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.

A Scheming Neck

In “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” one of my go-to movies, the Portokalos family obnoxiously clings to their Greek roots while living in America. Toula, the first grown daughter to dare to date an American, struggles to keep the peace with her ultra-traditional, over-protective father. In one scene when Toula is particularly upset with her father’s stubbornness, her mother encourages, “Let me tell you something, Toula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.”

Though I (very fortunately!) do not have a family quite as crazy as Toula’s, Mrs. Portokalos’ wisdom holds true.  Even as we grow up, Hoffa is clearly the head of our household; he leads us, generously provides for us, and does not hesitate to discipline when necessary. But, there is also no question who is determining the Comptons’ direction.

You see, my mother is a schemer.

When she and Hoffa got married, they talked about taking a trip around the world. The Comptons are notorious for talking, rather than doing, but about a year later, a 27-year-old Mama confronted him.

“Alright, David, are we taking this trip, or what? Because if not, it’s time to start having a family.”

Hoffa responded with little hesitation. “Uhhhh, I think we’ll take that trip.”

She came home the next day announcing that she had given her two-week’s notice at work, which I think surprised Hoffa a little. The reality that they would soon be strapping on their backpacks began to set in.

So they went. The three-ring binder photo albums Mama meticulously scrapbooked from their four and a half months of travel provided hours of entertainment in my childhood, and the stories my parents share from that trip continue to humor and inspire me. While riding mopeds in Greece, Mama shocked Hoffa by intentionally jumping off as he approached a bend in the road, thinking he surely would have turned by now if he were going to. When virtually everyone speaks a foreign language, English-speaking travelers, different as they may be, begin to stick together. Along the way they connected with a loud New York Yankee and a sensible, witty South African. 

With the Berlin Wall still just recently crumbled, they tramped through and enjoyed inconceivably low prices in Eastern Europe. After they figured out that nodding one’s head in Bulgaria means “no,” and shaking means “yes,” La Crème was a highlight. While most guests were in their formal wear and officers donned their full uniform,  the American dollar in the my parents’ blue jean pockets more than compensated for their grungy backpacker appearances. With a string quartet playing in the background, they dined over a five-course meal, caviar included, for seven dollars. Understandably, they went back the next evening, still wearing the same clothes.

After the return of three very drunk men to the hostel room they were all sharing late one night, Mama got so put out that she abandoned them the next morning and began walking through Budapest’s grand, Soviet-influenced streets alone. Given her shockingly poor sense of direction and having no way to reach her, Hoffa was not sure he would ever see her again. Welp, it was nice being married I guess. She eventually made her way back, because they went on to marvel at the ruins of Ephesus in Turkey, bop through Germany and London, soak up the heavy mist of Zimbabwe’s Victoria Falls, and in South Africa, almost were charged both by an elephant in Kreuger Park and baboons in Capetown. They finished off their last month in the tropics, snorkeling off the Great Reef, enjoying every gratifying lick of fresh blackberry ice cream in New Zealand (they still talk about it today), and settling right in to island life in Fiji and Hawaii.

Obviously, that was the trip of a lifetime, but when the Compton kids were old enough, the tradition was resurrected. Mama’s schemes continued, employing her ability as the “neck” to move the “head” toward destinations all over the world. Using credit card points for the flight and often staying with friends, it was economically feasible to travel together. In 2007, aged 14, 12, 10, and 8, the Compton Clan ventured over to Ireland “to visit our first cousins.” While waiting for a layover at the Newark airport, the accent was already so different that Cain asked, genuinely curious, “What language do they speak here?” Needless to say, the even more distinct Irish accent was a challenge for him to understand. Though it was great visiting family, we only saw them for two days, and we spent three weeks in the United Kingdom… The first week, we stayed at the Sandy Field, the humble extra cottage of some family friends located on the strand of Sligo Bay in Northern Ireland.

The modest table inside only seats three people, so we ate dinner atop a blanket on the grassy knoll everyday. 

After a second week in Killarney, we took a ferry to England and were guests at Dean’s Court, a different friend’s manor inherited generations ago after the Catholic church’s property was divided in the aftermath of the Reformation. Everything about that first trip, from the plane ride to the pubs to driving on the other side of the road, was new and exciting.

