Following Nudity

Last night was the first time I wasn’t sure if I should post what I had just hashed out on my keyboard. I did something I had never done before … I called my sister for approval before publishing. I can only imagine how annoying I am - making her promise to tell me if my writing ever gets boring. When I told her I felt a little uneasy about what I just wrote, I could hear her eyes rolling through the receiver. I stopped her grumblings with “No, Bridget, it’s about me getting naked”. “Oh god,” she said “send it”.

I wondered if it was appropriate conversation on a public domain. I wondered if it made me look prudish and immature. More importantly, I wanted to know if the humor in the situation outweighed both of those things.

A few minutes later I get a call back from home. I am on speaker phone and I hear my sister and mother in hysterics. They are trying to tell me their thoughts but their high pitch shrieks don’t make much sense to me. After a few deep breaths they tell me they were worried when I asked their permission and feared I was going to demolish my social standing. Ha. But the laughter was all I needed to hear to post that entry. Who cares how I look if people can relate and find humor in it.

Tonight I was cooking eggs over easy for my dinner and my phone rings. It’s my aunt calling because she “Just had to thank you for the chuckle I just had”. Huh. I like that. Not just the confirmation to my ego. What I like is that I inspired a reaction. A reaction that moved someone into action. That’s awesome. Maybe I can hoan in on this ability and obtain complete mind control.

Drawer Dropping

Kamie went on to say really nice things about how beautiful nudity is. But within all that fluffy, hippie talk she adds:

“The heavy women looked really beautiful because their folds are really nice.”

Their folds? I don’t want anyone looking at my ‘folds’. I can buy the fluff. The warm, fuzzy talk about natural phenomenon, organic feelings and infinite beauty is almost enough of a reason to get me nude in front of a bunch of strangers. The naturalist mentality makes insecurities seem silly. Why would anyone be staring at me when they are there for their own self-nurture?

But then you have this lady getting quoted in an article about the bathhouse I may be entering next week talking about people’s folds. You are looking too hard if you are finding folds. I really don’t want anyone thinking how nice my folds are.

The idea came up for my trip to Seattle next week to spend a day at the Olympus Day Spa with my sister and her friend. The spa offers robes for the saunas and steam rooms but nudity prevails in all of the pools. I’ve put a lot of thought into this vacation activity option.

Really, the combination of strangers, siblings and nudity is a weird world to eagerly agree to. I think I could get naked in front of strangers and I think I could be naked in front of my sister. But somehow combining the two weirds me out. I feel like I would be more embarrassed to be embarrassed in front of my sister and that’s just downright embarrassing.

Take sibling nudity. Sure, we’ve changed in front of each other over the years, but when is the last time we just hung out naked? I’m pretty sure we both could fit in the bathtub (which seemed like a swimming pool to us) and we were probably busy decorating our chins with bubble-beards and shaving them off with our index fingers. My other sis said maybe we should get the hard part out of the way. She suggested a Wednesday night pre-nudity pubic hair party. This is not what I am going to Seattle for … a pube party Wednesday and naked fest on Thursday, with my sister no less. Oh boy.

As for the public part. I can do naturalist in nature. Skinny dipping, nude beaches … not a problem. The idea of being in a civilized facility with everyone naked is not the same to me. Do you talk about the weather when you meet naked strangers? What is appropriate nudist conversation?

Think about when you go to hotel. You are all excited about the fact that they have a whirlpool that’s open until 2am. You enter the glass doors, the chlorine hits you first but the second thing that you notice is there are 4 people in the whirlpool. Four people seems a little crowded, no? So you stand there and weigh your options. You could get in the cold deserted swimming pool and pretend that’s what you came down for at midnight. Or you can squish in next to some women and fake relaxation. It’s awkward being close to strangers, partially exposed and trying to publically enjoy the heat, warmth and pressure on your skin. Now take that same moment and take away the partial modesty. WEIRD!

Oh lord, this is a serious thinker. We’ll see if I drop my drawers.

Swinging Image

I write this with a sweaty back and, I’m sure, a helmet line pressed into my forehead.

