Bike Battles

 “Okay, I say we have a nice picnic and then turn the bikes in,” Cain proposed.

It was 11:30 a.m., and we had rented bikes for a half day of exploring the Durango area. Before we left the bike shop, the employee, still attractive despite his tattoo-covered body and earring gauges, came around the counter to suggest a route off of the four by six foot map framed on the wall of Pedal the Peaks, Inc.

“If you go all the way down on East College Drive, take a right onto East Eighth Avenue, and head on for another three blocks, there’s a great trail head on the left. It’ll take you up into the mountains and you’ll see some pretty incredible views.”

Alright, I think. This sounds wayyyy cooler than the Animas River trail. Some real mountain biking! Heck yes.

“Okay, so how much uphill is that going to be?” my mother asks with hesitation.

“Aw, probably a straight thirty or forty minute climb at the beginning,” Mr. Earring Guages responds matter-of-factly.

“Are you out of your mind?!  We are from the lowcountry. We’re not doing that. Tell me more about that paved river trail.”

“Haha, okay. Well we’re right in the center of it, so you can take a right and…”

My heart sinks.

I take back what I said in the last post about coming to terms with the pace of Compton adventures. I still have a long way to go to ever really be content. I know I should be grateful that we’re biking at all. But these are the moments that derail my patience and good-spiritedness – the ones where I am so close to real adventure, literally only a few miles away, and yet, I remain inhibited by the limited abilities and desires of my family. Yesterday was full of such moments, and hour by hour, it’s as if the gas was slowly increased, turning simmering frustrations into a raging boil.

I make some guttural heave of exasperation after Cain’s proposition. “I swear I’m not from this family sometimes.”

“Well I definitely know where I’m from,” he chirps.

“That’s my boy!” Hoffa concurs.

Two hours into the rental, the rest of the family had managed to bike a whopping five miles. Once we started out on the Animas trail, snaking along next to the river, I relinquished the prospect of mountain biking, satisfied with the still-gorgeous panorama views, but I replaced it determined to bike all fourteen miles of the trail at a speedy pace, gliding along the path’s curves and hills. When I got to the first end of the trail, I waited for the others to arrive. After five minutes, no one had come. I decided to kill some time riding around the parking lot and ensuring this was indeed the end. It was, I returned, but still no one arrived. I sighed and began peddling back up the trail.

A couple miles up, I found everyone at the Durango BMX training course. They called me up, and we all tested out the hills. Well this isn’t something you find in Mt. Pleasant. I thought. Not bad. Pretty cool, actually! Honestly, peddling off the ramp for that first round through kind of scared me. But the adrenaline which quickly began pumping through my veins propelled me to try again. With each attempt,  I improved a little, gaining what felt like feet of air but was probably only a few inches on some jumps and getting the hang of the ten small, consecutive rolls in the track.

…Until I didn’t. Round four, halfway through, I ate it. In an instant of wrongly shifted weight, I was flat on the ground, forearms burning, as I sneezed through the dry clay swooshing up into a mini tornado around me. Ow. I cautiously stood up and examined the damage: scratched up knees, raw pink scrapes just under my elbows, and another on my hip bone. 

I dusted off and biked through the course again, both to finish off on a better note and to assure my concerned mother that I was okay.

After the course, there was more fast biking along the trail (now with stinging arms), and more waiting. Then the call-it-a-day picnic proposition, quickly turning to reality. I tried to counter my dismounting family.

“Y’all. It’s not even noon yet.”

“Well, Jessica, you can go bike the rest of the trail. We’ll be sitting right here leisurely enjoying our picnic until you return.”

I know Hoffa was being facetious, but I gladly took up his suggestion. As my family rolled their bikes onto the grassy knoll, I threw my pack down, probably with a tad bit too much force.

“Sounds good. Y’all enjoy your picnic,” I responded bitingly, and then I was off.