Almost every summer since then, Mama has made it a priority to whisk the family away somewhere, instilling a love of travel in each of us and allowing us to spend quality time together in the absence of distractions. As we grow up, these trips are also her plot to keep the family together. So far, it's working.

2008: California (San Francisco, Yosemite)

2009: Return to Sligo County, Ireland

2011, January: Cross Country Skiing in Bend, Oregon with the Hayes Family

2012: British Columbia (Whistler & Vancouver)

(and celebrating Canada Day!)

2013: Nosara, Costa Rica

And now, here we are, in the present, just over twenty-four hours into our ten-day 2014 adventure in Durango, Colorado.

We flew into Albuquerque and stopped for lunch at El Pinto, a family-owned restaurant with a 1,000 guest occupancy capacity. The rental car woman (who probably got a kickback) recommended it, and she gave us a coupon for free appetizers, so we checked it out. El Pinto is one of those places that has framed pictures of famous people like Katy Perry and the presidents and Gabriel Iglesias all over the walls. Maybe it is a tourist place, but the ingredients were fresh, and the ambiance authentically southwestern. It also has a full-blown salsa factory in the back, making over 25,000 jars a shift. After trying my first Chile Rileno, I relaxed under the giant pergola laced with ivy, enjoying the gentle breeze and the absolute lack of humidity. 

"Y'all! We're on vacation! Gahh, I love you. I'm so happy to be with you."

I am notorious for these random outbursts of joy. I just have this uncontrollable desire to verbalize the obvious, to declare my affection or gratitude for the abundant goodness around me. They all laugh and roll their eyes. "Oh, Jessica, there you go again."

But it's true. We are so blessed, and though we have all been living under the same roof in Charleston this past summer, it's inevitable that we disperse to our individual daily to-dos at home. Here, the focus is on each other.

"You know, we really have a good time when we're forced to be together," Mama points out.

"Yeah, especially when we put our phones up," I respond. "Now where is my phone?"

The powerful smart device we each keep by our side really is the primary distraction from full-throttle family time. Well, yeah, our various phone apps, and also the Lego Movie. I kid you not. After lunch we stopped by a Red Box, and what do we watch on the four hour road trip to Durango? As we drive blindly by an unfamiliar landscape of distinct mesas bulging out of New Mexico's dry, bushy savanna? The Lego Movie. Yep. And my siblings have been bursting out singing "Everything is awesome!" ever since. The only thing potentially worse than that movie was the number of times we had to roll down the windows due to the rear sides of select culprit siblings. It must have been the Mexican cuisine at lunch, I'm not sure, but some of that gas was downright potent. 

Mama took her scheming to a new, wonderfully frugal level this year. We signed up for Home Exchange, and the people whose house we are residing in are currently staying at ours back in Charleston. From the back porch, just beyond a bit of suburbia, there is an incredible view of a sharp, jagged-top mountain, stretching hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the cowboy hat and boot struttin' locals of downtown Durango. As for altitude, we are adjusting. The single beer that feels like 1.5 beers at this height is a plus, but not compared to the lack of oxygen I am fighting. In the brisk, sixty degree morning weather (sixty degrees!), Georgia, RoRie, and I ran for a bit. Ten minutes in, my body was just fine, but my lungs were not. It was like they had forgotten how to work and little needles were threatening to poke all around them. I would breathe in as much as I could, and the oxygen just would not be enough.

I am not alone, though. Today we also hiked the short but precipitous trail just outside our house, and 59-year-old Hoffa took it like a champ. After we decided that all Compton trips forevermore will be tracked with the hashtag #ComptonsConquer, Hoffa kept brainstorming. As he caught up to us huffing, he announced he had another hashtag idea.

"How about...[deep inhale, heave of breath] #ChildrenPonderParentalProperty...andPerhaps...PursuePatrocide...astheyProceed...TowardthePrecipice."

"Yeah, hashtags don't really work like that, Hof, but good alliteration. We'll try not to kill you on this hike."