A burst of spontaneity went unfilled this weekend. On my way into work on Thursday I realized there was nothing on the books holding me to the Twin Cities. This is one of the last weekends I will be enjoying in the way other people enjoy weekends; free from work for a full two days. Making the mistake of looking at my work calendar, I realized the next time I’d be getting home to Milwaukee would be Thanksgiving. My drive into work made me toss hygiene away and embrace an impulsive nature. At the end of the work day I was planning on heading east on 94 instead of my usual west. All the while debating which family member's clothes would fit me the best.

With a call home… I was basically told I am annoying for springing it on them. So I headed my usual west. Sad. Still … not much on the books for obligation or entertainment.

So I thought I’d take a bike over to Minneapolis for the LoLa art crawl. LoLa is cutsie for League of Longfellow Artists. I have always loved open gallery exhibitions. One of the few things I miss about Brew City (the city itself) was their Gallery Night in the Third Ward. A brisk summer night walking from gallery to café to private studio to restaurant back to gallery always made for a great night. Longfellow is a residential neighborhood settled along the Minneapolis side of the great Mississippi River divide. It’s hardly a spot for warehouses and massive studio space. I wish it were. Those were always my favorite stops. Process attracts me to the nitty gritty studios over the polished gallery. Within those paint-splattered walls, there is evidence of their craft - pieces nearing completion and some in their infancy. It’s a chance to compare artistic notes and make a mental inventory of the supplies and tools that clutter the shelves. I’m always secretly hoping to find a brush that is sitting in my bin at home or a brand that’s familiar. As if I have something in common with people that are actually good at art.

The most beautiful thing I saw today wasn’t listed on the yellow laminated map that guided me. It was somewhere in between the red star I had just left at 38th & 42nd and the red star I was set out to find on 39th & 39th. Along my walk I was coming up on a corner lot with a decorative swing at its edge. The kind of swing that is often ornamental and seemingly unused. The kind of swing that goes along with the shrunken wooden benches and is nestled between oversized planters.

This swing was different.

This swing supported the weight of a man with his back to me. A man in a black top hat with his ankles gingerly crossed, rocking himself with his toes. The grass beneath his feet was worn as if he’s been there before. I could hear the slight, familiar creaking of the forward and back motion. I got nervous as I got closer. I got nervous at the thought of seeing his face or hearing his voice in the form of a casual hello. Part of me wanted to know if that swing was being sat on with a smile or a frown or a simple contemplative indifference. But more of me wanted to hold that image the way I approached it. So I turned. I turned to let my imagination get the best of me. I turned at the fright of a beautiful idea crashing into a jarring reality. I turned at the hope that for the rest of the day … I will be wondering if there was even a man there at all.

The Three Bears

I have a friend with a house that I frequently find myself occupying. My care taking has various levels of difficulty. Sometimes I have plants or fish or cats or dogs, and sometimes all of the above. My occupancy has always been a great way to catch up on laundry, stuff my belly with the chocolaty payment she left out on the counter for me, and indulge in the world of fast Internet.



Her fridge always has the latest artwork by her nephew, so I have gotten in the habit of leaving a drawing of my own behind. My art and children's art greatly complement each other. If I printed text on mine, the two would be virtually indistinguishable. Age and skill level interchangeable.



This last weekend I ate bowl after bowl of Captain Crunch (purchased solely for my arrival) but something stood in the way of my enjoyment. The soup spoon. I don't understand why these things exist. Maybe I have a small mouth. But it doesn't seem to make sense that a piece of hard, flat metal should be that wide when entering the soft tissues of your mouth. Is it supposed to fit? Are you just supposed to slurp the soup from the gargantuan surface?



Anyway... I ended up with a soup spoon and shot an e-mail to my friend to give her shit about her choice of cutlery. She responded with a plethora of other options in the spoon department. I told her I would illustrate my response:



I'm pretty sure this story ends with me waking up to three bears, pissing my pants and running home crying like a school girl.
Or maybe I am just going to the Grizzly Bear concert at the end of the month.

