Cartagena

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I step out on to the bustle of a street in Getsemani, a working neighborhood in Cartagena.  At once in the warm morning light, the smells of morning in South America assault my nostrils – soap and dirt mixes in the streets as businesses clean their floors in the morning light, mopping soapsuds into the gutters strewn with dust, chicken bones, and banana peels.  Urine in the doorways from some temporary passerby the previous evening intermingles with the inviting scent of strawberry pastries, newly baked and awaiting consumption in the bakery a few doors down.  Mangoes, chopped and displayed in a plastic cup for easy eating; limes, papayas, plantains, apples, passion fruits crowd the sidewalk forcing me into the street where I dodge carts, taxis, stray dogs, and the gente, making their way in the early morning light to work, meetings, or breakfast.

The warmth of the stucco walls painted in striking hues of pink, blue, orange, and yellow, offset with balconies and brightly colored doors, envelopes me when I pass by as though I were family.  I don’t worry about the way I’m holding my backpack, or the fact that I’m carrying my cell phone in my hand.  I wonder at our insistence on buying “alternative” wedding rings for traveling.  This is not a place I feel the least bit threatened.  I greet people with a slow, drawling “buenas” as I pass.  I saunter.  I don’t rush.

Cartagena breathes its own breath.  It is a city of its own making, its own shape and form, its own design.  Its colonial history informs its every action – the hierarchy of the fruit venders, the walls guarding the perimeter, the subtle verbiage used in the streets.  Cartagena is vibrant and alive – a city growing of its own ingenuity and richness rather than the calculated designs of urban planners and architects.  Cartagena rises and falls, soft and welcoming, heart pumping, sensual and alive.  It’s a city that stirs your blood and your loins.

It’s been a week and a half since I arrived.  And with each day that passes I fall more deeply under the spell of Cartagena.  I repeat the name, slowly, over and over again, swallowing my “g” sensually.  I consider naming my first child Cartagena.  I reconsider. I walk slowly, letting the hazy light fall gently, warmly, over my skin.  I wander the streets with my love, mojitos coursing through us, wondering where exactly we are amidst the old, winding streets.  We rise and fall down off the sidewalk and up again, into the street, around a fruit peddler, over a giant hole, under an overhanging window. This is not a city for the distracted – it holds you in its gaze and makes you pay attention.

I spend many a moment reflecting on the grace that has brought me here, and the warm soul who shares this adventure with me.  Though the future holds many uncertainties for us, each morning as we walk through the calles I feel that all is as it should be – we are in the right place, doing the right thing, and experiencing the wild a varied palette laid before us each day we spend in this beautiful world, growing together and storing away a cache of memories and experiences that will sustain us over the many years ahead.

Cartagena, Taganga, Santa Marta Reflections

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We’ve found a bit of time to reflect today, mostly because Rick is suffering a bit of flu or something like it.  It’s hard for me to watch him be sick, in part because he never is.  I know if he is complaining that he’s sick, it’s to be taken seriously.  

Perhaps his illness came as a result of our weekend, which I have to say was awesome.  After our spanish classes ended around noon on Friday, we put our suitcases in storage at our hostel and with the bare minimum, boarded a bus for Santa Marta.  The town, about four hours away by bus, felt a bit further.  That was mostly due to our being wedged into a Marsol shuttle with very little air conditioning and constant mariachi-esque music.  I don’t mind the music, but it makes Rick crazy.  What bothers me, however, is when I can barely fit my short little legs into a seat.  How can people taller than my 5’4″ (e.g. most men and many women) fit into these seats with any semblance of comfort if I can’t fit?  There must be some sort of legal recourse for this…

Santa Marta

We arrived in Santa Marta in the early evening.  The sun had just set, and though nobody in the bus seemed sure where the ride would end, we got off at the second stop which we understood to be the city center.  We were right, but certainly not sure of ourselves until we checked a map.  We wandered to our hostel, La Hostal de Jackie, and checked in. It was a pretty nice place with a cool rooftop bar, though our room left something to be desired.  After a brief review of the recommended options in the guidebook, we made our way to the Plaza de Novios, which was hopping on a Friday night.  The square was surrounded by popular cafes with tables and patrons spilling out into the streets.  We chose Ouzo, one of the cafes the guidebook recommended and proceeded to eat what has so far been our best meal in Colombia.  This is an important distinction since almost every meal has been fabulous.  After dinner we walked down to check out the beach, but the waterfront was mostly industrial with only a few places for people to swim.  We did a similar walk through the city after breakfast in the morning, but I was itching to get to Tanganga so on we went.  