I confess, I almost immediately got lost (only someone who inherited Mama’s sense of direction could manage that on a paved six-foot wide path), but I eventually found my way back on the trail, and it felt good to be independent for forty minutes, off exploring by myself, messing up, figuring my mistakes out, and re-discovering a little bit of freedom. And Hoffa was right. They were sitting there – lying, rather – totally content to just chill until I returned.

By the official end of our biking an hour later, I had pretty much progressed to full bi-otch mode. I knew it, but at that point I honestly could not help it either. As Rosa Marie, Cain, and I waited, Mama and Georgia joined us, but no one knew where Hoffa was.

Cain called him to investigate, reporting that he had been enticed by the free iced tea sign and entered a café along the river. You have GOT to be kidding me.

“You know what annoys me?”

“You’re annoying. No one wants to hear the stupid things you complain about anymore” Georgia snapped.

I clenched my fists and sighed. “I understand that. And I even am fully aware of the terrible mood that I’m in.” My voice rose as I gestured to the direction of the trail where I expected my lagging father would mozy along in another five minutes. “But I can’t help but be frustrated when Hoffa does stupid…”

 I sucked in a breath, but I began to giggle, a growing guffaw that does not complement the ability to explain very well. But I could not contain it: my terrible attitude, the meager distance we actually biked, the accident, the fact that my father has no regard for time. The whole thing is so ridiculous, and they all begin to laugh with me. I try to finish, slamming my fist downward onto an invisible table.

“…when Hoffa does stupid-ass things like get a freaking glass of iced tea while we’re supposed to be biking!”

It is not that I was actually outrageously mad yesterday. I can laugh, I can roll with the Compton family mishaps. After Saturday evening Mass, I apologized to everyone for my poor behavior, and they graciously forgave me. Yesterday reminded me how flawed I am and how selfish I can be, but also how I crave a more authentic form of adventure. I needed to get banged up on that bike course. I will be sporting these strawberry scrapes for a while, and I admit it – I am a little proud of them. I feel a teensy bit more B.A. displaying some wounds that testify to getting out and trying something that can cause injury, even if they are only there because I am terribly klutzy.

Most of all, these scrapes are a semi-painful reminder that all is in good time. Those more daring experiences will come. There will be more trips, more adventures, more opportunities to bike thousands of feet higher than Mama will ever be willing to go. But for now, even as I write and feel my raw skin rubbing against my shirt, these scrapes are a reminder to be present. Here, I am with my family, and at least they like to be outside and active. My frustrations do continue – I really want to climb Engineer Mountain, a hike with 2,400 foot elevation gain over a 2.5 mile span, and no one else is too enthusiastic about joining me on that venture. But as long as they are not lounging around the house all day (they have suggested it, and I have declared I will hike Engineer alone if that day comes), I choose to be with the Compton Clan, pursuing the quality time we have together over the next great excursion.

Are We All Animals?

Last night I had the great pleasure of attending a John Mark McMillan concert.

 I like John Mark; he's a musical and lyrical genius, but his style has changed a lot since the first concert I saw of his back in tenth grade. For me, the most entertaining part of the night was witnessing my friend Thomas. John Mark is one of his favorite artists, and he and his brother Jenks stood front and center, just below John Mark's towering stature. 

The one in the plaid with his mouth wide open.

He looked like a kid on Christmas day. Or a tween who just got Taylor Swift's autograph. Maybe it was a mixture of the two.

Thomas belted every word to every song. That is, when he wasn't dumbstruck. Or so in awe that he covered his face and looked up again just to make sure it was all real.

I could not stop laughing. But this is all just a funny side note to a very good night.

John Mark's tour is called "Are We All Animals?". Before singing Borderland, he posed the tour title question to us. If the end of the world was happening, do you think you would band together and support one another, or would you lie, cheat, kill - do whatever it takes - to ensure that you make it out alright? John Mark sees, and lives in, both camps. I think most of us do. We are innately selfish creatures. We can act like animals - unthinking, instinctive, just trying to survive. But we also have a great capacity for sacrifice, for community, for love. 

