shining, the sky clear, and the temperature climbing steadily to about 25 Celsius (about 77), it was as if we somehow ended up in Italy. Signs were in Italian and Croatian. The architecture and landscape looked eerily similar to Italian villages, which makes sense considering it has been under Venetian control at some point and a heavy Italian influence has remained throughout its history.

After some intrepid exploring of the area (we got a great tour of some of the back country...even if it was unintentional), we found a good place on the public beach in Vrsar and launched our kayaks--Tom and Marty in one and Davor and I in the other. (For the record, having the well-experienced, much stronger guide as my kayaking partner made my job so much easier! I recommend it to anyone :))  It took me a few moments to adjust to these kayaks, as they were a different kind from the one I had used in the past, but I think overall, I like this kind better.

Our Kayak

 On a more random note, after only a few minutes of kayaking, it quickly became clear that we were not the only ones enjoying the beauty of the Adriatic. After turning a bend, we came across a (VERY) long stretch of coastline that I later learned was home to Europe's largest naturalist campground. So, for over half of the time we were on the water, it seemed like we were passing hundreds of naked Germans (okay, I have no clue if they were Germans or not, but in my experience--which is minimal mind you--those who bare all on the beach are German). A great source of amusement, I admit, but it limited the number of pictures I wanted to take of the shore... Oh, and one more point of clarification.  Also, this is NOT why kayaking is my "favorite" thing from my trip.

Back to the actual kayaking. What I love about kayaking is being so close to the water, where you can see, touch, smell, everything but be IN the sea. Experiencing the Adriatic while surrounded completely by its gorgeous  green-blue waters that while calm are not completely still. Seeing the rugged coast as it rises from the sea, vegetation clinging to the rocks, growing where it can. Watching other boats in the distance (and up close) as they pass by. The sun beaming down, radiating a pleasant warmth long forgotten during a dreary Midwestern winter.  Time stops as you adopt a rhythm of paddling, working with your partner to do something so simple as moving the kayak further. Like hiking, it lends itself to a meditative state. At least when you can free your mind of other thoughts.

Kayaking to get here was very much worth it!

And this is where I begin to 'hate' kayaking. By my own estimation, it is not something I am great at. I don't like being less than great at anything I do. Call it a type-A personality or holding myself to ridiculously high standards, but whatever it is, initially I had a difficult time fully immersing myself in the experience. And while I look back now and recognize how ridiculous my thinking was, I could not shake the feeling that I was little more than dead weight in the front of the kayak. For the first leg of the trip, I managed to maintain a fairly steady pace, trying to rest only when Davor stopped and praying that I wasn't making any stupid mistakes like paddling in a way that threw us off course. (I was very self-conscious about his opinion of my abilities. I didn't want to be seen as a slacker or lightweight, and I also have to admit, it was hard to relinquish control of the situation...)

However, by the time we got to the restaurant (our destination), I was pretty much drained. A combination of the sun, the sea, and the sheer fact that I had been going full-speed for about six days with minimal sleep hit me hard. I enjoyed a simple (but delicious) lunch of olives, cheese, and bread but was concerned about how I would make the trip back without admitting some kind of 'weakness.'

The view from the restaurant. There was a cave behind us with pirate cut-outs...

Once we were back on the sea, I didn't last very long before it became apparent that I was flagging. Eventually, Davor kindly suggested I take a break. And as a testament to my exhaustion, I did. Even though it wasn't very long (I am too stubborn to give up completely...and yes, resting when tired amounts to giving up in my twisted logic), those few minutes that I just sat there, I allowed myself to relax, and it felt good. It was as if I were waiting for permission to take a break, to feel okay handing the reins to someone else, even if it were for something as small as this. Just these five or ten minutes were startlingly refreshing because it is very, very rare that I let my guard down like that.

Much of my life has been spent trying to be wholly independent, not asking for much of anything from friends or family or even strangers--my guiding principle seems to be to do whatever I can not to be a bother, to have the least impact. Asking for any kind of help is weakness in me. (Yet, I admire others who are open and willing to seek and accept help...figure that one out.) But those of you who know me probably realize this about me, and I realize that the weakness is in NOT asking for support. If I am not careful, one of these days I am going to wear myself down so much that I won't be able to bounce back.  And in a long-winded way (see nothing is ever clear-cut with me), this is why it was one of my favorite days of the tour. I allowed myself to show imperfection. And while I know I am rife with imperfections, to willingly let one show like this without benefit of a polished facade is a big step for me. (And I had the opportunity to kayak on one of the world's most beautiful seas past a bunch of nudists, one of whom was riding a scooter across a bridge...tell me that doesn't rank up there as memorable?!)

