On The Art of Letting Go

It took me the whole month of July to learn, remember, and feel comfortable saying ariverderci. Even those last few days, I shied from the word, preferring a light-hearted ciao. If we were interested in reading into this, to analyze and dissect my mind, we would come - quite quickly - to my aversion to the translation. Because as often as I have to say it, I really do hate goodbyes.

I intended this post (over 2 weeks ago) to be wrapping up my thoughts on Italy, hopefully pull something out of the muddle that my last post turned into, and delve into musings on long term travel. There's a brief, sacred time immediately after you end a vacation, when you hold in your hands all of the mental and physical experiences you had in your time away. Similar to the pause after closing the back cover on a good book, you are allowed a quiet moment to reflect and feel all of the raw emotions of the trip before they become clouded from time and expectations of others. There's this space when I don't want you to ask me about the trip because I know any description I give, however abbreviated or drawn out, will sound flimsy in my mouth and in my ears. It will slip by unnoticed if you choose not to care, but if you take those few minutes to breathe deeply and let the memories wash over you, it's enchanting. I reveled in those moments, selfishly coveting my memories of Italy as I jumped back into my life in Iowa. It was so strange to slip easily back into habits of the past year while I could still smell the Mediterranean, still feel the cool touch of marble on my fingers. I wanted so much to swim in that space for a little longer, soaking in my memories, but time refused to pause and here I am, typing from a desk in a room in an apartment that I am allowed to call mine.

Early in my service in Mali, I was told a phrase - Dooni dooni, kononi b'a nyaga da, Little by little, the bird builds its nest. The phrase was comforting when I arrived, slowly collecting the details that turned my hut into a home. I distinctly remember sitting on the plastic mat in my main room, looking around me and feeling both proud and content with the hodge-podge home I had created. Flash forward a few years and I am still collecting those details: dishes from my aunt, a blanket from Senegal, art from Zambia, an old trunk from an antique shop. These items get stashed away in my mother's basement, in the bedroom that is still mine at 26. I buy things for this distant horizon of 'real' adulthood, the one in which I will be settled, own a home, fill a need with everything I have collected. "Someday," I reassure myself, "I will want all of this and have somewhere to put it all."

Funny thing about that horizon, though, I keep moving and it stays just beyond my grasp. I am starting to wonder if I am holding onto things for a future that isn't coming. I have already acknowledged to myself (and probably written about) how adulthood does not always conform to the restraints and frames we put it in, no matter how hard we try. "We can wait two years," my mother says, soothing my nerves, more sure than myself that I will know what is next by the time I graduate. I agree readily, unwilling to say goodbye to a future that fits my trunk in the living room, my kitchenaid on a butcher block counter, and my assortment of art on the walls. If I can't say goodbye to things, to foggy futures, what hope do I have of saying goodbye to people?

I spent much of last week sifting through those things, carefully choosing what I would want for my 9 months in this little apartment, the one that doesn't get the label "home" for a full year before I dust off my passport and vaccination card for new adventures. One week ago, I found myself in that terrifying space where "I'm not ready" is no longer a legitimate reason for stalling. I filled the day with "See you in December"s, this transition's version of ciao, sat on my suitcases to cajole them into zipping shut, and went out for one last cheap drink before moving to Gotham.

The goodbye's shifted into hello's as my train entered Penn station, as my suitcases were loaded and unloaded again and again, as I learned the subway route to my new home. Sitting here admiring the way my new print from Venice looks on the wall, I am amused by my own ability to transition easily and to feel comfortable not knowing where I will be in one year, while simultaneously being completely incompetent at goodbyes and letting go.

Peace & love

Elyse

P.S. I realize the photos of Italy don't totally fit. I just couldn't help it.

Lost in Venice

I knew when I woke up 3 days ago, my throat tickling in a give-away style. I braced myself for the cotton clouds in my head, the spigots in my nose, but still muttered angrily when the cold hit. I can't fault my body for betraying me on vacation like this, after a month of trains and busses, unfamiliar beds, and hours devoted to crossing cities by foot, but I've still been wishing myself better, swearing I'll appreciate it more next time. I hate being sick. Silver lining, though - a cold gives you a very valid excuse for needing to buy multiple granitas a day.