It always takes a little while for the Comptons to settle in somewhere. We have failed for seven years straight to do any significant advance research before a trip, so we spend the first day or so checking out the area and lounging around the house. A few years ago, my frustrations over our inability to get going before noon almost ruined my whole experience, but we have found a balance. This morning Mama and I hashed out a list of things we would like to do while we are here to go forth with a bit of purpose.

I doubt we will accomplish everything, but I am already satisfied with our goals, and I bet we will check off over three quarters of the list. While it still takes several more hours than I prefer to rally ourselves out the door, I have since learned to content myself with the rhythm of vacation, slowing down and filling my need for productivity with writing, reading, praying, and running. 

Most of all, I am thankful for this precious time with the people I love the most. Twenty-three years after my parents ventured on their trip around the world, the legend continues. Though the novelty of riding planes may have worn off since 2007, I treasure these trips we share, especially now that their future is hazy. With the uncertainties that accompany post-graduation, the annual Compton family adventure may begin to disintegrate, losing members to full-time jobs and the responsibilities of adulthood. Hopefully we can still keep it going, but for now, I will appreciate these past seven years, and I will enjoy the present. Thank you, Hoffa, the head of our house, for taking five other people around the world on your dime. Thank you, Mama, for being the neck to turn him toward an annual Compton adventure. May Durango be fun and memorable, and may the travel schemes continue!

Cruisin'

(Friday, 4 pm #WiFi Scarcity)

“Where’d you go?” my dad asks when I answer my cell phone. He had seen me on the porch all morning charging through the Epic of Gilgamesh – only the third bullet on a long list of summer reading assignments for English Seminar this coming year. The humidity had run me off, though, and I had retreated to the living room AC.

“I’m on the couch, Hof.” Man, cell phones have made us lazy.

“Well come on back outside for a second. I want to talk about something with you.”

For the purpose of this post, here are some things you should know about my father, who my family and I affectionately refer to as “Hoffa”:

In general, he is not a very thoughtful gift-giver, and he is definitely not a planner. As a businessman, he often runs with his out-of-the-box ideas. He is a natural delegator and prefers for others to do work for him. For instance, if Mama ever goes out of town, rather than cooking dinner, there is a nine in ten chance that we’ll be eating at a restaurant. He may be lazy on occasion, but he is also the king of unpredictable fun. I don’t know of any other father who has surprised his children (and wife) with a dock platform and thirty-foot rope swing! Above all, Hoffa is loving. He greets friends and strangers alike with a tight bear hug that will leave them gasping for air, and humbly goes out of his way to help treat others with kindness.

Since I had reminded Hoffa the previous day that Mama’s birthday would be tomorrow, I figure he is summoning me to help him with some last-minute outlandish birthday scheme. I am interested to see what crazy idea he has concocted, so without argument I close Gilgamesh and return outside.

“Mama has been working hard at Old South,” he says very seriously as I sit back down in the Adirondack chair next to him. “She needs to fly somewhere with cool weather for a couple days and relax.” For most people, this idea would almost be too ridiculous to believe. I just keep listening. This is such a typical Hoffa move, making up forgetfulness with extravagance. “I was thinking you could take her for her birthday. Look up some direct flights out of Charleston for tomorrow.” Now there was a curveball even I wasn’t expecting. There are perks to living at home for the summer and working for one’s father.

After a few searches, excitement building with each click, I reply, “Well, there’s Boston, Chicago, New York City...Selfishly, I’d choose Chicago.” Within minutes Hoffa has me recite the flight number and begins dialing United Airlines.

But look at those flight prices! I think. Chicago isn’t even that much cooler. And then we have to figure out a place to stay and check out the Chicago sights and walk around everywhere. It would be a lot like my weekend jaunts back in Italy – full of exploration and highly educational, but flat-out exhausting. Hoffa has good intentions, but a last-minute trip to a hectic city is not what Mama needed, especially at such a high price tag.

“Wait, Hoffa! Don’t call yet.”

I’m really not sure what made me even check. Maybe it was the daydreaming I had been doing of a potential spring break getaway this coming year. I did not know anyone who has been a passenger lately; the last time we partook in this gluttonously fun festival was a decade ago. I, like many Charlestonians, had become blind to the giant red, white, and blue eyesore of a smokestack fin sticking out over the harbor. For whatever reason, though, I find myself searching for upcoming departures.