Taganga

Taganga is clearly a must-do on the Gringo Trail.  The small town is full of young tourists, and it seemed to me that our hostel, La Masia Summer Hostel, was sort of the epicenter of that crowd.  We checked in just before noon and had the pleasure of watching many a hungover-looking 20-something emerge slowly from his or her room, heading to either the hostel cafe or a local restaurant to replenish himself from a big previous night.  It was pretty comical.  As we waited to check in an Aussie guy and his Irish travel-mate, whom he referred to as simply “Irish” made their way in.  Neither could find their passports, and one didn’t have the slightest idea what day it was.  I almost felt bad for them, but that didn’t stop me from giggling a bit at their antics.

But, tourists aside, Taganga is a picaresque fishing town, nestled in a blue bay surrounded by steep mountains that are much more arid than I anticipated.   The drive into the town is spectacular and reminiscent of some areas of Spain, from my recollection.  There is excellent food (I highly recommend Pachamama!) and the prices are good too.  We enjoyed cruising around the beach, having a drink and a meal along the water, and then we took a dip in the hostel’s pool where we could see the sunset over the Caribbean.  Not bad.

On Sunday we took a snorkeling trip to the Tayrona National Park.  It was a bit bittersweet for me – I was happy to be out on the water and soaking up the sun, but wish we’d been doing SCUBA.  Rick, however, is much happier when he is not wearing a weight belt and a mask in the water, and that’s fair.  So, snorkeling was a good compromise.  We hopped on a small boat which was taking some divers out, and spent the morning snorkeling at two neat spots in protected bays of the park.  Though it wasn’t quite like the SCUBA I did in Bali, or my dives on the Great Barrier Reef, I really enjoyed the corals and the diversity of smaller fish and sea life that we found in Tayrona.  The water was colder than I had anticipated, and I enjoyed that.  It was refreshing, clear, and the sea felt more active.    We stopped for lunch in a little bay with a small beach, then made our way back to Taganga.  

The day on the water was good for Rick and me.  We were happy to get sun on our faces and wind in our hair.  I think there is nothing more invigorating than being out on the water. Rick laughs at me, but I could stay in the water all day just gazing at fish.  I love it!

So, that was Taganga in a nutshell.  

We’re back in Cartagena and back in our spanish classes.  I really love this city – it deserves an entry of its own.  But that will have to come when my sick husband isn’t looking at me with puppy dog eyes begging me to come to bed.  Buenas noches!

 

 

 

Coming to Colombia

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If you’re following along at home, we’re now in Colombia.  After a pretty bittersweet realization that we were sick of not having a home of our own (as we were driving somewhere in Iowa, having a pained discussion over travel logistics), we decided to truncate our plans for traveling more extensively in South American and the Caribbean and determined that a month in Colombia would suffice to scratch our travel itch.

On the way out, we spent a fun night in Chicago with some of Rick’s friends before boarding a plane bound for Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast of Colombia.  With an overnight layover in Panama City, Panama, it was the cheapest ticket we could find and it didn’t require us to fly through Bogota.  However, it did require a stop in Panama – something I would normally be excited about except that my passport expires at the end of March, making me just a few days short of the three month validity needed to enter the country. Definitely a potential issue.  But, we thought to ourselves, “Hey, the most they’ll do is keep us in the airport.”  So, though I was pretty apprehensive about trying it, once we landed, we made our way to immigration to head into Panama City.  We waited in line for almost an hour, and when we approached our agent he was all smiles.  That is until I saw him whip out his counting fingers and determine that I was a few days short of the required minimum.  He let out an agonized whiney sound, apparently exasperated at the fact that we were so close, yet so far from being legal, then told us to wait a minute.  I nodded, and mentioned our connecting flight to Cartagena the next morning.  About 10 minutes later he came back and asked us to follow him.