When it comes down to it, the question is: 

Are you going to survive, or are you going to love?

 This is a very real, very daily choice, and it's hard. So often I find myself in the selfish, survivalist camp. Cain regularly asks "If I wanna" give him a back massage, posing it as an ideal option, rather than a request. It's never a convenient time (No I don't want to! Nothing has changed in the last 24 hours since you last asked me!). It's hard to love other people, especially to love those you're not sure love you back. There is a great risk to it, too. As C.S. Lewis says, 

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

Vulnerability increases the risk to be hurt. I don't like to have my heart wrung. I've never really had it broken; I've given it to those I trust, and I've been hurt a little bit. But I have been playing it safe. Sure, even if I don't give Cain a massage, I'm pretty good at loving my family and close friends. Most people are good at that. But who are all the people I am not loving? How do I turn my gaze away from myself, moving it upward and outward? How could I love more?

A verse in Borderland goes:

Are we all animals?
Are we all animals sharpening
Our teeth and claws?
Stocking up on cannonballs
Living like nobody knows
They can’t hold on to love
And live by the law, the law of the jungle

John Mark concluded that we're not going to survive, so we might as well love. Jesus gave us the choice to follow Him and to love as he does. Fortunately, with his resurrection, he also gave us grace when we fail. So we keep trying to love. When we do, we become so much more than animals. 

Return to Roanoke

I’ve had some important revelations lately.

1.  My first year of college would have been hard no matter where I went to school*, because I was sheltered and needed to learn to live on my own. It just so happens that freshman year was at Roanoke, so bad associations were built from the beginning.
2. I have grown and developed a lot in the last two years, and – get this – I AM STOKED TO RETURN TO ROANOKE!!! Can we just get a few really passionate hoorays over that, because it is a miracle in itself.

How did all of this come about? A few weeks ago, I headed down to the University of Richmond for the weekend and reunited with Abby, my roommate and soul sister from Italy last semester. Our Sunday afternoon together was one of those unbelievably perfect spring days – not an ounce of humidity, the perfect dose of sunshine, and the fancy free feeling that only a trashed to-do list brings. Throwing the Frisbee, an a capella group practicing fifty yards away, the whole scene felt fake. But real it was; the stereotypical college brochures of pristine campuses and a group of diverse, smiling students that flooded my mailbox toward the end of high school came to life before me.

After a few months of my “grown-up” life in DC, with grocery shopping and cooking and commuting and eight hours in front of sedentary computer use, my outlook on college began to shift on U of R’s back quad.  I hadn’t been on a campus in nearly a year, and I realized what a privilege it is to be in college, particularly at a small, liberal arts school like Richmond or Roanoke. Returning the Frisbee to Abby, it was like I relinquished the negative feelings I’ve held against Roanoke for the past two years – the stress of piling on classes and striving for As, of hundreds of pages of reading and long nights cranking out papers, the deep loneliness of friends two states away. It wasn’t all bad, but something isn’t right when you dread returning to school after every break.

Throwing that Frisbee without any lingering papers or deadlines, though, I realized just how awesome and easy a college student’s life is. Not only do I have three delicious meals provided for me every day, but it’s my job to learn. Sure, it can be stressful and challenging. It certainly stretches one’s abilities, but that’s far better than mindless monotony. I get to go to class. I’m required to dig into questions through deeper research. I have countless professors who know me personally and care for me. Everything is in one spot. We’re showered with opportunities to attend lectures and participate in fun, free weekend activities. I’m encouraged to join clubs I like and spend time with friends. What a life!

The night before, we stopped by a frat party for a few minutes*. I’m comfortable enough in these environments now, but I certainly wasn’t comfortable with sticky, beer-spilled floors and hammered people as an impressionable 18-year-old. I steered far clear and never even went to one party freshman year. Inevitably, a divide developed between my classmates and me freshman year, and I was labelled the goody-good, albeit silently and without hostility. I’m still good, but I’m also 21, and alcohol and Greek life don’t scare me like they used to.