From on High

At this point, I diverge from providing a chronological account of my journey, beginning instead to expand on central themes to what I learned and experienced in Croatia. Today, I explore the hiking part of my trip, which made up a large part of my vacation. While to some, braving the elements (whether it be the mist, the rain, or the blazing sun) to walk up steep paths often surrounded by thick vegetation and lined with slick rocks or leaves sounds like a nightmare, I found it to be just what I needed to help me relax and focus on what was truly important at this time.

Okic Castle -- the way up was a bit steep

I find the act of hiking requires a level of concentration unlike that of simple walking. Instead of getting completely lost in my own thoughts as I often do when out for my daily stroll, these hikes forced me to pay attention to the path ahead.  My mind and body had to work together--to judge where it was best to place my foot, to determine the right pace so as not to run into the person ahead of me or not to trip up the person behind me, to coerce my tired legs to go that little bit further when their strength began to flag. For some it may be easy to slip into a routine that allows their minds to wander, and at times I was able to divide my attention, looking at the glorious scenery that surrounded and absorbing the fact that yes, indeed, I was thousands of miles away from home climbing a mountain (or mountains) so unlike anything that Kansas City has to offer. But if my thoughts lingered a bit too long from the trail, all it took was a slight slip of the foot or a low-lying tree branch to jolt me back to my focus. And that is a good thing. Too often, I found my thoughts slipping back to things I had wanted to leave behind, even for a little while. So banging my head on a tree was a very physical manifestation of that figurative slap to the face we all sometimes need to remind us what we should be paying attention to. (yes, I really did run into a tree...) Hiking allows me one of the rare opportunities to live fully in the present, to enjoy the fact that I am capable of climbing those steep paths that take me onward and upward to a goal that does not have any more reward than that of personal satisfaction. 

And what a wonderful feeling it is to reach the top. My first great moment of clarity occurred on the second full day of the tour when we reached the top of a mountain (sadly, the name eludes me at this point) after a steady, extremely steep climb up. As I first glimpsed the expanse of rolling mountains and valleys, miniature houses dotting the landscape, I was breathless. (Few things elicit such a reaction from me like that anymore--I have become rather jaded as I have gotten older.) For the first few minutes, I just stood and stared, understanding that this is why I had decided that--of all the kinds of vacations I could have taken--this was the right one for me. A small bubble of giddiness worked its way up, and I swear I had the dopiest smile on my face, but I didn't really care. I was happy. Not the kind of happy that flickers away just as quickly as it appears. No, this was a feeling that would endure, resurfacing several times throughout the trip (like when reaching the peak of Mt. Risnjak after fighting gusty winds and slick rocks or when enjoying something as simple as fresh cherries and wild strawberries on the way up Mt. Učka).  It is something very personal and difficult to articulate, but it very much ran along the lines of "holy freaking cow, I am in Croatia." (I really do think in phrases like that :))

View from above

What was even more significant for me this time around were the climbs down. Any of you who have traveled with me in the past and have gone on the trails know how much I abhor winding my way back down. I hate to admit that more often than not, I spent a good deal of time sliding down mountains rather than walking down them. The memories of the bruises and the wounded ego resonated loudly each time we began a descent. I refused to say anything about my (irrational) fear most likely out of pride, but I felt that each step I took down was fraught with hesitance, and I truly appreciated the times where I dropped to the back. (I am not sure if my fellow travelers noticed this, but I usually don't do a good job masking my emotions...) Yet, I survived. And I might add, without any bruises. I still hate the idea of climbing down, but I recognize now that perhaps it isn't as scary as I make it out to be in my head. And, I shouldn't let my anxiety about what has yet to happen (or what may never happen) mitigate the enjoyment of the present moment. Initially, I dreaded the climb down so much, I forgot to take notice of what climbing up availed. (Do you see a theme developing here? Am I being too obvious in advocating a "live-in-the-moment" kind of philosophy?)

All this is easier said than done. It is simple to live life to the fullest when you are gallivanting across the countryside. Mired in the day-to-day grind of regular life, distractions obscure our focus, and we become preoccupied with what has been and what might be. (Or so it has been my experience.) Is it too idealistic of me to think that there has to be a way in which I can harness some of the peace I discovered hiking without having to travel thousands of miles to do it? Perhaps. But I have to believe that life should be filled with more of those enduring moments of giddiness than not. If so, then I definitely have to work out that balance because something is currently way off. Have you ever had an epiphany where it became crystal clear that something just wasn't right? If so, what did you do to resolve it? (I am at the recognition phase of the whole process, if you have not gathered it yet. The resolution is still very much in the works.)

