I left him stranded there...

He looked lost and a little afraid. His eyes darted back and forth and he was pushing an airport cart heavy with luggage that telegraphed a long journey. I remember thinking how awful it was to land in America, not even able to access American currency, and being charged for the cart to haul your luggage.

He was small. 

Standing outside of DFW, cars and buses flitting to a curb and then away in ever thinning clusters.

I recognized his expression. I’ve worn that look a couple dozen time at an airport, any airport, in a new country. Knowing I stand out, knowing I don’t know what I don’t know. It is always the most exposed and vulnerable I feel in a new country. In Sri Lanka that look led to a $40 taxi fare instead of a $2 one. In Peru it led to an hour walking through town with my luggage until finally agreeing to pay for a taxi. In Ethiopia it felt dangerous, a late flight and a poorly lit parking lot and me with no convincing language skills to speak of.

This man was of my nomadic tribe. I recognized myself in him. 

I also recognized fatigue. In me. I’d been traveling. I don’t know where I’d been or how long. I think my flight had been delayed or maybe I’d had to check luggage and they’d misplaced it. I don’t remember the particulars, only that I was tired. I averted my gaze and searched through the glaring orange lights and receding darkness for my shuttle bus.

I stood on the curb too, a little bit away from this man. This man with all of his belongings in a cart by his side. I watched him look at the same signs repeatedly hoping, I imagine, that they might make more sense each time he looked. Disheartened that they didn’t. 

He scanned the few faces on the curb looking…looking for me I imagine. Not the actual me but the me that recognized myself in him, the me that understood his trepidation and could help. Our eyes finally met and I stopped searching the bus lane for my bus. At least for a moment he had my attention.

The details are fuzzy now, only my guilt is crisp and clear.

He was confused about where he should go. I remember pointing to the sign, repeating the information, having him repeat the information. I think I made a phone call on the airport information phone. I nodded encouragingly as I gave him information, hoping he’d nod comprehension back, and he nodded. I’m certain his nodding mirrored my nodding, wasn’t an indication of clarity. But he nodded, I told myself.

Part of the helpful crew from Bahir Dar

My bus finally arrived. After standing on the curb for what seemed like forever, I was tired and ready to go home. I boarded the bus, watched the small man from the window, assured myself he’d be fine.

But it was late and he was far from home. 

Its been late and I’ve been far from home. In those moments I am forever grateful for the people who recognize my carefully concealed terror. The old woman on a bus in Durban who fussed at the driver and demanded he take me directly to my hostel, the two young men in Bahir Dar who drove me to a less sketchy hotel, the nun in Flores who helped me figure out where I was going. I didn’t even have to ask, didn’t have to stand on a curb clutching my bags. 

I have basked in traveler’s grace.

I should have stayed. I should have walked that man on the curb to where he needed to be. I should have been his English translator; I didn’t know what language he spoke but I could have cared enough to figure out a way to translate his needs. People have done that for me. I should have paid it forward.

I think about that man often. I send good travel vibes into the ether and hope that they found him another one of our tribe who was not so selfish as to choose 20 extra minutes of sleep over helping someone lost in the transition that is travel. 

That man and he has become, for me, a reprimand, a reminder, a mantra for who I should be at all times, not simply when I’m well rested or flush with time.

Blog prompt courtesy of Daily Post: Sorry, I’m Busy.

Restless Soul

Ty dubbed me Flight Risk (his explanation for not pursuing the romantic me). I have to admit it resonated as much as it stung because I’ve never lived in a place longer than four years. Never.

My dad did a 20-year stint in the military, and while he retired by the time I was 10, my family continued to move for a few years after. I guess after his nomadic life, settling down took some settling into. 

Up until the age of 18 I can blame transience on my parents but after that…after that it was all me. I spent four years in college, and I spent every summer in a different place. Those moves were temporary, like training wheels; after graduation I set my sights on much more distant lands and coasted on my own.

Enter South Africa.

A Peace Corps volunteer with no electricity my first year and a lot of time on my hands, I started making lists. Lists gave me things to ponder and things to work toward. 

It started with things I wanted to do while I was living in South Africa and quickly morphed. I don’t remember everything on that list but seeing the big five and going to Victoria Falls were both there. My list became a mélange of things to see, places to go, activities to experience. Never static, I added new points of interest and crossed achieved ones off. 

I can't think of any substantive lists for myself now without thinking of those early lists scratched out on reused paper by the light of a paraffin lamp in my village.

One of my besties used to make a habit of sending me birthday gifts early. A big box would arrive a week or so before the actual day and she’d call to ask me, joy in her voice, if I’d opened it yet. It took her a few years to realize that the waiting didn’t bother me. In fact, it didn't bother me at all but my not opening it bothered her. 