“What about a cruise?!”

Bingo. In two days, the Carnival Fantasy would be embarking on a five-day sail to the Bahamas. The Bahamas! Now that sounded like a relaxing vacation. What’s more, it was a third of the price of a plane ticket. I share this information with Hoffa.

“Huh. Well that actually sounds pretty good,” he says. “But FIVE days?! I don’t know if I can handle everything around here that long.” Oh, brother. He needed a taste of Mama’s life.

Rather than booking the cruise online then and there, Hoffa had to ensure that we get the best price available. He contacts Cameron from Carnival Cruise line inquiring on any last minute deals with the persuasiveness that only Hoffa can muster. Cameron gives us the same price that I found online. Exasperated, Hoffa retorts that we already know about this price. We’re calling him for a deal.

“Are you working with a travel agent?”

“No, man! We’re using the Big I, the Internet! This is last minute, ship’s leaving either way. We don’t have to go, but shouldn’t the law of supply and demand work in our favor?”

“Uhhh, I think that’s already a pretty discounted price, sir. I can check with my manager and call you back.”

“Yeah, you do that. We’re countin’ on you, now, Cameron.  Call me back.”

Oh, Hoffa.

***

Georgia: “WHAT THE HECK?! If anyone needs a vacation, it’s me.”

Rosa Marie: “I could come back from Girls’ State early!”

Cain: “That’s so unfair! Why wasn’t I invited?”

Mama: “Wow. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Y’all certainly are creative. What fun!”

These are the immediate responses to the announcement over dinner that Mama and I would shortly be cruising to the Bahamas. Cameron can’t provide a lower rate, but Hoffa decides to book it anyway.  It is unfair, and if I were in my siblings’ shoes, I would have had the same reaction. But, as it was, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

I’d like to take a moment and set the record straight. I am not a huge advocate of cruises. I appreciate the boost their devoted passengers provide to the Charleston tourist industry (and thus, the Compton family income.) I understand that they are incredibly convenient and more economically feasible than alternative modes of travel. But cruising has got to be one of the most superficial forms of “travel” around. Rather than diving into a different culture and meeting locals, you immerse yourself even deeper into a bounty of American consumerism. Upon port of call, some 2,000 homogenous sunburnt Caucasians barge onto a pristine coastal town for five hours, pushing the tacky-ometer to disgustingly high levels. I think my beef is that it’s so easy. It takes all the fun out of the difficulties of adventure and travel – no navigation, no research, no work at all. Cruises are also terrible – TERRIBLE – for the environment. The fact that Carnival even has an environmental policy that is “committed to pollution prevention” I find quite comical. There are unusually high numbers of of grossly obese people exposing too much cellulite. Yet somehow, there is still an even greater amount of food waste. That kills me, especially when most of the waiters clearing our plates of leftovers are from countries plagued by extreme poverty. If all they know of America is from their service on deck, I cringe to think of what their impression of our country is.

And yet, despite my reservations, Mama and I have now been onboard 24 hours, and I am so grateful to be here. This isn’t travel, and that’s okay. Chicago would not have been rejuvenating. This is vacation, and the momentum from our busy lives is slowing down. In his spontaneity and generosity, this is the best kind of birthday present Hoffa could have given Mama. She desperately needs to catch up on sleep and to be served copious supplies of delicious food. As I write, my mother has now slept a solid three hours in the middle of the afternoon. She really is one of the most selfless people I know, but even she must make time for herself. No one deserves a few days of R&R more than her.

As for me, I don’t need a recuperation vacation. I had the flexibility to go and be Mama’s companion though, and this trip is exciting nonetheless. I’m not a very good relaxer, but it is nice to have several straight days of free time to read, write, and meet new people. Plus, with three other siblings, I never anticipated an opportunity to enjoy extended time just with my mom. I can already tell this time together will be a memory both of us treasure for the rest of our lives.

Even though Mama slept right through our plan to enjoy a cocktail by the pool this afternoon, I have a toast. Cheers to one of the most deserving mothers around. Cheers to a loving Hoffa, to good conversation, no preparation, and lots of relaxation. And, reluctance aside, cheers to cruising!