When planning this trip, my hands would start fluttering in excitement over region- and city- specific details spread out in my calendar. Planning for Venice, I kept a simple itinerary: look at all of the glass and get lost. I was successful in both accounts. Venice is a strange place, all of these tiny islands connected by bridges and filled with alleys shadowed by tall, precarious buildings. Rick Steves tells me that they left much of the land around Venice stripped, forests wiped out for logs to be laid out as a foundation. If you're going to cut down the trees, I don't know why you wouldn't just build on the mainland. Not that I'm complaining.

The sinking cobblestone maze of Venice will lead you into a deadend as readily as a gem of a shop, an enticing pasticceria, or a beautiful courtyard. It was easy to lose myself in the process of trying to stay on one street, looking up to find there was no bridge where I'd just assumed I would be able to keep going. I wandered contentedly, enjoying both the stone and the people I passed. When I tired or felt too off the beaten path, I looked up for yellow signs directing me to main sights, let the tide of tourists sweep me up and deposit me in a new location, eager to walk through more glass shops, pausing often to sigh over sculptures I could never afford.

The first time I went to Paris, I remember sitting in an airport, finishing a sudoku and eavesdropping on other travelers (as you do). A girl, probably the same age as I was, and her mother were headed the same direction as me. The girl said something about how she couldn't wait for the fashion. I smirked (secretly) at her in her cute flats, pastel shirt, and carefully chosen jewelry. I was unaware, apparently, of how terrible it tastes to stick your foot in your mouth.

5 years and 2 months later, I'm shrugging on the same hiking backpack (looking a little more... loved), but along with a nalgene and chacos, it is stuffed with dresses, linen pants, thought out jewelry. Planning my days in Paris and weeks throughout Italy, I was looking forward to days I could explore, hike, and get dirty, of course. But I was also excited for the fashion, the aesthetic beauty, and for the days spent clean in that one maxi skirt, sipping espresso and wine as the sun traveled the sky.

In Cinque Terre, I parceled my body into sections: forearm, upper arm, shoulders, double back on the tattoo, and slathered each with white goop (it's taken me nearly 26 years to learn, but I'm finally getting serious about not frying my skin), then tossing on a basic outfit. My backpack loaded with a camera, snacks, and a swimsuit, I was ready as quick as I could get the sunscreen on; I enjoyed the simplicity of it. In my blog-reading preparations for this month, I came across lists of do's and don't's in Italy, including what to wear. Italians, these lists informed me, do not wear shorts and flip-flops. They put themselves together before going out into the day, and judge the many tourists who don't do the same. I am not often taken in by lists on the internet, but I let this one get to me. In Cinque Terre, I wondered at whether I would get a different reception in my backpacker wear, my lack of makeup. It isn't like the change in clothing immediately tagged me as a tourist; I have stood out as a foreigner the entire month.

 I strive to not to let myself get bogged down in the judgments of others and to choose my clothing based on what I will enjoy (as well as absurd things like the weather. Sometimes I'm pragmatic.). I've been wearing my dresses, picking out jewelry, and putting on makeup because I find these activities enjoyable, thinking little about how it will be received. This is easier to do, however, when your appearance is conventional, melds with the unspoken expectations of strangers. Confidence comes readily when you anticipate approval.

To be honest with you, it seems the rest of my thoughts got lost somewhere in Venice, or just tangled up in the muddle of this head cold. At some point, I was slowly getting around to telling myself to recognize people are not what they wear and to stop making assumptions as such. Scrolling through these paragraphs, however, it is apparent I'm leading myself towards questions in my own appearance - how I let my outfits dictate my confidence, how I let expectations dictate my outfits. So that's going to require more thought. Funny thing about travel and getting lost - you never actually know where you're going to land in the end.