We walked to a small office where another couple was waiting, and watched our agent plead our case to a small, mean-looking woman inside.  He returned to us with his head hung low and looked me in the eye,  “You will need to take the next flight back to Chicago.  He can come with you or stay.”  I looked at him and decided to play the stupid card, “I don’t understand!  Can I speak to someone else?” He repeated again that I would need to fly back on the next flight to Chicago, leaving in a few hours.  In absolute disbelief,  I looked at Rick, looked at my agent, and said , “We could stay in the airport!  If I had never come through immigration, you wouldn’t have even known.  Please, we won’t leave! We have tickets to Cartagena in the morning!”  He looked at me, sighed and agreed that, yes, they would never have known the difference. Then he turned back towards the office to plead my case again.  I glanced at Rick, my eyes saying clearly, “Why the hell did we attempt to leave the airport!?”

Moments later, the little mean-looking woman came out and barked, “digame!” at me.  I explained, over mounting tears, that we had tickets for Cartagena in the morning and that we only wanted to stay in the airport.  We didn’t need to leave.  She looked at my tickets, thought about it for about a minute, which felt more like ten, and then agreed that if we didn’t leave the airport we could go on to Cartagena. We turned, mounted the stairs back into the airport and settled in for the night.

So, with an awkward overnight in the Panama City airport, so began our travels.

Now, after a bus ride so bad it’s actually funny (I sat next to a piece of cardboard which replaced a broken window, there was glass all over the floor, the video player was broken and repeatedly played one accordion note about every two minutes, and then the bus broke down and we had to switch in Barranquilla), Rick and I are back in Cartagena for week two of spanish classes.  We’re having a great time so far – loving all the AMAZING food, welcoming and friendly people, and warmth – and mostly just trying to find a balance between work and play.  I have to remind myself that traveling in South America isn’t all fun and games – or that maybe I have passed the point where what used to seem fun now just seems irritating.  There is a lot of garbage, a lot of bad and overpriced hostels, and a lot of really loud, young Israeli, Argentine, American, and Aussie tourists.  Having been young, loud, and a tourist once before around here, I now see with a newfound maturity, how obnoxious it can be.  Though, I shouldn’t blame the tourists exclusively.  As we travel, Rick and I are realizing that our lifestyle of waking up at six for a workout and going to bed by eleven, just doesn’t compute with the standard Colombian schedule.  So, it goes, and we adapt. And by adapt, I mean, we lose workouts and occasionally some sleep.

But, hey, we’re having fun!

Soul mates?

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I sleep tonight in my Grandpa’s house.  I try to stay here when I’m in town because I don’t like the idea of him in a big empty house alone.  Though, he would never consider himself entirely alone here – and neither do I.  

When I stay with him, we share dinner and tea, and more tea, until the evening begins to slip away into reminiscing about years past, and the harder things in life – loss of your partner after decades of life together.  Inevitably there are some heart wrenching discussions,  often tears, and for me an ever-present reminder of what it really means to share a life together – to commit to each other until parted by death.  I know it’s pretty heavy.  But, life is heavy sometimes.  For my Grandpa, life is heavy a lot lately.

Tonight I asked him if he and my Grandma were soul mates, because I always think of them that way.  But, when I asked he laughed!  “What does that even mean?” he exclaimed!  

It seemed an odd reaction. I guess I just assumed that after 64 years together and a spiritual connection that continues today, that he would not shy away from the term.  But, he laughed at me!  And, I had to take a bit of a step back and laugh too.  I can’t tell you what I mean when I ask if they were soul mates.  What are soul mates anyway?

So, I googled this question – as you do.  I came across a host of conflicting and confusing answers.  And, I guess that makes sense. We are all just dumb humans trying to share pieces of our unique experiences as general wisdom.  And, so it’s logical that there isn’t a clear definition of a soul mate available on the world wide web.  But, it never hurts to at least have a look.