Relapse 1 - NYC

In 2007, the Compton Clan ventured on our first summer adventure to Ireland. Once as I walked through a vibrantly green pasture of sheep on a typically misty Irish morning, I contracted a sneaky disease.

Customs did not detect it on my return flight, nor did the Red Cross the first time I gave blood. It was so subtle, quietly developing in the core of my being, that even I didn’t notice for a while. It was there though, and it was malignant, fed by the family’s annual adventures…hiking in Yosemite, returning to pick cockles in Ireland, cross-country skiing in Oregon,  exploring Whistler and Vancouver, relaxing in Costa Rica. Each trip, it became stronger, taking over a little more of me. After a month in Cambodia and a semester of day trips and weekend jaunts throughout Europe this past fall, the Travel Bug has permanently found a host in me. There is no battling it. Yes, it can be subdued for a little while, but if I’m stagnant too long, I start itching to follow Mark Twain’s advice and “sail away from the safe harbor.”

Don’t get me wrong – I love D.C., and life has been anything but boring. Still. This is a strong Bug that I have caught, and it must be appeased. I began itching toward the end of January, and I quickly found myself evaluating my free weekends. Where I could go? Who could I visit? Several Megabus and Amtrak tickets were purchased one night, and Adventure beckoned.

I confess, I’m not one to battle this Bug too persistently; as long as I have the money and time, I see the demands it brings as welcome maintenance. I suppose I had my first remission this past weekend. Given the day off for President’s Day, it was pretty inevitable I would succumb to the Travel Bug. A group of IJM interns and I made a jaunt to the Empire State – the big apple, concrete jungle, city that never sleeps.

New York City. I’ve only been once before on a 7^th grade school field trip. I remembered being turned off by the dirtiness and lack of trees, and my memory had not failed me. It was a sloshy, snowy, freezing mess of a weekend. Even with the pollution and the dreadful weather, it satisfied my “disease.” I enjoyed getting to know my fellow interns better, feeling the magic of Broadway, and exploring the city for myself.  

Here’s a photo timeline of the weekend. Clearly, the bug is rapidly progressing. Discoveries made during my “first remission” will be published tomorrow.

Preach it, Subway

Cheap, easy transportation

 

It is too easy to step into a six inch puddle of snowy, half-melted slosh. Ask Vanessa.

Allegra and Lauren in Times Square

Empire State Building on Valentine's Day

Lebanese Shish Kabob, anyone?

 

Snow and cold at Ground Zero. Not fun. For such a sacred, thought-provoking monument, all I was thinking was, "Get me freaking inside that warm pizza shop. South Carolinians do not know how to deal with this.

Fifth Row to watch twenty handsome, energetic young men sing and dance. I'll take it!

Browsing the menu at Arabesque Restaurant & Lounge. Coolest ambiance and very authentic.
Morocco is now on my mental list of places to travel to.

Does this mean Spring might come after all?

Very long Sunday walk through Central Park.

I'm so grateful I joined in on this adventure. Thank you Allegra for taking the initiative to do a lot of the planning and organizing. It was a snowy blast!

Friends in Budapest

“Paris and London are sweet and I'd go there, but they aren't my number one destinations. Remote islands in Greece were sick, Hungary, Poland, Belgium were all amazing, so go to the big places just to go but if you are centered around those you are doing it wrong.”

One of my friends lived in Italy for a couple of years, and we began discussing where I should go during my time abroad well before I ever hopped on the plane. After he sent me this advice, Budapes(“h”)t, the capital of Hungary, was high on my travel list. Some classmates visited over fall break and raved. Instead of feasting at Sugah Cain, I packed all of my warm clothes and thanked God for my many blessings on a night plane from Rome to Budapest.

As usual, my friend Alea and I endured my rite of entry into any new place by getting thoroughly lost and walking all over the city. As we meandered, we admired the elaborate Art Nouveau facades on both average apartments and bank buildings alike. We also had a blast enjoying the unexpected Christmas spirit here – cold weather, decorative lights, chimney cake (basically fried bread) and mulled wine are a beautiful combination.