Peace & love

Elyse

Firenze

Florence is easy to romanticize, as is the whole of Italy. Surrounded by beautiful vistas (and people), good food, and cheap wine, you slip readily into the idyllic world that has been painted for tourists since long before I set my eyes on this country. Part of me wants to argue that I'm blameless, that it isn't my fault, but that voice lacks any argument as to why I wouldn't be responsible for my own education. Sitting here drinking my wine, I wonder vaguely at societal and economic problems that I know nothing about. I am disappointed in my own gaping ignorance, promise myself to do more research when Internet is readily available. A fine excuse.

Yesterday was my third day in this city, and the first I allowed myself to wander around with my Nikon out. This wasn't a ploy at appearances, trying to blend in with the local crowd; my backpack gives me away immediately, despite my clothes and choice in shoes. Rather, I'm trying to focus in absorbing everything around me, all of the details - the quaint streets and pretty alcoves, yes, but also the roughness, the graffiti, the smell of urine and dust that often permeates smaller roads. I fell for this city in the hills in a sudden way, not yet knowing it. Infatuation is funny like that, we decide on a whim that something or someone suits us well long before we have any proof, and then we act all surprised and disappointed when we come to find out it's not perfect. Not that that would happen with Florence.

It was staring up at the David on my first day in town, actually, that reminded me to pay attention to the bits skipped over when me and my doe-eyes are busy with grander details. The subtleties of the David were what drew me in. The veins in his inner elbow, the ripples at his knees, the lines under his eyes and the sworl of his ears; it's always the little things that distinguish. The days I spent in Rome were lovely, but spent with a craned neck, staring up at grandois buildings and art. They were left wanting for personal connections. This town, if you'll allow me to call it that, is smaller and kinder, leaves more room to explore past the marble and gold leaf, if you're willing to pay attention.

This morning I woke up to find there comes a point where even the idea of appreciating the world around you sounds exhausting, when - despite telling yourself that it's your last day in town - you no longer care for cobblestone streets and adorable stationary shops, nor for magnificent basilicas and rooms full of master artists' great works. Italy moves slowly, but it is easy to spend a vacation here busy and exhausted, trying desperately and hecticly to check off all of the places and things on your list. I'm grateful for taking a whole month for this trip for many reasons - the current one being the time and ability to spend the morning drinking cappuccino and the afternoon eating thoughtful, well-made food, all with my nose buried in a book. Maybe tonight I will be refreshed enough to look around again, certainly tomorrow. But for the time being, this is enough.

Peace & love

Elyse

The Road to Amalfi

I woke up a little off this morning, like there was a sour taste in my mouth. Late start, trying to play catch-up and sort through my weird mood. The 8:00 bus I'd intended on turned into 11:00, with useless hours in between. The bus was packed tight, people cramming into the aisle and next to the driver to fit as many as we could in. As we curved into the mountains, my mood was left at the bus stop, ready to jump on someone else' back. Good day to spend on the coast.

I love the way the bougainvillea cascades off the terraces, painting swaths of bright colors among the homes. I love the gnarly limbs of the olive trees, clinging to the rocks, and the groves of lemon trees surrounding the towns. The towns themselves slope down towards the sea, toppling over each other, all silently watched over by the mountains looming above. Every moment is ready to be snapped up, stamped onto a postcard, but my pictures never do it justice. The road snakes along the edge and the bus kisses the cliffs precariously; the meager guardrail, not even 2 feet tall, disappears as we round a curve and I involuntarily gasp at the plummet.

I get off early, my stomach and head straining against the winding road, and find myself in Praicano, one of the smaller towns. By chance (or a well-thought business plan), I stumble into a trattoria overlooking the duomo on the sea. My body relaxes as I indulge in linguini and espresso, and I allow my earlier plan of all day hiking to fall away.

I've been thinking about solo travel a lot the past 2 days - yesterday meandering through the hectic streets of Napoli, and today on this breathtaking coast. Upon hearing of my month-long trip and the 1/2 I'd be spending 'alone', those who've  embarked on solo travel would get a look of excitement, understanding the beauty of it. Those who have not would often have traces of fear in their smiles. They would tell me I'm brave, ask extra questions about my safety, and assure me that I would meet others and make friends. I would smile and nod - oh not so much; yes, very safe; yes, lots of friends.