So to add to the general wisdom or lack thereof here’s my take:

There’s a part of me that will always believe in the concept of a soul mate as a visceral connection between two people – something that can’t be described in words and which can’t be replicated. When you’re with a soul mate, the rest of the world falls away.  It’s a powerful and life-altering level of connection with another human being.  I might even go as far as saying that it’s as if two souls are walking the same path and share a deep, unspoken empathy for the personal challenges and desires of the other because they are the same.

But that said, the above description only goes so far to describe partnerships for life like what my grandparents shared.  Deeply connected or not, when two people commit to accepting and working with each other to make a life together there is an intrinsic level of soul connection.  There exists, perhaps, in these partnerships, a stronger arc of compassion for the differences that exist between two people and a more broad acceptance of variations in personal nature and outlook.  The relationship is more about acceptance and love than pure visceral connection. Perhaps these are the more sustainable versions of soul mates over the long term.  

I don’t think one is better than the other, and I think they both truly are soul mates.

Despite his laughing off my question, I think what my Grandpa and Grandma shared surely achieves the definition of the latter, if not also the former.  Perhaps they didn’t feel each day of their lives spiritually connected and drawn to each other (or maybe they did), but the reality is that they stuck it out and worked with each other’s flaws and imperfections day to day, to make the best they could of life as a partnership.  

This is a concept that I have considered often over the last several years, and I so wonder at other people’s interpretations of it.   Why, as a concept, do soul mates even exist?  Why do we feel the necessity of defining particular connections as uniquely important?  What purpose does this serve?  

Me and my love are headed to Colombia for a month starting tomorrow.  I will write more on soul mates there, with Marquez guiding my thoughts on the subject.  

 

 

Up north

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My parent's cabin

It’s been a year and a half since I last visited my parent’s cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin.  Then, it was summer and I’d rallied a crew to join me from various parts of the country.  We drank wine, swam in the lake, and enjoyed sunsets to melt your heart.

Now, it’s -16 degrees.  Snow drifts around the house, and the lake is buried under ice and criss-crossed with snowmobile and cross-country ski tracks.  The sound of the woods is silence, broken by the creaking of frozen trees in the wind. The winter sun sets about 40 degrees south on the horizon from its summer roost.

I love the seasons here: the falls with their pungency, their color, their sense of tangible resignation to the slow descent to winter.  The springs with turtles rambling about laying eggs, the smell of pine and mud permeating the air.

I have spent many of my most enjoyable New Year’s Eves here, with many other close families, skiing all day, cooking chili by night, all of us trudging through the ice and snow of the lake to celebrate the new year with a toast of champagne under a cold, star-filled sky on a frozen island.  This place holds so many of my dearest, most wild and fun, and some of my most painful memories.  Its fabric is woven into me – the time my dog drowned in the lake and I had to pull her lifeless body out and bury her in the darkening evening as my sisters and I cried and got eaten by mosquitos; the time my boyfriend came to watch me run my first marathon and held me later that night in my exhausted soreness telling me how impressed and proud he was; the time I brought college friends here to hide away before finals and we baked blueberry pies and drank homemade wine after studying all day by the fireside; the summer days when my sisters and I would build forts in the woods and catch crawdads and snakes.

I love this place with my whole self.  It’s an incredible homecoming to be here after our months of self-imposed homelessness.  It reminds me of what matters to me and what I want for my own future.  It is such a great way to recall my memories of family and friends, and tare the scales of my life with my priorities.  Rick is not with me, he is celebrating the new year with his family before we leave to head abroad.  I think for him too, this bizarre exercise we’ve been performing of criss-crossing the country in search of a home, then coming home, then heading abroad, and hoping the pieces fall into place for us, it’s all very confusing, but I think the time back home serves us well to establish a base of where we come from and what we want going forward.