She struggled to understand that I relished the anticipation. Like the days before an international trip- it hasn’t happened yet- the world is full of infinite possibilities. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love the actual traveling. I love the actual gift. But there is a beauty to the anticipation. My love of anticipation, however, does not extend to travel lists. I don't relish daydreaming about theoretical good times in lieu of actual good times. Although my temperament basks in the "could be" aspects of life, where country selection for travel is concerned, I'm a rip-the-wrapping-off-and-see-what's-inside kind of woman.

Turkey was on my "to visit" list, and Peru. Peru got crossed off last year and Turkey earlier this year. Ethiopia made tap danced on my desires and turned out to be so nice I had to visit twice. Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos are on my list at the moment, but all three of them are on my travel schedule for early next year. 

Cappadocia, Turkey last year.

I'd be lying if I said there are no lingering places that are growing dusty from lack of my attention. India pops up first. Time and resources never seem to align in a way that would allow me to experience India in the way I would like. When I moved back to the United States after living in Uganda for a year, that break appeared to be the perfect time to go, but I was looking for a job and unsure how soon that search might yield fruit and after stopping in a few other places (Ethiopia and Italy) it was close to Xmas and I missed my family.  More recently I’ve contemplated the trip, but with only three viable weeks of vacation in a year, it seems hardly feasible to work my way through even a single Indian state. 

Excuses excuses.

I don’t believe there will always be an opportunity to experience the things in life that I want to experience, so at some point in the near future I’ll have to suck it up and go, short stint in a single state or not. 

Another country that has been batting around in my head for years is Brazil, specifically, Bahia. The current deterrent is the Olympics, an event prone to upset Brazil's norms and increase the cost of pretty much everything…Brazil will have to wait until 2017. Then there’s Mali. The year I planned to go, just a few weeks out from what would have been my departure, there were a few kidnappings of Westerners. I often joke that no one would kidnap me but I’m not trying to test my theory. 

Random breakfast in Tokyo, Japan.

That list is only three places long, driven by food (India), fascination with the worldwide African diaspora (Brazil), and a feeling of mystery and uniqueness (Mali), is all I can conjure at the moment.  Of course there are a million places in the world I'd love to experience and would jump at the chance but those three are the ones that spring immediately to mind for reasons beyond, "why not?".

For all of the places that pique my interest there are others that I never think about. New Zealand is pristine and beautiful, it wasn’t remotely on my list of places to visit though. And while it isn’t my favorite country, I found friendship and love and an assortment of experiences there.

Guatemala snuck up on me as I wallowed in depression and desperation after evacuating and then doing recovery work in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. I met amazing people had one of the most exquisite meals I’ve ever had, and danced like a crazy person on its Caribbean coast.

Most recently that place I wasn’t interested in visiting was Japan.  Until I visited, I didn’t know how much I deeply adore Japanese food. I didn’t know how fascinating order (on trains, in lines, with food) could be. A friend invited me into his world in Japan and I was smitten.

Those were all places that never made it onto even the tail-end of my traveling lists and yet they were amazing for all of the reasons that visiting a new place and experiencing new things are amazing. I will never have a list of five places to visit. My curiosity and nomadic reality will continue to introduce me to places and, once visited and scratched off of whatever impermanent list I'm keeping, will be replaced with someplace new and probably unexpected.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post:The Wanderer.

Obsessed

I’m obsessed. 

I own it. 

I’m obsessed with Stephen Curry and the Golden State Warriors. 

Doing high school in Texas, I’ve always had an affinity for football because in Texas God may rule most days of the week  but on Friday nights prayers are for high school football.

That said, I’ve gone to sleep each night for some embarrassing number of nights, watching highlights and interviews of the Warriors. I find it cathartic. I find the hustle and flow of the game relaxing. I find the antics of the team humorous. I can watch it all over and over again. And I do. 

Steph and his family are endearing and relatable…not the insanely rich and famous part but definitely the closeness part. Listening to Steph’s father talk about his mother reminds me of my dad talking about my mom. I smile when I see his parents at his games, holding Riley and jumping up and down like the crazy fans parents should always be for their children. It reminds me of a more animated version of my dad, dressed in a three-piece suit, shoes off, sitting in the stands of my middle school basketball games cheering me on during a small break in his day before heading back to work. 

None of that has anything to do with how he plays the game but it is part of the reason I enjoy watching him so much. I don’t know Steph Curry, I only know his persona. But given how few people are able to cultivate and maintain a likeable persona in this age of 24/7 coverage on every medium possible, even if he and his family aren’t as endearing as they seem, they get kudos for putting on one hell of  a front. Truth be told though…I believe they are who they seem to be.

Steph being a nice guy is only a part of it. Steph is amazing because Steph gonna Steph…and he’s been Stephing all over this season so far. Only 20 games in, people are making incredible predictions about him and the Warriors squad, about what they will or should accomplish this year. As much as I enjoy contemplating the possibilities, what I love more is watching them. I love watching the whole team.