Nor do Yankees. While we’re at it, let’s just lay it all out on the table. Richmond and Roanoke’s student body both have a strong draw from New England. Few people say “y’all” and even fewer hold the door. I have amazing friends at home, and I had a tough time connecting with people who held different values and came from a variety of backgrounds freshman year. After my time in Cambodia and Italy, anyone who is American seems like me. The differences just aren’t that significant anymore.

After a few weeks to digest the realizations I had in Richmond, I made it down to Roanoke this past weekend, primarily to visit my best friend Kayla. Sadly, Kayla is a senior and I won’t have her around next year, but I’m still looking forward to returning for one more year of learning. My visit was kind of a litmus test to prove if the lessons from Richmond held true, and indeed they did. I have never been more excited to eat the prepared endless supplies of food brunch offered in Commons – Omelettes! Bagels! Waffles! A salad bar!!

There was also a folk duo playing that evening (one of hundreds of events sponsored by the school), and Saturday night I danced for hours downtown at a live performance of Folk Soul Revival. Top that off with a long hike, and I was reminded of one of the main reasons I chose Roanoke to begin with – it has the rare combination of a thriving city and the backwoods draw of Appalachian Mountain culture and adventure. Next year I will be setting aside the homework for the festivals and trails. I want to be Contra dancing, flat footing and enjoying bluegrass folk at its finest, and also mountain biking, white water rafting, skiing, backpacking, and rock climbing every chance I get.

Even though Kayla won’t be around, I still have plenty of community at Roanoke. I saw loads of friends, worshiped at Restoration, and hung out with my favorite adopted family, the Yertons.

By the grace of God and a lot of growing experiences, I will be returning to Roanoke as a transformed individual this fall. I am so thankful for my professional DC experience, and I'm thankful it's not over yet, but I have the rest of my life to be a grown up. I have one more year to be in college, and nothing – not a heavy class load, not an Honor’s thesis, not the loss of a best friend’s presence – is going to stop me from appreciating every moment.

---

*With the exception of perhaps Clemson, where I likely would’ve stayed in a comfortable bubble

**Disclaimer: I write this to be honest and also prove a point, but I’d like to throw out that this was officially only the second frat party I’ve been to in my three years as a college student. I’ve decided this is a good thing. If you are a senior in high school, I strongly recommend that you check it out from the very beginning of college, realize that your time is likely better spent elsewhere, and revert to movies and slumber parties on a calm Saturday night, confident in your weekend choices.

That's a lot of class time and a LOT of papers. But I get to be a student.

Folk Duo Friday night

Look at all those things happening at Roanoke!

Kayla, one of the best gals around

WHAT?!! Tinker Cliffs and the Shenandoah Valley

St. Patty's Day festivities

Meet Eric the bagpipe player. One of our goals was to take a picture with a man wearing a kilt. Success!

Folk Soul Revival

BRUNCH!

Love this church

Tessa Yerton is the cutest. Nothing like a family away from home.

Life Works Out

There are some side effects to this travel bug I have. Common symptoms include a heightened sense of surroundings, feelings of inferiority or superiority, an appreciation for home. My favorite is the opportunity for adventure. It takes you out of your comfort zone. And when you’re not in your comfort zone, you gain new, and often much needed, perspectives. My dad always said that backpacking around the world was the greatest education he ever received. By embracing travel and adventure, you inevitably open yourself up to learning new lessons. Here is the first I learned (or rather, re-learned) leading up to my weekend in New York City.

Life works out, and God provides.

For the first time, Valentine’s Day posed some challenges for me. After being inspired by Sleepless in Seattle, my friend began planning this trip so she could celebrate Valentine’s Day at the top of the Empire State Building.  The group was planning on taking off that Friday. Even though I tried to come in for part of the day on Wednesdays, because of my weekly field trips, I felt guilty about taking extra time off. I proposed that I would work and take an early bus Saturday morning.