The personal to the impersonal

I do this for me. Every thought throughout my day is weighed for its literary possibilities. Each impulsive idea within my brain has been called into question – Can this go further? Can this be funny? Is this worthy of exploration?

The other day, I walked into my department wing at work and thought to myself, “It smells like diaper rash cream in here”. That smell association has stuck with me for some reason. What a weird thing to think. How did my brain come up with such a disgusting, specific smell? That’s a nugget of a thought that I felt could go further. There is a dash of comedy there, but more importantly, it’s a good example of the human experience… something my writing is partial to. I love to be surprised by my own random thoughts. The thoughts that pop in your brain and quickly disappear with a giggle and a head shake to clear the space. I may start logging my random thinking. That should make for entertaining writing. But for now… I feel like I better leave the diaper rash out of this.

Writing every day has given me direction and I like exploring my own thinking. The funny thing is … I wonder why in the world people like this journey I take you on every day. This is my brain. I think about cake. I think about music. I think about diaper rash cream apparently. Sometimes I feel like people would pass my writing off as impersonal. Why then, do I get nervous to let readers in? These trivial musings are the things my brain occupies times with.

I will hardly be enlightening you with profundities. You will not travel with me into my deepest, darkest concerns. I doubt I will be enchanting you with character fables. I write the way I approach life… with wide, open eyes and ears eagerly listening for the humor in the mundane.

With that said … I will continue to spill my guts and my guts really do taste like German Chocolate cake.

Driving Beat

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krL6gbR-9bA

Take a second to watch the video above. Don’t worry … I’ll be here when you’re done.

Music is a huge part of my day, every day, without fail. During my performance season I have little say on the background track to my work day. Brahms, Dvorak, Shostakovich, Haydn are likely choices. I really can’t complain about hearing amazing musicians make amazing music all day. So I won’t, because I love it. But when the band’s away the mice may play? I even confused myself with that one.

Summer is a quiet time for the administrative offices. There’s a hushed and slow pace among the cubicles. For me on the other hand, summer is the time to rock. I have half of the floor to myself for maintenance projects and the only way to get through maintenance projects is with music pushing you through. There is just something wonderful about cranking a wrench to The Black Keys.

The Music Room is abandoned to the rest of the staff. No one has reason to travel to my side of the world when it’s just me over there. For that reason … I blast my PA with some obscene music. Really, I don’t think I have ever put a work appropriate CD in that player on my own time. On occasion I get an awkward encounter when a co-worker walks in on the lyrics:

In Berlin I saw, two men fuck in a dark corner of a basketball court
Just the slight jingle of pocket change pulsing

But mostly, my rockin’ out goes unnoticed. I think my department is rather used to hearing me sing to myself throughout the day. They know I can’t make it through the day without a rhythm to it.

This week however I have had the above song stuck in my head. I just want to repeat those words over and over. And I do! Today was the first time I was censoring my own self-singings. Each time I would start out with an enthusiastic “I might like you better baby”, then my brain would catch up to what was coming out of my mouth as I passed the reception desk and I would gracefully end it with “Ba-ba ba ba-ba baby”. Still I never really learned my lesson; I was trying to play that song off real-casual-like for the rest of the day.

Maybe I am making too much of this. Maybe my co-workers would like me better if we slept together. You never know.

(Advisory to the reader: I cannot be held responsible for any of the words that I say, and no I’m not a man hating feminist or a fairy hating fiction writer)

Why I refuse to write a story about nymphs and fairies...

#1 I have nothing to say since I hate that shit

#2 Nymphs, in Greek mythology, are minor female deities. They are described as often being the attendants of more important deities. I dare not endorse or perpetuate the ideology of women as a lesser, subservient race.

#3 The images of Nymphs take the form of young, pretty girls. They are the ancient day version of our modern day super models. They set unrealistic and unachievable standards that youth try to emulate, no matter what the damage it may cause... and they are just freakishly hot! It’s not right.

#4 I can’t write about fairies because I often get them confused with soccer players. I’m afraid my story may take a turn from fantasy into sports cast.