Scary

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Rick was on the phone with his family; I was making my way onto the highway headed for Chicago.  As I approached the speeding cars to my left, the onramp descended.  I spend down the ramp, and below me I saw a semi truck in each lane of traffic, preventing either from moving over to let me merge.  I slowed to duck in after the semi in the right lane.  Meanwhile, the ramp’s shoulder narrowed as it approached a bridge overpass.  The semi passed and I made my move to duck in behind it.   Only then did I see a second semi following immediately behind the first in the right lane, effectively making a wall, into which I could not merge.  It was too late, I was approaching the bridge overpass and there was nowhere for me to go.  I SLAMMED on the brakes, pulled hard to the right towards to bridge supports, and screamed as the semi rumbled by me, just barely missing my car.  The milliseconds slowed to hours as I cringed waiting for the semi’s wheels to smash into my side, imagining the horrific end in store for me.  

My life didn’t end in a horrific smash of sixteen wheeler on Subaru the day after Christmas, but it was pretty close to it. I pushed the gas and slowly eased myself back on to the highway. Recognizing just how close we had been to being smushed up against a bridge support I started sobbing.  And sobbing.   Rick hung up the phone eyeing what a mess I was.  He told me I had done the right thing, and we were okay because of it.  But it was so scary that my tears wouldn’t subside – they kept up for nearly a half hour.

We are in a completely transient state right now.  Our lives are just beginning together.  We are looking for jobs and places to make a home and family. In a few days we leave for a month in South America, but in just a flash we could have disappeared off the face of the earth.  

I realized so quickly that though I sometimes get frustrated not knowing exactly what is in store for us, or feeling that my life doesn’t embody what I’ve dreamed it would be, that in the face of losing it (in a violent car accident) my gut tells me just how powerfully I want, really instinctively, my life.  Occasionally you need the threat of how fragile it is to remember just how much you value it.  This incident really lit a fire in me to get on with my work and dreams.

Almost home

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We’re on the home stretch.  Literally.

 

After a day of staring out at the plains, we stay tonight just hours from home.  We didn’t expect much from today’s travel, but I found the day of monotonous driving across the flats of Eastern Colorado and Nebraska to be the perfect backdrop to inspire some reflection on the trip.  The pastel winter skies and brown rolling hills remind me, in some ways, of hardship.  The landscape appears so unwelcoming, but then the soft skies sort of beckon you to look a bit deeper.  I find that as I drive long stretches like today’s, my mind comes back to a sense of true gratitude for my life’s many gifts, particularly in light of the starkness surrounding me.

I’m heading home from three weeks traveling the country and seeing old friends.  I’ll see my family and Rick’s family over the holidays for the first time in two years. My skis are in our car waiting to be used over New Year’s.  I have some incredible opportunities awaiting me in 2014 for both travel and work.  I have a supportive, wonderful, and caring group of friends and family to support me.  I have a patient, intelligent, and compassionate partner and husband.  

Life, though it certainly is uncertain, feels so full.  This year has brought some incredible highs and lows to me and my family.  But, reflecting back on the year I feel so grateful for the people who shared the ride with me.  

 

You can’t go home again

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More than anything, I think this road trip is a showcase of how a cross-section of our friends in their late 20’s and early 30’s actually live their lives. It’s fascinating and it’s affirming. Wonderful, even.

This morning I awoke in Salt Lake City on a mattress on the floor of my sister’s house. Her place is amazing.  She has a massive backyard with gardens, a tree house, and fruit trees.  She has the entire upstairs of the house to herself, with walk-in closets, a huge log frame bed, and a jacuzzi.  Right now I am writing this blog while cuddled up with my pj’s on in front of the wood stove with tea and lebkuchen.  Life in Salt Lake is good (current inversion notwithstanding). Yet again, my severe case of “home-envy” (as Rick and I are calling it) has kicked in.

We spent yesterday and the day before in Jackson, Wyoming.  It had been more than ten years since I last visited Jackson, and things definitely were different.  But, I think Rick and I both ranked it high on our lists of places to live.  We visited a friend there and caught up over coffee.  Between hearing about her backcountry skiing, trail running, the amazing gluten-free cafe she likes, and her yoga studio, we were pretty smitten.

The downside to Jackson, and several other places we have explored, is the difficulty of getting home to our families.  Even Salt Lake City or Portland don’t allow us to travel home without a connecting flight, making a trip into a full day of travel.  So, with this in mind I have been examining my attachment to the idea that I can travel home easily.  I have struggled with guilt and a sense of irresponsibility living far from home and from my family.  I don’t particularly want to live in Wisconsin, or Chicago, or the Midwest – but I want to be there for my family.