If you know me, you know I’m not some angry anti-Valentine’s Day single person.  It’s not exactly a day I look at with the same fervor that I did when I received a mailbox full of candy in second grade, though. Most of the time, some girlfriends and I would just hang out together and have a fun night. All of the people with whom I’d want to be were going to be on the Empire State building. With my early bus, I would be hitting the sack early. So my prospects basically looked like a lonely night in, not only on a Friday, but on Valentine’s Day, when everyone else is going on fancy dates and sharing chocolate and wine, for goodness sake. That sounded really depressing.

When the New York group planned during our lunch break one day, it hit me how very ridiculous I was being to not just go to New York on Friday with the rest of the ladies. I checked with my bosses, who it turns out were completely alright with me taking the day off, and I changed my bus. Later that evening in the LCWS office, my friend Heather invited me to join her and her roommates for a Friday night of red velvet cupcake baking and rom-com movie-watching. 

All of this to say, it was so reassuring to know that if I had stuck to my original plans, I would not have been entirely alone on the commercialized holiday of hearts and roses. I felt God nudging my soul, reminding me not to worry. He cares for us, always. As the coming summer and post-graduation possibilities in a year loom closer in the forefront of my everyday thoughts, this lesson is particularly relevant for me. Everything is going to be okay. A lot of times, things just fall into place, and there is very little I can do to make that happen. Life works out, and in His time, the Lord makes all things good for those who love Him. Even in our Valentine's Days, He is our provider, and He is forever faithful. 

21

The clock has begun chiming 162,240 times. There have been 7,670 sunrises. I haven’t seen enough of them, but, following my birthday tradition, this is the one from this morning.

Right as it peaks its head over Umbrian hills. Thanks Mariah, Alea and Abby for joining me!

It’s not too eventful turning 21 in Italy, where I have been able to legally drink for the past three months, but somehow I don’t see my birthday festivities being all that much crazier on the other side of the Atlantic. I don’t deny the convenience of turning 21 two days before I come home, though! Every year, I learn and grow more. Things do not become clearer with age, but I’m banking that that is because I have become a more complex individual. Here are 21 thoughts. They are changes, lessons or reflections from this past year.

1. I have become more open and accepting of others, especially those with different lifestyles or views. I used to think I was already open, but I was not.
2. I learned how to travel. Go with purpose, but keep it slow and relaxed.
3. In Cambodia, I learned that no matter how poor I am, I will still be a very rich woman.
4. Whatever your work is, do it well. Do not let it rule your life.
5. Live the Italian way – take long walks and eat longer meals. Work is secondary.
6. The longer I live, the less sure I am about what I will do in the future or where I will be.
7. I might teach English abroad for a bit.
8. Going out is pretty fun. I am almost never inclined to go, even if I think I will be. Thus the uneventful 21^st.
9. I really do like writing and literature, and I’m glad I decided to study it. I think I could probably do something with it.
10. I cannot save the world. I am not that special. I can still do something.
11. Prayer is powerful. I knew that already, but I have seen it more in action.
12. Serving food is humbling.
13. Responsibility does not make life easier. It is still really good though.
14. I have become more selfish, but I also depend more on the Lord’s grace and fire to make me into something more beautiful.
15. My sisters are all grown up, and they are awesome.
16. Hospitality is hard, but it is a good way to love.
17. I have some seriously awesome friends in my life.
18. Some of my friends are starting to get married. Holy cow.
19. An awesome guy has not yet waltzed into my life; my awkwardness does not aid this issue.
20. I am a young adult now. With the right time and money, I can do most anything I want to do. That is an awesome time of life.
21. I don’t rely on Jesus as I should. I have found myself tempering Him, especially when I am not in Charleston. My faith is solidified, but I fear I don’t live it very well for others.

Thank you for all of the birthday wishes today. The presence and love of friends and family, even when you are thousands of miles away, reminds me how very blessed I am.