#5 I cannot trust fairies therefore I cannot write about them. Their magic is often misguiding and deceitful. For example, Fairy gold is notoriously unreliable, appearing as gold when paid, but soon thereafter revealing itself to be leaves. I take a moral stance on the idea that if a man wishes for gold, he should damn well get it. Those fairies are scoundrels who are masked by a glittering façade that mankind cannot resist. After all, who doesn’t like glitter?

#6 This isn’t a reason why I can’t write about fairies, it's more of a safety warning to all in the event of a fairy run-in. Fairies love dancing in a circle, using music to lure a human inside. Once trapped, escape is impossible unless a human chain is formed to pull him/her out of the circle. Let’s keep each safe out there.

#7 Lastly, I’m just too grounded of a person to indulge in fantasy outside the bedroom.

The only poem.

Dishes piling up in the sink, Clothes thrown about the floor

Isn’t that what these days off are for?

And yet to be proactive on this rare occasion

Seems, in a way, counterproductive, taking rest from the equation

Days off always carry this cyclical struggle

To do or not to do … is the thought that I juggle

No Sleep for Dreams

I have always been a, ummm…, active sleeper? I am heavily invested in my dreams?

Ok, I talk in my sleep. A lot. Sometimes my sleep will even force me out of bed to put on one sock or eat a granola bar. The night walking is less frequent, but certainly more terrifying and funnier conversation.

It’s not uncommon for me to yell at my bedmate. Lately, I suppose I have just been yelling at myself. This morning was different. I shared my bed last night. People tend to let you continue yelling and choose to tell you about it when you wake. Good looking dogs aren’t as courteous.

During my dream, when my sister got an airline ticket and she paid a “prostitution fee” my “What the fuck?” was vocalized and woke the sleeping pocket beagle spooning at my right. Waking a dog with vulgarity at 5am is no good for all parties. If only I could have kept my yap shut. She realized she had to pee and I realized she’s a dog and needs a human to help her do that. I had to get out of bed. I mean, what was so outrageous about my sister paying a “prostitution fee” anyway?

My dreams ruin my sleep more often than not …. Like the nightmare I had that week that forced me into tears mid slumber. I woke in distress. I had been sobbing so hard that my ears were full of tears. I suppose I would have preferred the beagle were there then.

Ring the Alarm

No, not a dancing sequel.

It’s been a week of close calls. By close I mean not close at all but the alarms didn’t know any better. Really, I think it was professional emergency drill week and our employers just didn’t want “hint” at the practice run.

Monday the fire alarms start. We’ve heard them all before. “Please walk to the nearest stairwell”. We all know what we are supposed to do in these situations, follow the automated voice. That robot coming from the walls must know more about the situation than we humans possibly could. Our elementary educations tell us to exit the building in a calm, orderly fashion.

Rewind to my favorite fire drill. Somehow my broke ass high school had a pool. Because we owned that pool, every student in the body had to swim in that pool. Or at least wade in the shallow end of that pool. Bubbles and bobs, bubbles and bobs. Wet, in a swimsuit during puberty, you would think the swim instructors would cut us a little slack with the knowledge of an incoming drill. No, never. The alarms start ringing once the suits are on and the bodies are soaked. Out of the pool we go on a November afternoon and into the parking lot in orderly fashion. Our single file line of embarrassment. Running out into the cold weather, the nipples on our half-developed breasts remain in a perpetually erect state. Sure, maybe that would have gotten the attention of the boy we were crushing on at moment. But as soon as the gaze directed itself upward, we were bound to kill any attraction our breast had inspired. Ah, the swimcap.

Freezing, embarrassed, wet, and awkward - I will never forget that fire drill.

These rehearsals have just trained us to believe that nothing is really happening. Hearing those sirens wail literally makes my body slow down. We all move in half tie and wait for the noise to stop because that’s what it always does. That is what it did on Monday at least.