The thing about traveling alone is that you get to experience a freedom that isn't available otherwise. There are downsides, of course - this afternoon, I would have loved to have someone to turn to and say "this is so fucking cool." - but even a small dose of this kind of trip allows for more intense self-exploration, a different appreciation for the places you go, and a rather fantastic sense of self-confidence. Everything is where, when, and how you want (local conditions permitting) and you lose all of those small concessions we make when traveling with others. The anxieties, the expectations, both real and imagined, created when existing with travel partners are abandoned when it's just you. Going places where you'd normally venture with others, eating out alone, and exploring the bar scene are not as terrifying as you think. The whole experience is something to treasure.

I eventually find myself in Amalfi and walk swiftly past the shops and restaurants to put in a short hike. Just past the houses, surrounded by lemon groves, the rain sets in, and I realize that I've forgotten my umbrella. I end up in a grassy nook thing under a kind of bridge (apparently I should have brought an English dictionary along with my Italian one) and sit down to wait out the rain and finish my thoughts. The smell of lemons lingers stronger in the drizzle, and I smile because this day has turned out perfectly. I pack my electronics in plastic bags as the clouds move on and - against my better judgement - head up into the hills.

Peace & love

Elyse

P.s. I'm writing this on my phone on one of those newfangled app things, so I have no idea if this will load correctly on a computer. If not, I'll fix it in 3 1/2 weeks.

Chasing Waterfalls

Back in January, I started taking yoga classes regularly. Along with the fun flexi-bendy things I can do now, those two hours every week have helped me remember to listen to what is going on internally, think about the motion I am in and how to change it for the better. It also helped me stop doing happy hour too many times a week. When I started, I was having a major bit of a freak out about what the hell I was doing with my life. I had to remind myself that I still had months to figure things out, to plan ahead, and that I could deal with it in June. Well. Hello there, June.

The last time I went to the falls was July 12, 2013. I dragged my masochistic, hungover self out of bed and into a cab at some ungodly hour (re: 8:00 am) to beat the crowds and tourists. By then, I had been to Mosi oa Tunya in all seasons and at all times, including midnight for some lunar rainbow fun. I had lost count of the number of times I had gone and could tell you my favorite spots. But I had never gone alone. My intention that last time was to appreciate the beauty without any distractions, of course, but also to ground myself. Entering the park on the Zambian side, the first view is hardly the best one. And yet, you walk down the steps with your senses overloaded before you even lay eyes on the canyon. Reaching that first lookout point, my breath would catch every time.

It is impossible to describe the awesome (pause on awe, let it settle in your breath. That word is overused.) majesty of the drop, the roar, the white clouds of water, the sheer force of it all. All of your senses are swallowed by it. I sat down at that first spot and, being one of the very few in the whole park, started talking. At the time, I was preparing for a solo trip and, past that, the unknown. I had no idea what my next steps were or should be. I let out my fears and my doubts, poured by heart out without fear of judgment. My words disappeared in the appetite of the falls, and it calmed me. When I have too many feelings, get too wrapped in myself, it's the grand, magnificent things that remind me of my place in it all. I am comforted knowing that I am a speck, I am nothing compared to the forces around me, to my brief time compared to what has and what will be. I feel as if my choices cannot be wrong as long as I move with the intention of betterment.

But I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in yoga class, trying desperately to focus on my breath and ignore the itch in my right foot. I came very suddenly to a very simple (some might say obvious) realization: I am terrified. I manage a fairly calm face when I tell people about Italy ("You're going alone?!"), my upcoming move to New York ("Sight unseen?!"), or my reasoning behind pursuing a further degree that will throw me into a chasm of debt (If you have asked me this, my sketched out answer has most likely been liberally colored in with a lot of bullshit). I am very happy with these decisions and feel strongly about doing things that scare me, and the change that those things can perpetuate.