Zagreb

The real journey begins in Zagreb. With a population around 800,000, Zagreb is both the capital of Croatia and its largest city. Because of my appalling level of ignorance, I had no idea what to expect, but I admit that it was not the vibrant, modern city that met me on the first afternoon. Our hotel was located in the city center, which made observing its vitality even easier. It is a beautiful city, a product of several centuries of history that is hard to capture here. As with many European cities, the mixture of modern conveniences and historical buildings provide an interesting juxtaposition. Clearly, Zagreb is a city that enjoys a rich heritage while it still makes room for its future.

City Center -- Looks fairly empty here, but I promise, there were people everywhere!

The flurry of activity was a bit overwhelming. It was a bit disconcerting to watch as cars, trams, bikes, and pedestrians use the same paths, and it took a while to adjust to walking around as if I knew what I was doing. I did my best approximation of the locals and adopted a state of (seeming) oblivion to the very real risk of getting mowed down and just started walking. 

King Tomislav -- first king of Croatia

I have found that the best way to overcome nerves in a situation like this is to immerse oneself in exploration. Armed with the information given provided by Davor on our drive into the city, I struck out on my own. The cathedral was my first destination, partially because it was impossible to miss, and partially because I have a strange obsession with churches.  Currently, the cathedral is being restored, each stone being meticulously removed, cleaned, and replaced. While scaffolding mars the exterior, the beauty inside remains untouched.

Inside the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary (yes, that is its official name)

From the cathedral, I began following the signs for other tourist destinations. I believe that I managed to hit all the major stops on my first trek about town (at least saw the exteriors--many of the museums were closed because it was Monday), including several more churches and a few other notable sites. (I made sure to walk in circles several times to ensure I didn't miss anything...or because I tend to get a bit turned around at times. I am not sure.)

For all the activity swirling around me, I noticed there was ample opportunity to slow down and enjoy life, too. The streets were lined with tables, where several people had stopped to chat over a cup of kava (coffee) at the outdoor cafes. I passed several people ranging from the very young to the very old with ice cream cones in hand. And at the parks, I witnessed friends laughing, families playing, and lovers walking hand in hand. It all struck me as amazing, sweet, and yet familiar. The universal attraction of being outdoors on a lovely day in the presence of those you love is something we all can appreciate and enjoy. It was these green spaces to which I felt drawn, and so, in spite of the other attractions, I spent my time watching others enjoying life. And as I watched (not as a voyeur, I promise! Just a curious observer), I realized that I had been missing this level enjoyment in my own life as of late. Too much time focused on work, family, obligations, and the like had clouded my vision so much that it took over 20 hours of travel time to find something to wake me from the sleepwalking of the past several months.

The ideal summer afternoon

The adventures that followed these first couple of days in Zagreb were a welcome reminder that I can be someone more than the narrowly defined roles I find myself inhabiting every day in the 'real' world--roles I recognize I tend to impose on myself, but ones that others have come to rely on as well. I can be someone who explores, challenges, learns, teaches, trusts, shares, and, most importantly, laughs.

Tossing and Turning

The last rumblings of thunder are fading into the background as the latest round of storms passes through. I wish I could say I had slept through the entire thing, but as I have been for the past three nights, I am wide awake, thinking of nothing in particular yet finding sleep escaping me. I am not a stranger to these sleepless nights, but they never get easier to get through. And I should make it clear that inevitably I will get three or four hours of sleep. It is just falling asleep that can be rough.

That said, though, overall it has been a fabulous day. I finally made my shopping trip, which even I have to admit was far more successful than I had hoped. It was one of those rare days where I felt okay going into the changing room (normally, I feel too lazy to do so), and even better, actually like how things looked on me. I found myself gravitating to a wide array of extremely feminine styles, which I have noticed happening the older I am. I swear that if I could pull the look off, I would spend much of my time in long, flowing dresses or loose peasant tops and jeans. Kind of that nouveau-bohemian/hippie look. The look on me is still a bit too disconcerting for me to go ahead and buy the clothes, but it was fun to try on a few things that would have added some variety to my wardrobe. Perhaps I can gradually introduce some pieces and see where it leads to from there. As it stands, I had to pry myself away from the store so my bank account wouldn't take an even bigger hit than it was already going to sustain for my minimal purchases.