Chimney Cake = yummmm

I will always remember my weekend in Budapest, but it won’t be because of Hero’s Square or the Opera House or the shoe memorial for the Jews of WWII.

3rd Largest Parliament in the World

I tired of sight-seeing about halfway through the semester, and I have learned that it just isn’t what makes a trip. Rather than the tourist stuff, I will remember my last trip of the semester because of the great people we met there.

Jonah

As I took my first bite of hearty goulash soup, I heard an American accent ordering at the table adjacent to us. I glanced over to see an attractive young man sitting by himself. If you know me, you know strangers, especially Americans in foreign countries, don’t stay that way for long, and Jonah was no exception. A native of Los Angeles, he works in the entertainment business – writing, acting, singing, producing. He can do it all. He was traveling with his friend, but he had the last day to himself. After lunch, Jonah invited us to continue exploring Budapest with him, and we accepted the offer.

Jonah was a solid six years older than us with a real career, but we spent the whole day together and then met back up for a late dinner. When I think about hanging out with fourteen-year olds, I realize just how big that age gap and lifestyle difference is. His humor is dry, but it’s also witty. Our company may have been unusual for Jonah, but I think he really did enjoy the day with us. I certainly did. 

Tess
We returned to the hostel to meet a happy blonde chilling in bed with a backpack significantly larger than her small frame. Tess is 18, from Sydney, Australia. After saving up her money for a year, she is now on a gap year, traveling through all of Eastern and Western Europe. I was impressed. She had been backpacking with another friend for a while, but they had parted ways, and she was on her own now. Tess was supposed to leave the next day, but after talking together and planning on breakfast the next morning, she decided to stay another night and spent the whole following day with us. She even motivated me to go on a run with her around the loop on Margaret’s Island, a pinch of land in the middle of the Danube River. She had a kind, peaceful demeanor, and it is obvious Tess is growing up a lot. She went to an all-girl’s private school for six years, and she is over that culture. I think this year of traveling is helping her find her way.

Rebecca

When we returned to the hostel the next night, we were greeted by our fourth roommate. Also from Sydney, Rebecca graduated from Uni, got a big girl PR job for a year, and then set off to backpack the world by herself. She has already been gone for seven months, and has several more months to go. What an experience. I had so many questions for her, all beating around the main question I had cycling through my head – Can I just be you in two years? We shall see what is to come.

In less than a week, both Tess and Rebecca are going to meet up with us back in Perugia before we return home! I am happy to be able to offer my hospitality and show off an authentic medieval Italian town, but I am more excited to already reunite with friends I did not know less than a week ago.

The cool thing about the people we met in Budapest is that you know you automatically have something in common. Jonah, Tess and Rebecca were a little off the tourist track, too. Whatever brought them there, they carry some sense of adventure, the curiosity to explore the less known. The stranger the place, the more different the visitor will be, and the more likely one is to meet other travelers.  That formula creates something innate and easily ignited – the potential for great friendship.

London Love

London was not on my list of top places to visit. I should experience other cultures, I told myself, get out of my comfort zone. The urban center of Great Britain is not that different from America. But you know what? That’s exactly why I enjoyed this past weekend so much. Don’t get me wrong. Italy has been such a fabulous experience. Three months ago I only knew Italian stereotypes. Now I know Italy. I understand the cultural norms, and I have tried to acclimate to them (though whether I really have is a different story).  Culture clash – both in Perugia and during weekend travel – is draining. Mimed body language and late night dinners, catty women and staring men, limited grocery choices and impossibly long (yet simultaneously nonexistent) lines are some of the small differences I face on a daily basis. I think one of the most significant lessons I digested for myself in Cambodia seeing and experiencing the living conditions for the majority of the world. That lesson has continued during my time in Italy. Though Europe is made up of first world countries, even here people don’t live like Americans. These little challenges I face make living abroad memorable and worth it.

As usual, I digress. After a beautiful act of the Lord, the opportunity arose for me to visit London with my dear friend Tracey. No, London is not America, but comparatively, it’s pretty darn close. It is English-speaking, and it is a consumerist, globalized society. I confess, as much as I am trying not to live in a materialistic manner, I grew up surrounded by marketing and movies and Wal-Mart and the best customer service in the world. For one weekend, it was so nice to be able to understand (most) everything someone said and buy anything I wanted.  Familiarity is comfortable. On the bus ride from the airport, I was already developing a superiority complex over my ability to understand the language better than the rest of the Italian travelers. We saw a Costco, IKEA, Subway, KFC, and so many other chains just during our ride into the city. We were stoked.