Over the course of our trip the phrase “you can’t go home” has come up several times. The first was in “Travels with Charley” the Steinbeck book about a cross-country road trip that Rick and I listened to during the first half of our trip. In the book, he travels back to his boyhood home in California and realizes that what he associates as home has changed around him. Home exists only in his memory.  Revisiting the place only serves to deconstruct the idea.

The second was in reference to a seedy bar in Denver called the Rock Bar.  Many of our friends from our time in Denver are now spattered across the country; New York, Chicago, Portland, Salt Lake, Seattle.  So this trip has been revisiting “Denver” in the sense that it’s the last place we all shared together.  As we have traveled, we’ve spent lots of time reminiscing about our lives while in Denver – surely it was kind of a magical time for all of us.  We were young, in transition, unburdened by much responsibility, with good jobs, and altogether very free.  We skied and hiked and went out to the bars.  It was a FUN place to live.  But, we all recognize that the joy of Denver was mostly a product of the coalescence of many factors of our lives there in a specific place and time.  Were we to go back to Denver now, it would prove to be a different place.  This hit home in Portland as we reminisced about our hazy memories in a little place called the Rock Bar.  It closed down a couple years ago – thus concluding a chapter in many of our lives.

You can’t go home again.  I keep reminding myself of this. In both a light-hearted way and a serious way, life as I knew it can’t be recreated.  This is a new chapter and we have to choose what home will be going forward.

Portland redux and thoughts

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I’m trying to blog a bit more than usual while we are on this road trip.  I often find that my entries, though they may mean little to me or anyone else in the moment, serve me well down the road to trigger memories and recall times and places that have been meaningful in my life.

Rick and I are back on the road, tonight we sleep in Boise.  We left Portland early this afternoon after a tasty meal at Jam on Hawthorne.  We really enjoyed our time in Portland.   I’m a bit unsure if the good times are a product of Portland itself or the fact that we have lots of friends there who make our visits to the city feel fun, and who introduce us to all their favorite spots and activities.  While at Jam I had a great conversation with a guy who touched on exactly what my main issue with Portland is, however:  its ego.  I’ll fully admit the city is fun, has great food, and has a neat alternative vibe.  I just think many Portland residents sort of think the city is in a class of its own and I’m just not sure that I agree. There are some glaring things that Portland lacks – diversity, easy access to other cities, and sunshine. This morning on our run Rick and I were weighing the positives and negatives and I just don’t think Portland pulls definitively ahead of any other city we have looked at, except that we have friends there who would make it an easy place to settle into.

But, no time to dwell on that.  There is much more to see.

Sadly, my phone took a bit of a swim yesterday while I was attempting to rescue an egg-laden dungeness crab from death by seagull consumption while on the coast clamming. Many of the great photos I took while there  are locked away in a bag of rice until further notice. Perhaps it is good though – now I’ll be forced to use my camera more. We travel to Jackson Hole, Salt Lake City, and Colorado in the next few days so there will surely be some good sights to see ahead.

As I sit here in our quiet hotel room after seven hours on the road, it strikes me just how strange this trip is.  Rick and I are more or less without a home.  We are roaming the country as fairly well-equipped gypsies; sleeping on couches and in guest rooms.  I feel entirely discombobulated, off my schedule, and generally out of balance in some ways.  Long hours in a car are not ideal, and I’m  getting to the point of just wanting to know what home will eventually be, rather than feeling enthusiastic about a search that seems increasingly to complicate our decision.  This drive has brought me to some wonderful places, but also places that tear at my heartstrings for various reasons.  I miss the friends we had in Denver and my sisters and my best friends, and people I wish I could see more of, all scattered around the country.  I just want the people I love to be in one place, and to make my home there among them.  It’s naive, but it’s true.  And sometimes the feeling of being torn between all the people I love makes me so frustrated I just want to cry.