Lessons in Rome

 When you stay in Italy for a long time, you have to obtain a Permesso di Sogiorno, a permit of stay. It consists of a hefty tax, pages of bureaucratic papers, and several visits to the chaotic Italian post office. Umbra students were told not to make any weekend travel plans until we received a permesso appointment. Besides my lighter school load, I and other students studying in Perugia occupy most of our time preparing meals (A side note: It never ends, I tell you. My stomach is always thinking of the next meal. Alas, this is blog for another time.), uploading photos and being a little too connected to Facebook, and planning weekend travel. This permesso appointment was seriously messing us up.

Last Wednesday, though, Abby walked into the apartment with an announcement.

“We’re going to Rome!”

Well, okay. Apparently the permesso, in typical Italian fashion, had been postponed to next month. We began planning our weekend travel in a spirit of spontaneity, booking hostels, buying train tickets departing Thursday afternoon, and consulting the dependable Rick Steves’ Guide to Italy.

Allow me to cut to the crux. I am not going to tell you about every single thing we saw in Rome. That is boring; I don’t even want to read that, much less write it. We cycled through the typical tourist’s “Rome in 3 Days” route. I did, however, gain some eternal perspective and practical travel tips. Those, I think, are worth sharing.

The millennia of history seeps through city stone, and the museums displays mankind’s most coveted pieces of historical and artistic creations. It is the ultimate fieldtrip, and one really must experience it for himself. I found myself retrieving tidbits of the history and Latin I had learned in school (thanks Mr. Duckworth and Mr. Wagner) and wishing those teachers could be there with me, allowing me to know and appreciated more. Even in my ignorance, though, I had some takeaways.

First, worship is part of the human DNA. Pagan, Christian, or political, I was struck by the historical tendency to worship and honor. There are so many masterpieces humans devoted their whole lives to creating: an ancient, massive temple to Jupiter; ornate tapestries running the length of walls hand-sewn by nuns; the more recent Victor Emmanuel monument commemorating Italy’s unification. We like big, impressive things, showing how great our devotion is. I think that speaks to the way God created us.

Second, I gained a new understanding of the brevity and unimportance of my small, meager life. Seriously, just living abroad has tripled my existential moments. I look around and realize that I am truly a speck. Over and over I admired statues and paintings, dumbfounded. All I could think was, Wow.  This is a masterpiece, this is old. It was here long before me, and it will remain long after me. Here I am, miniscule and temporal.  Then I walked down a hall with several hundred busts, and I would think to myself, These are the important, rich people. For each of these, there are billions more unrecorded lives in the world’s history. That’s something to chew on.

Third, I am thankful to be in Perugia. Speaking Italian (or trying to, anyway) isn’t a question here. In Rome, you can speak English to everyone. It is crawling with tourists.

And now for those travel lessons.

Learn military time.

Other than saving space on the face of a clock, AM and PM really is more conducive to error. It’s what I’ve used my whole life, though, and right now mistakes go the other way. I’m constantly subtracting ten and two to figure out the time, and my mental math – however simple – isn’t that accurate. Because of this, we ended up arriving at the stazione an hour after our train departed. We had to wait another hour to catch a later train. Sorry guys.

Plan and prioritize.

I left my passport in Perugia. I am not joking. And my phone charger and one less pair of underwear than I would have preferred. Thank goodness I had a copy of my passport, lax hostel receptionists, and friends that take lots of pictures to suffice for my dead phone/camera. We tried to meet up with the guys we met in Assisi last week. With the advent of cell-phones, the world has adjusted to last-minute planning, and you just can’t do that when you travel. We did finally rendezvous, and it was wonderful to see them again, but our delayed arrival and vague communication was not helpful. We didn’t think about where our hostels were located in relation to each other, or where exactly to meet. I also didn’t really check the weather. While Perugia is quickly turning to brisk fall weather, Rome was still hot and humid, and long-sleeved shirts were not the right clothing choice.

We did a lot. I’m glad we packed a lot into our days with a go-get-‘em attitude, but it was exhausting and not too fun.