We vowed not to eat any Italian food. Since there was a different ethnic restaurant every fifty meters, that was easy, and so satisfying. At one stop, I spotted a restaurant named L’artista. While I was repulsed by the idea of yet another pasta dish, the Italian woman next to me points to it and begins talking to her friend about eating there that night!

Spring Bowl

After settling in to Palmer’s Lodge (best hostel experience ever. I am not exaggerating), Tracey and I opted for Indian. The menu was a little overwhelming, so I told the waiter I wanted a dish with rice, chicken, vegetables, and curry, please. When the waiter walked away, Tracey whispered, “Jessica, you are so white.” It’s true… It was very much a When Harry Met Sally scenario, but I was just so happy to be able to get what I wanted and not be told how to eat my food. The supermarkets are even bigger in London than in America, and there’s nothing you can’t get. Other food this past weekend included Chinese pile up from a Camden Market stall, Vietnamese Spring Bowl, Lebanese platter, coffee large enough to nurse for a bit, Mochi icecream (gross), and a Chinese BBQ roll. My stomach has been missing vegetables so much, and it is happy now.

Globalization continued that night when we realized that the second Hunger Games movie was already released. It was fun both to be up on American culture and also act like typical Londoners, enjoying a normal Friday night. The next day we went to the Camden Markets, which provide anything you want at very cheap prices. It is dangerous territory for shopoholics. All of the stuff and the fashionable people wearing even more stuff sends this subliminal message that you need it. I kept reminding myself that no, I don’t need anything. I have everything already. Remember where these goods are coming from, Jessica. Imagine how they were probably produced. The quintessential consumerist devil and aesthetic angel were fighting it out on my shoulders. Mr. Red Horns did win the Battle of Wool, boasting a thick infinity scarf and a Fedora as its loot. The angel won the War, though, re-teaching me an important lesson.

The rest of the weekend was fairly touristy. We saw the sights, killed our feet walking everywhere, and enjoyed some rejuvenation in Regent’s Park. There was green and fall colors, and that did my heart well. My soul was filled up even more after Tracey and I visited Hillsong for church on Sunday. I haven’t been able to really worship since the summer. I haven’t been in a spiritual drought, but I needed some watering. That night, we watched an improv show at The Comedy Stand. My cheeks were sore from all the laughing. Gosh. British Humor – they’re just so clever! We finished up the weekend by almost missing our flight back to Perugia on Monday morning. Fortunately, we huffed it, paid five pounds each for fast pass customs check (where I downed ¾ of my beloved Nalgene water bottle because I forgot to empty it), and experienced the scare of missing the only way home without the repercussions.  I buckled into the plane seat thankful to have made it, but also sad to be leaving a city I enjoyed so much.

London was kind of an awesome tease of being back home. The reality is, though, that my departure date is quickly approaching. In a little over two weeks, I will be reunited with family and friends. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and rather than being home and feasting, I will be flying to my last travel destination of the semester –  Budapest. I am so grateful for the opportunity to study abroad. The friends, experiences, traveling, yes – even the cultural trials – have blessed me immensely.

The Sinking City

Pitiful as it is, I hardly knew the defining characteristics of specific Italian cities before coming here. Venice in particular was an enigma. Mama brought masks and glass earrings home from her trip a few years ago, and they meant no more than cool wall art and beautiful jewelry. I finally Googled some pictures and was shocked to find grand palaces which seemed to be floating on water, a whole city connected by hidden alleys and bridges, divided by water. The likelihood of getting lost is much greater than finding your destination. You know you’re headed the right way, and then, boom, there’s the Grand Canal, your destination across the water, and another dead end. This past weekend, I finally got to see this a-mazing (pun intended) city for myself.