I like to watch Steph launch 3s from so far beyond the 3-point line that it seems insane, until he makes it, and then it seems like that was the only thing he could have done. I love watching Draymond Green fight for every ball as if the game depends on it; it makes it so natural for him when the game does depend on it (go to 8:50 if you want to see what I’m talking about). I love when Klay Thompson finds a rhythm and sets fire to the net with deep 3s (yes this is last season but WOW!). 

I love Andre Iguodala, Festus Ezeli, and Shaun Livingston stepping up always. I love that our bench is deep, that on any given day we have heroes emerge seemingly from nowhere…like Ian Clark and Brandon Rush.

Today a friend called me a bandwagon fan. She said I’m only into basketball right now because of Steph. The truth is that the Warriors have made basketball fun again. I remember feeling this way about basketball way back when Warriors Coach, Steve Kerr, played for the Bulls. Of course, then, like now, everyone was a fan of the Bulls. How could you not be? Their bench was deep their talent varied, their superstar subject to set the net on fire.

And no, I’m not trying to compare Steph to Michael Jordan. I don’t see the point in all of these comparisons and declarations about who is the best now or in all time. I only bring up Mike because like Steph, he didn’t shine at the expense of his team, they all shined the brighter. Everyone was the better.

 And they were fun.

The Warriors are fun. Presumed niceness aside, I am awed and wowed and giddy with joy when I watch these guys. I love the teamwork. I love the unselfish approach to the game. I love that even when they are flawed they can rally. I love Curry. I love them all. 

Bandwagoner or connoisseur of basketball joy, whatever my label call me Dub Nation!

Want Makes me Guilty

“Come back tomorrow.”

The woman who had been “supervising” my work that day followed me out of the office and into the hall. I’d just said goodbye and was headed home when she stopped me.

“There’s no need,” I assured her, “I finished the job today.”

“I know,” she said, “but I’ll find something for you, just come back here tomorrow.” She was insistent.

I shrugged but agreed reluctantly. I’d spent the day folding and stuffing envelopes. When I’d arrived they’d told me it was a three-day job but I completed it in one; intent on not returning to the tiny windowless room I was working out of and wondering why they thought it would take more time in the first place.

The next day that woman found something for me to do, and the day after that, and within a very short period of time I was holding the temporary place of some middle management position in the marketing department. The subject was boring but it was better than stuffing envelopes and so I stopped substitute teaching (my other hustle in the world of temp work) and dedicated five days a week to my office job. 

By the time my Peace Corps application finally landed me a placement in South Africa I was more than ready to leave. The folks I worked with were great people but I had my sights set on something different. 

The company had other ideas.

Once I gave my notice my boss offered me a permanent position. Fresh out of college, the amount he was offering was nothing to sneeze at; in fact, it was the same amount I made working for the government two years later with more experience.

My mother was ecstatic, as much about the compliment to my skills as to the idea that I might not go gallivanting halfway across the world; but I never even blinked. The money never tempted me; I was ready for something new and different. 

Looking back it is strange that I was so unmoved by the paycheck, growing up I’d had an affinity for money that translated into a thriving babysitting business flush enough with cash that my mother made me open a savings account in middle school. 

Babysitting magnate ways aside, Peace Corps was not a cush gig…in any way. Payment was a living stipend. Hell, I didn’t have electricity the first year I served and my water was pumped up from a borehole, coming up clear and cold for bathing. The work wasn’t lucrative but it was rich. 

A little more than two years in rural South Africa led to working for the government and then graduate school and I’ve been wed to non-profits ever since. On more than one occasion I have returned to my “living stipend” roots and shrugged at the idea that I should pay attention to paychecks. I shrugged, that is, until recently. 

In the last two years I have found myself preoccupied with how much money I make, how much I should be making, how much I need to retire, how much I have in my retirement fund at the moment. For the first time in my life I’m thinking at least as much about how much money I could be making as the contribution my work makes to the world.

And I feel guilty.

I feel guilty that I am distracted by such an inconsequential thing as money…but then, money isn’t exactly inconsequential. 

My logical brain understands that I am the only thing I can count on when I’m too old to work. Longevity runs in my family (my grandfather just turned 99) and I’ve long since let go of the dream of recouping anything from Social Security. That leaves just me. And these are my prime earning years so now is the time to be fixated. 

Still, it feels foreign to want money...daydreaming about work not for love of anything other than the paycheck attached.

I know the desire for a secure(ish) future isn’t criminal. Still, it is space that in my many decades of life, I have never occupied. Maybe if I had fixated on this earlier there would be no reason for it now. But, there is no looking back to undo only to lament and so I look forward. I am looking forward to a future with more money in it without the guilt that warranted or not, taps lightly on my shoulder.

Prompt courtesy of The Daily Post: The Guilt that Haunts Me