Rick and I amazingly have taken the ups and downs of this trip – the endless hours together on the road and with friends – in stride.  I think if ever there was an opportunity for uncertainty and lack of direction for the future to come between us it would be now, but we seem to be riding the waves pretty well together. He has been incredibly supportive of my job search and together we have parsed out where we have commonalities in what we seek, and where we differ. Rick thinks the food in Portland is overrated, and I love it.  I think I might feel isolated in a small town, and Rick thinks it would suit him. Together I guess we need to figure out what balance will work best for both of us – where we might want to have a home, a family, and a life.  These are not small matters.  I hope that in the end, we come away with some clarity and a more clearly articulated vision for our future.

Choices

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I’m sitting in my friend’s house in Portland.  It’s grey outside and I just finished my second interview for a job that sounds pretty incredible.  I’m coming down from the nervous jitters that accompany all interviews and trying to piece together what taking the job (if it was offered) might mean.

Rick and I had/have some pretty incredible travel plans for the new year, but if I am offered this job that travel will not happen.  That would be pretty sad because I just purchased a bad ass touring bike for the express purpose of riding it in exotic locales.  But, as we have toured the country by car I have developed an increasingly strong case of home envy.  We’ve now stayed with SO many friends across the country – apartment dwellers, cabin dwellers, large fancy home dwellers, and adorable rental dwellers.  Their houses are in cities and small towns, and though they span all range of size and shape, their commonality is that they represent home to someone.   We want that.  I want that.  I want a place to put my books on shelves and cook dinner and create a little alcove of yogic bliss.  I have lived out of a suitcase since August and I’m ready to unpack.

I recognize that the grass is always greener listening as my friends lament the fact that they have to work and  as they marvel over our trip, popping from place to place to ask, “Could this be home?”.  I constantly feel apologetic for my ramshackle existence, my lack of employment, and the fact that I don’t know my plans for two months down the road, but am reminded over and over again of the fact that so many others will never do something like this.  To conscientiously design one’s life around one’s priorities rather than his or her means of income is a gift.  And embarrassed as I am to admit that my home is more or less limited to a 2010 Subaru with New York plates, I also acknowledge that those wheels are a gateway to lifestyle choice and on-the-ground implementation of our partnership’s stated life objectives – to live in a place that we love and which inspires us.  To live simply.  To do good.

Here in Portland, I feel pretty happy.  We arrived late yesterday afternoon, and went for a 5 mile trail run by headlamp with two friends and locals.  We ate at Ned Ludd and savored the foodie haven that is Portland.  I wonder if this could be home? Could this work for both of us? Hard to say.

In touring the country we have taken in the subtle regionalities of the places we have visited.  The ambitious easterners with their warmth seeping slowly through their cool facade; the friendly midwest with its hearty residents who eschew several inches of snow and rapidly dropping temperatures to make you feel welcome.  We have slept by the fireside in a cabin in Montana, waking at 2 am to put on another few logs to keep us toasty ’til morning.  We have cruised Seattle, observing the pop of young vibrancy amidst grey skies and rain.  And here we are in Portland – once a dream and almost a reality for me.  Thankfully I changed course, but I know I would have enjoyed law school here – riding bikes and studying torts and tortes. Could I live here now?  Would I feel old?  Has it passed its moment in time, or does it still have an authentic and exciting vibe?  Would I be forced to wear thick rimmed glasses and pretend my vision is not excellent? Are there even jobs in Portland or is the market over saturated with young and educated people?

Truth be told, I don’t think Portland has actually passed its prime.  I think it has established deep roots for its alternative culture.  My friends here are living a wonderful life and I think it would be amazing to have the resources they do living here.  She is training as a doula and studying Ayurveda in her spare time. Here, they have institutionalized what in other cities are alternative things.  That’s cool.  I recognize that Portland offers these types of opportunities, where a small town in Montana may not.  But yet, at what cost?

We’re making some challenging life decisions and I am pretty excited at the wonderful gift it is to be able to DO this – but that doesn’t make it any easier to take the reigns and determine one’s own fate. I keep waiting for my intuition to speak to me and give me a clue as to the direction I should go.  It’s always been my reliable ally.  Here though, I am struggling for guidance.

I’ll report back once I know more.