I am plotting out my day for tomorrow (or I guess, really it is today). I am not sure yet what I will fill it with. I am tempted to bake something again, but I keep waffling between something like blueberry muffins to something a little more complicated like a strawberry tart (or more likely, strawberry tartlets).  There is also a recipe for easy puff pastry that I want to try, but I am not certain what I want to put in said puff pastry. Oh, the burden of having too many choices :)  (Outside of baking, I will probably do my typical weekly cleaning which is ever so exciting.)

And as you can see, it isn't really anything all that interesting keeping me up at night. I am not wrestling with a guilty conscience, pondering a difficult decision, or even worrying about getting things done. It is just as if a flip has been switched that says "no sleep tonight." I recognize that sitting here, blogging, is not an ideal way to make myself sleepy--something about the artificial light of the computer causing problems and all that fun stuff, but nothing else has worked in the past, either, so there you go...

Anyway, the night draws on, and I should probably attempt sleep again soon. I promise the next post will be more interesting--per a request from a friend, I am going to attempt to blog about some of my past travels in anticipation of my upcoming adventure (one week!). I promise it will be more interesting than this :)  Have to say, glad that world didn't end to day...I would have been upset about missing out on my vacation :)

Trip Update

I had a fabulous surprise awaiting me in my email this morning just before lunch--my final itinerary for my trip to Croatia! While I know it has been weeks (months, even) since I have booked my trip, it wasn't until I had all the details at my fingertips that I realized that by the end of May, I will be in a foreign country, once again experiencing the thrill of discovering somewhere new.

I think that is one of the things I love most about travel. It is surrounding myself with the unfamiliar, finding something that I, in a way, can make my own. I have taken several trips with friends over the years, and during those times, I made memories I will never forget. I still laugh at the time my friend Carrie and I were invited to hop on the bus to some strange Welsh village "where the men are REAL men." (I believe this very hospitable man had just finished spending some time at the pub...believe it or not, we decided to head back to Cardiff as we originally planned.) My trip to Cornwall would never have even happened if my friend Lauren hadn't convinced me we needed to see if there really were pirates in Penzance. (Sadly, the closest we came was a cartoonish mural.) That was also the trip we got hopelessly lost trying to find some prehistorical donut that cures back problems if you crawl through it (Men-an-tol)--we eventually did find it, but not before we had to stare down a group of menacing looking cows in a bog.

Men-An-Tol outside of Penzance

Despite all the wonderful times I have had with friends, I now find myself looking to create something that is just me. That is why I enjoy traveling by myself. I can be selfish about my discoveries, having these experiences that no one I know will have had. This trip, this little slice of my life, is for me and me alone. 

That probably sounds strange. Who wouldn't want to share these kind of memories so that they can be relived over and over again? For me, going off to somewhere I am a complete stranger, where I cannot even speak the language, makes me work outside my comfort zone. I can be myself in a way that I won't allow myself to be where others know me. While in my normal life, at home, at work, and with friends, I feel this need always to be competent, reliable, knowledgeable and able to do ANYTHING. There is no room for mistakes or error, and if I do screw up, it is reason to get frustrated because I have let another person down. I felt it when traveling with my friends, too--if everything didn't go smoothly, more often than not, I would somehow blame myself (like when we got lost, we should have gone straight past the caravan--trailer--instead of veering right, but that map was confusing...). And while my friends were more than gracious, I still couldn't shake the nagging feeling I disappointed.

By myself, however, there is no one to disappoint. Indeed, there is no way I can figure it all out. I must ask for help. I have to swallow my pride and speak up if something goes wrong. I cannot rely on someone else to do it for me, and I cannot just figure it out on my own. It makes me connect with the people around me in a way that I do not do here at home. And it reminds me that most people are more than happy to help. I just hate to do so. 

I also find that I am more likely to engage in conversations with complete strangers. Again, something I do not do when at home. Last year while I was in Crete, I enjoyed an hour long conversation with one of the waiters at the restaurant I chose for dinner (I ate a bit earlier than most Greek people, so it was really slow at the time.) I would never consider doing that at a restaurant here, but there it seemed ok. I don't know...sometimes, I think I am a more confident, more open person when I travel alone. It is like I can check my neurosis as I leave the country. I shed the insecurities, the expectations that follow me every day, and I end up being that person who smiles to herself as she walks down the street. I like her a lot, to be honest. Hopefully, after 8 days in Europe, she will stick around awhile in Kansas City...