And yet. Sitting in that studio, I wished desperately to open my eyes to oceans, mountains, sand dunes, and stars. I wished for something to remind me that I am good and important and small and insignificant. I wished for the chance to walk into that park and sit on the rock just beyond the railing (the one that gets the perfect amount of shade), losing my fears to the falling water, watching them evaporate into the mist rising high above my head.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Rainy Day Thoughts

It's raining outside and I'm supposed to be working on interrogatories. It's raining in that all day, pillowy grey blanket way. It's raining in that cleansing, awakening way. It's raining in that taste-touch-smell even through the windowpane way. When the snow is falling, when the sun is shining, I can work productively. But it's raining and I want to go on a lonely in a romantic way walk.

I'd forgotten, somehow, the hibernation process of winter. I'd forgotten the sleepiness, the quiet, and the cabin fever. But mostly I'd forgotten how numb it can feel. White sheets were pulled over the furniture and suddenly it was all cold, muffled, and untouchable. During those months, I craved color with every bit of me. Pulling out ankara fabrics and Mali outfits for a presentation, my eyes roamed the patterns, gulping down the loud, vibrant inks. I lifted one to my nose expecting - what? That it would be imbued with the past? It smelled only of dust but I still traced the designs lovingly, lost in the memories of color.

I found myself somehow angry at Iowa (do I say home still? I struggle with the restrictions of that word) for being what I had designated as numb. Having skipped out on winters for the last few years, the white and the grey grated on my nerves, as did the quiet. And while I re-acquainted myself with winter, I forgot that the same monotone slumber exists elsewhere. I forgot the stretched out weeks of hot season in Mali, passed in listless half-sleep, unable to function with bones not frozen and breakable but melted and rubbery.  I forgot how much I came to hate all of the brown, the dust covered world extending past the horizon. In my mind, Africa is in technicolor, the women in their local outfits, carrying bright plastic buckets of produce. I simplify too much.

The rain, for me, reawakens the spirit, opening the earth to another cycle. It also tends to lend itself to self-explorations and discovery. Shifting out of hibernation, listening to the rain, I chide myself for my own nostalgia and over-simplification. It's easy for me to look back and think it was better then. It's easy for me to tell myself I would be more active, more appreciative of the world around me if only I weren't in Iowa. The absurdity of my own excuses and pretension annoys me. I ought to put a moratorium on my own long-distance travel, ban myself from planes until I've learned to enjoy exploring the world within an easy distance. But I've already bought my ticket to Italy and it would be a shame for it to go to waste.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Mango Dreams

I stand over the kitchen sink, sucking the last bits of meat off of the mango pit. We're making daiquiris tonight. I think of Mali - mangoes always remind me - and suddenly I'm there, sitting in the string plastic chair under my family's gwa, enjoying the slight respite of the sun setting in hot season. I can feel my skirt and tank top sticking to my skin, run my hands across a forehead spitting sweat. It smells like earth in a dusty way, and the air is hazy and desperate from water deprivation. It sounds like kids running and yelling, the same sound everywhere, and like animals - guinea hens honking, chickens clucking. A donkey's bray is carried over by the wind. I stare at a lizard zig-zagging along the corn stalk roof of the gwa, having given up on paying any attention to my book. Someone Russian - Dostoevsky or Nabokov - that requires more energy than I can expend in this heat.

Djelikat shuffles toward me, holding a small bucking in one had and her pagne in the other. She drops the bucket in front of me and clears her throat as she straightens, eyeing my reaction. The 3 mangoes bob in water in the bucket, calling to me. I break first, grinning at Djelikat. I ni ce!, "Thanks!" I say, diving into my pre-dinner snack. She must have put the laundry-basket size bucket of mangoes inside to keep the chickens and goats away, or else I would have grabbed them myself. Djelikat shakes her head, chuckling, as she moves back to making dinner.

As fast as I was there, as I could feel the dirt & the sweat & the love, I'm back in Iowa, staring at a counter full of freshly bought groceries. As I often felt in Mali, the reality of here and the reality of there don't seem like they can exist at the same time. One of them must be a dream.