Vatican city should be enjoyable, but it just wasn’t. St. Peter’s Basilica was so crowded with tour groups that I felt like we were defiling its holiness. I was so claustrophobic and frustrated that I couldn’t appreciate it at all. If you try to do everything, you will go from looking like this:

To this by the end of Day 2:

Exhausted. Let me sleep.

Not worth it.

Be bold.

Don’t be stupid, but don’t be afraid to start conversations with people. That’s one thing I’m not too bad at. All it takes is one question and a friendly face. As we enjoyed lunch, Abby could see into the kitchen and was eyeing the chef’s pizza-making skills. He invited her in; she was hesitant. “Abby, if you don’t go, I’m going for you.” She went.

The pizza dough is flying in the air.

I’m always the one talking to people and breaking group bubbles. I met a girl traveling around the world by herself, a missionary family living in Perugia that I hope to reconnect with, and these crazy Brits:

The result of a drunken bet two years ago. They all bought crazy hats and shirts and drew lots for who wore what. They then had to sport them around Rome for the day. Not a bad idea.

 Abby wanted to take a picture. They all looked to me. There is literally nothing to lose in a situation like that, so I went and asked if they spoke English. We got our picture and heard a great story.

Let your plan go.

There is a balance between doing the touristy necessary things, and just stumbling upon a memorable moment. I am such a list maker and achiever, that this is often hard for me to digest. While I have an agenda for each day, my parents have long held the philosophy that the only way to travel is without one. I am beginning to understand their wisdom. Unlike museums, the experiences you happen upon also tend to be more relaxed, enjoyable, and free. We finished our whirlwind checklist by Saturday afternoon, so we slowed the rest of the weekend down. We sat in a piazza and watched the street performers. We wandered to the Spanish steps, and low and behold a group of families were making a night singing American rock songs.

Sunday morning we meandered through Rome’s largest park, Villa Borgese. I loved this. It was my favorite walking of the whole weekend. Trees! Grass! Locals!

Rome is a big city, and it’s not to my liking. It gave me the chance to reflect, gain important travel lessons, and relax, though, and I needed to do that before I go anywhere else. I still learned  a lot from this Italian metropolis, and my whirlwind trip has transformed my travel style. 

Photo credits to Abby Wilson. Bring a charger for your camera...

The Next Time I Tromp Through the World...

In general, I am a bargain shopper. Take me to Goodwill or Uptown Cheapskate or just give me your old clothes. I do have one weakness, though, in which I will sacrifice way too much of my last pay check. I really love durable outdoor clothing. It’s the only time I, excuse the pun, buy into the name brand cult. Other people might think I look like an idiot, but I feel cool. I tell the world, “Hey! I’m going off on a grand adventure, and I have the right clothes for it.” What better time to utilize all of my trendy rugged wear – and buy some more of it – than when backpacking in a foreign land like Cambodia?

Northface pants that roll into capris or zip into shorts; another pair of North Face shorts; two Exefficio shirts, one insect repellent, the other quick dry; three pairs of Exefficio underwear; two “quick dry” sports bras; three pairs of socks, two Darn Tough Run/Bike cushion footies, one Smartwool Hiking cushion calf cut; L.L. Bean lightweight UV protective long-sleeved button up; two Nike athletic shorts. And of course, Salomon hiking shoes and the beloved Chacos. I know, I know, it’s silly and ridiculous. It’s just my one fetish. Bite me.

I packed for this trip wanting to use the right gear. I didn’t actually register it in my brain, but subconsciously, I was going to be “intense” about this. Three weeks later, I’ve learned a few things.
 

• You will want to look normal. Most of the time, in fact, you will not be adventuring. Bring clothes you can wear to restaurants and the beach and not look like you’re about to go on a Safari.

• If you are surrounded by four beautiful sorority girls, you will begin to want to try to look as good as them. It’s okay to bring makeup and a necklace.

• Tweezers for the uni-brow that will inevitably grow back are also recommended.

• Just bring a versatile dress.