Countdown...

Seven weeks. That is how long I have until I embark on my latest adventure. Choosing my latest destination was not as easy of a decision to make as last year's trip--hiking and kayaking around Crete with the highly recommended Gap Adventures--so a lot of time and research went into this decision. However, once the decision was made, I jumped on it, booking my flight, my tour, and extra accommodations the very next day. It happened so fast, it even took me by surprise. Now, I am just counting down the days until I board that plane once again and am swept off to create even more fabulous memories in...Croatia.

Croatia? Not France or Germany or Italy? Well, yes. While I had flirted with the idea of each of those countries,  I was unable to decide just what it was I wanted to do there. I have already spent some time exploring Germany and Italy, and while France is on my list of places to visit, it just is not a top priority right now. However, as I was browsing through the information about Croatia, I felt drawn to its rich, complicated history and its diverse natural wonders. I stumbled upon a locally owned and operated tour company that offered a great tour of the National Parks for an extremely reasonable price. You can check out the tour here: http://www.huckfinncroatia.com/holidays/walking-national-parks.php.  And even though I wavered between this and a few other options, it was the first tour that truly made me take notice and say "I want to do that." Even though it takes me a while to acknowledge, my first instinct is always the one that I return to in the end, for better or worse...

I am ridiculously excited about the prospect of hiking several miles each day, enjoying the natural beauty of the area. Most people would question how this is at all relaxing or even remotely a vacation, but I have found that one of the best ways for me to connect to another location is to see it through its terrain. Many of my greatest memories of my times in Wales are associated with the strange outdoor adventures in which I and my travel companions engaged during our time there (hiking through mists so thick, you couldn't see in front of you, navigating the narrow confines of a cave, swimming in a frigid lake after your self-made raft falls apart...), and I have found that it continues to be the best way for me to embrace somewhere new. I won't say too much about why I travel...and particularly why my past few trips have been conducted solo...but there is something liberating to go somewhere completely different with nothing to rely on but yourself in many ways. It is a great challenge and a great reminder of all the things we are capable of and how easy it is to take for granted our lives at home...

Counting down is the hardest part. I have a few books to read to get me ready for my trip, and I have started listening to a CD with a few choice Croatian phrases (two that I hope I will not need: "I am innocent." and "I would like to contact my lawyer." Whoever put together this phrase book wanted to be sure to cover all kinds of scenarios, it seems...). While I know I won't be able to have a meaningful conversation in Croatian by the time I get over there, I will hopefully know how to say "Please," "Thank You," "Excuse me," and "Where is the bathroom?" Oh, and maybe be able to order something to eat and drink as well. (Lucky for me, English is widely spoken throughout. One of the benefits of other countries emphasizing the importance of multilingualism...) In another couple of weeks, I will go through the process of contacting my credit card company, arranging for rides to the airport, and finalizing any arrangements that are still up in the air. Also, I will need to do a bit more research on Slovenia, as I will take a side trip there before coming back home. And, because I was really curious about it, I booked a room in the capital Lljubanja (sp) in a hostel that was once a military prison. Not sure what possessed me to do so, but it should make for an interesting experience, which is what this is all about anyway.

What are your plans to get away? Which places, near or far, draw you to them and provide renewal?

Sprechen Sie Deustch?

Nur ein bisschen, aber ich mochte sprechen besser.

Rothenburg ob der Tauer -- it was when I was visiting here, I realized one semester abroad just wasn't enough.

What is with the German? It all started yesterday, one of those afternoons where the prospect of spending one more minute in an Excel spreadsheet threatened to send even the most stable of people over the edge. The fact that it was sunny, warm, and Friday only heightened my restlessness, so I engaged a good friend in a conversation about what we would do if we didn't have to be sitting in that office.  Not the small kinds of things that we would most likely do once we were free of our cubicles, but the lofty goals, the "If you won the lottery..." kind of scenarios. Not surprisingly, travel was the first on both of our lists, and after going back and forth a bit, we floated back to earth and finished out the projects for the day.

Since that conversation, though, I have put more serious thought into the question. What would I do, really? Well, world travel would be high on my list, but if time and resources weren't and issue, I would do an intensive course studying German in Germany itself, taking the knowledge of my four years in high school studying under the tutelage of Frau Person and her extensive use of the German TV series Forsthaus Falkenau (which I learned from IMDB stayed on the air through 2010! Who knew the Rombach family had enough of a story to last 20+ years?) and moving from basic proficiency to actual fluency.