To be honest, I don’t have the energy to tell you everything about my travels this weekend, which also included a day trip to Verona. In fact, I haven’t even shared the stories of the best trip I’ve taken thus far – the Dolomites. I don’t know where my initiative is right now; I’m still going in and out of ruts of feeling like I have a lot to do, and yet simultaneously feeling lost, without purpose. It’s very bizarre, and I’d appreciate some prayer. My situation is mainly teaching me that as awesome as life may seem, or even is, the deepest part of us will never be satisfied – not by travel, or money, or the best of circumstances. We will always long for a Rescuer, and I need Him desperately. It’s been an interesting discovery.

 But I want to tell you this: If you ever get the chance, Venice and its surrounding lagoons are worth it. The 80 euro gondola is not (college student that I am, I did not partake), but walking through that city an experience. There is a reason you have to battle thousands of other tourists. It’s a city worth seeing, but it’s a time bomb. Experts say it will be underwater in 70 years, and I believe it. In the fall, Venice battles serious flooding problems. At St. Mark’s, there weren’t as many tourists as the high season, but it was still hard to navigate because on must walk on raised platforms to avoid two foot puddles. Venice has its own mask, and at night, everything slows down. It removes it for a while, relinquishing part of its mysterious identity. You feel the presence of hundreds of past years in each stacked building or regal Ca’  – masquerades, high life, prostitutes, Jews. Peace, strife, and power struggles. Go, before it’s too late.

Moments

“Meet me at the fountain at 3:15.”

I finished ramblings on Blessed Umiliana dei Cerchi throwing in key words “local cult” and “importance of the elaborate veil” as necessary. At 3:05, my last midterm exam was done. I step through the arch of the Umbra Institute and onto the main city center, Piazza di IV Novembre. I weave through the newly arrived chocolate festival stands and extra tourists that literally appeared overnight, heading for the meeting spot. I don’t see them. I am a little early. I scan my surroundings more closely. There are people everywhere, but I don’t see a particularly special couple. They are not on the steps, but as I look a little higher, I catch a glimpse of a middle-aged man and woman. Their appearance is intimately familiar. Yet, seeing them across the world, in Perugia, a place no one from home has been, is more than bizarre.

They catch sight of me a few seconds before. Excuse the cliché, but there is just no other description for what happened. When I see them, my soul soars. In an instant, the deepest part of me, far deeper than my physical body, exudes joy. Mama and Hoffa! Backpack still strapped, I run across the piazza and up the stairs, almost tripping several times (but I do not). Then, I bear hug my parents. For six weeks, I have seen their pictures, I have heard their voices, but their physical presence is so close. They are real, here, in the flesh, and it’s almost too good to be true.

But it is true, and thus begins a week I will treasure forever. Chocolate festivities and a personalized tour of my Italian hometown. Lazy mornings and unadjusted internal clocks in a small, undersupplied agriturismo. Five days in a manual Fiat verging on toy size. Winding roads, close calls, car-sick stomachs, and a confused GPS . Classic Tuscan views - charming medieval towns, regal rows of cypress trees, grape vineyards, and golden hills. Two-hour pasta meals twice a day. Food festival, wine tasting, Duomo climb, Cinque Terre trek, and countless cappuccini. A (very) few moments of tension reminded me that I am their daughter and they are my parents. We went at the typically slow, rather unplanned Compton pace. It can still be frustrating, but I am also becoming more patient and appreciating the people I am with over the activities we do.

I savored the slow passing of each day, but the week disappeared all too quickly. Soon, instead of hugs of greeting and exuberant joy, I was squeezing two of my favorite people goodbye. I was sad, but I have grown up. I live independently now, and I knew I would be returning to a good place and even better people. I smiled, blew a kiss, and boarded. The train began to pull away. They stood on the platform waving, though I knew they couldn’t see me through the tinted windows. I waved back, and when I sat down, a buildup of my own tears surprised me. My heart had a more difficult time parting than my head, and as the invisible tie between us pulled tighter, the tears kept brimming. I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to gain my composure. Goodbye Mama and Hoffa. I’m so thankful for this trip. Near or far, I love you.

For the rest of my life, I can talk about the week I spent in Italy with my parents. I’ll remember these precious moments – the hello, the travel, and the goodbye – forever.

I saw them, and I ran