• Sports bras take forever to dry after you wash them in the sink, and they are susceptible to a lingering sour smell. I guess I hadn’t figured this out in the last decade, but they flatten your boobs. When you buy the dress you didn’t bring, you just want a normal bra.

• You will not want to wash underwear every day. Bring a few more pairs.

• Contrary to what you thought when you were packing, Chacos do not match everything. The only time Chacos really feel cool is at camp when everyone else is wearing them. Halfway around the world, they start to feel incredibly clunky. Wear flip flops like everyone else. (But still bring the Chacos.)

• The collapsible tooth brush seems like a good idea. It will do its job and collapse twice a day when you brush your teeth. Bring a normal one.

• Money belts are dumb, sweaty, and make you feel fat. Be smart with your money and pack a sling over purse.

• Bring extra contacts and contact cases. You will have eye trouble and feel like a dork wearing glasses 24/7.

There you have it. Apparently I’m a woman who likes my girly comforts after all.

Feeling gross and silly.

Welcome, Friends

Back in November, I went on a "Shootin' and Stompin'" weekend jaunt to the outskirts of Southwest Virginia. Damascus may not be as well-known as its namesake in Israel, but it has its own signature heritage. Two of my friends shared their hometown in two fitting activities of the area - skeet shooting and flat-footing.

It didn't take long to discover that I am not a good shot. Tim explained the logistics of skeet as I ventured up to the shooting range for the first time, awkwardly toting a large gun under my arm. Stand like this, turn off the safety, say "Pull" and I'll release the pigeon. Take some time to align the gun with the skeet. Then pull the trigger.

Okay, let's go. I got this.. yeah, in theory I totally did.

I stand, I turn the safety off. "Pull"BANG! Every time the trap released a clay pigeon, an eternity seemed to pass before I pulled the trigger. In reality, I was uncomfortable, had no experience, and shot immediately after the orange flying saucer was launched. Some people are motivated by a challenge like that. To me, hitting those moving targets in the sky seemed unconquerable. I just felt like a failure. Standing around the fire, I complained about how shooting guns and missing the target was no fun at all.

Janie rebuked me. "Jessica, you just don't like doing something you're not naturally good at the first time you try."

She caught me, and she was right. A lot of people there were pretty good with guns. That night, as I eagerly hit the floor on the opening song, it took a little more courage for them to try out their dancing feet and stomp around to some live mountain music.

I tell you this story because of a truth I was reminded of. Ever since childhood, I have been afraid of failure and judgment. I hate not being good at things, and often, I would rather not try at all than feel like a fool. My perfectionism can be so inhibiting. It's why you don't see me playing a sport now; I never would try as a kid. Irrational as it may be, this fear is a primary reason I have never begun a blog either. Putting your writing out there for anyone to read intimidates me, and the lies begin flowing. What about my voice? I feel like it changes depending on my audience. Who is my audience? My writing won't be good enough. I can't do this. But I am an English major, for crying out loud. I better be able to write a little bit. I've got funny stories to tell, travel memoirs to remember, and God questions to mull over. They're all different, but they're coming from the same person, so I guess they will be from the same blog.

So thank you, Janie Foster, for calling me out on my fears and helping me set this blog up. It was a good Friday night, friend.

I am almost finished reading the first Lord of the Rings book. This quote is from it, and I think it's a good reflection of this blogging venture I'm about to begin, as well as the constant call to step outside of comfort and share the Gospel. Blogging seems petty in comparison.

"This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and the counsels of the Great."

Here I go, stepping out of my Mt. Pleasant/Roanoke Shire. In the next year, I have a lot of adventures ahead of me - flights to Bermuda, Cambodia, and Italy have already been booked. A semester in DC will follow in the fall, and I don't know how my journey will unfold after that. I am certain of this, though: it will. Life will keep on going, and I will walk with it in fullness and freedom. No matter the physical distance, I want my friends to be able to walk by my side. I'm off, venturing into unknown cyber and real-world territory. I hope you will join me.