Seems a bit strange, perhaps, but I have always wanted to be able to converse with someone in a language other than English. I think one can learn a lot about a culture based on the language they speak, not only by learning the rules that govern its structure and meaning, but its adaptability, its vocabulary, etc. Language affects the way in which one thinks and expresses those thoughts. Language is identity. Not to get on to large of a soap box here, but I think learning a foreign language is an important part of any education. Yes, English often seems to be the lingua franca in current society, but it is sheer arrogance to think it should be.

And, really, learning other languages often helps in understanding our own even better. I didn't truly understand sentence structure in English until I had studied German for a couple of years. My couple of semesters of Welsh revealed a language, while sometimes guttural and harsh, possessing an innate musicality harnessed by its greatest poets to establish Wales as a country of bards. Even when listening to my friends chant ancient Greek in college, it was possible to connect the modern version in our language today.

What is the entire point of this post? I guess to say that if I were to take the bold (and crazy) step of leaving my job, the first thing I would want to do is throw myself into learning something new in a location far from home. A more rational approach would be to seek out German classes locally, either offered by a university or a language school. Doing that at least would be a step toward one of my life's goals, and it wouldn't impoverish me in the process. Still, it wouldn't be quite as exciting...

What would you do if you were to take a bold step away from the daily grind--or perhaps you already have?

On a Lighter Note...

So, as I read through my last post, I realized it was heavy on the angst and light on humor (it is important to provide some balance).  I promise I really do not go through all of my life pondering deep philosophical questions or pining for the good old days...just every other Saturday, when there is a full moon, and the entire month of February.

That out of the way, as a kind of get-to-know-me better exercise, I thought I would list six fun facts about me.  (The hard part is thinking of six facts that the majority of my audience doesn't already know!  And facts that may be considered fun.)  Regardless, here are things you may not know about me:

• My favorite childhood stuffed animal, my rabbit Peta, has a special place in my room.  I received her from my Grandma and Grandpa Tanner for Easter when I was six (her back story, about her life before she arrived in Texas is quite elaborate, if you are ever interested), and she has pretty much been at my side ever since...seriously, she has traveled to the Vatican, Ireland, Chicago, and Oregon, among other locales.  She is notorious for causing trouble and has a reputation as a serious drinker...

Trip to Oregon 2007

• When I was in the fourth grade, I had a singing part in the school Christmas pageant.  I played the music teacher.  I sang the song "Everybody Wants to be Santa."  At random times, the only part of the song I remember runs through my brain. It is one of those songs that should never have been written.  And no, there is no photographic evidence of this particular event...

• My favorite food is bread. Seriously. If you were to look in my grocery cart on any given week, you will most likely find at least three types of bread. Sometimes I wonder if I look crazy having a loaf of bread and a package of bagels and a package of English muffins in my cart. (Because I often visit more than one grocery store when shopping, though, I spread out my bread purchases a bit so it doesn't look like I am living on rations of bread and water...or in my case, bread and Diet Dr. Pepper)

• I am the highly suggestible type.  If you are a passionate, charismatic speaker, I am likely to buy into your message with little urging, at least for the next few days.  Knowing that, if you are a scam artist, there is only a short window of opportunity to capitalize on my naivete. After that, my critical thinking skills (and skepticism) kick in, and the promise of buying an acre on the moon for ten payments of $19.99 or of happiness being five steps away with the purchase of this handy-dandy manual  seem a little less like the world's best investment. 

• At one point in my life, I could recite the dialog for just about every Simpsons episode from seasons one through about ten.  This strange talent emerged after my decision to forgo the evermore depressing national news in favor of that quirky family in Springfield throughout my high school years.  Who needs to memorize great works of literature when one can focus her brain power on pop culture icons instead?

• While the thought of speaking up in a meeting at work or talking with a stranger makes me physically ill, I have no problem singing every week at church in front of at least a hundred other people. And I don't do this as a member of a larger choir.  Most often, it is just the accompanist, the music minister, and me. At least during some parts of the service it is just me. And even though I know that music ministry is to enhance the worship experience of others, I recognize that this is my one little way into the spotlight. (Really, I would be flattering myself too many people take notice)  There must be something about the separation between me and those who are in the church that makes it easy to do this.  

There you have it. Something with a bit of randomness to it.  I encourage you to post a fun fact about yourself because really, who wants only to hear about me?