Wednesday was another story. Tornado alarms filled the sky. Being hump day, I glanced at my watch to see if this was the monthly test. 2:30pm. Nope, this one is real. The second one was real too. So real for Minneapolis, the glass that makes up the skyline was getting blown to hell. The staff sat in the Music Room for a good hour and half that day waiting for the systems to blow through. I played ping-pong. This is our emergency procedure.

But I got to thinking … what if a tornado hit on the first Wednesday of the month at 1:00pm. I’m pretty sure we’d all be fucked.

A Technical Regression

My television consumption has dropped to dangerously low levels. My digital receiver hasn’t received its own worth yet. Once a week I may hear the voices of the Simpson’s while I am creating a culinary masterpiece. Those episodes hardly need watching though. I see them in my mind (call it telepathic projection) from knowing them so well. I suppose I use the tube for the occasional movie, but my remotes have become tasteless décor more than anything else.

I don’t think I like TV.

What?

The last few weeks I’ve had unlimited access to the world of cable. I thought I would spend the two weeks house-sitting taking advantage of the big screen in the basement and catching up on all the shows my family talks about. I spent hours on end in that house and ended up watching one episode of shark week and Ghostbusters. That’s it! How did I end up on Ghostbusters when there is this roster of series I have been ignorant to and the rest of the world privy to? Well, I love Ghostbusters, that’s part of it. Mostly, though, I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with cable! I seriously don’t know how to operate it. My cable network television knowledge tapped out in the days when you had channels 2 through 96. I don’t understand the HD channels or the OnDemand features. The guide button used to be helpful, but is now overwhelming.

Here I sit, in another cable equipped house (this time with animal hair of all varieties clinging to my black shirt) and am stumped by the telly. I mean, I accidentally watched a half an episode of Reba because I forgot how to properly channel surf.

Is this what it feels like when old people can’t adapt to new technologies? Do they all just end up watching Reba?

Choking

It is a little piece of you that I know, but don't know, but think about, and then it all makes sense and I love it,

and you.

I hope my sister doesn’t kill me for quoting her.

I’ve had this blog for a couple years. Prior to this month, only a meager handful of writings made their way into the cyber world. Those writings were mostly results of crazy, weird days. The kinds of days that make you want to talk really, really fast about. Chances are I couldn’t get anyone on the line to tell anyone … so I wrote about them, somewhat discombobulatedly (I like it, don’t judge my word invention).

I took to the old school variety of pen and pad for a few trips and realized how much I missed words. My college education was words. I was good at words. I wondered if I still was. Travel seemed easy to write about, especially independent travel where my only company was the pen itself. But now my trips are done … so I am left with everyday nothingness that I am trying to make into something.

The point is, when I started writing routinely I received the e-mail above from my sister. With every posting I put up on this silly, unread site … I think about that e-mail. In a way, it was one of the nicest things anyone has said to me. I remember getting a little choked up when I read it and every once and while I go back to it to choke again. There is something about exposing yourself and hearing something like that when you’re standing there stripped. I learned that somehow this thing that matters to me matters to someone else. Weird.

I’m choking (I’ll play it off as on my own spit, that’s more my style).

Love you, Bri.

Cake Complex

I left the house with good intentions and came back with German Chocolate cake.

So begins my cake complex.

I stopped by a local café on my way home when the date I had planned for myself and my ego failed. So yes, it would be fair to call this rare occasion emotional eating but not very polite of you.

I ate the bottom two layers of that three layered cake. The top layer is sitting in my fridge and the thought of going home to it has kept me going all day. Simple pleasures. I have been up for eleven hours already – that’s a lot of cake dreams.

I got to crawl out from under the fluorescents at work with a quick lunch off campus. Mid soba noodles I yearned for that cake. So… we stopped to get more cake. This is getting ridiculous. I ate the same portion at my desk. I now have two cake tops in the fridge and a belly ache.

Why am I writing about cake? Really, it was just to share this conversation via text during consumption.

“Mmm… cake.”
“I ate too much of it. I have a cake belly.”
“Mmm… cake baby.”
“I think I want to eat my baby.”
“Good thing you have another half baby at home.”
“The top half too. Mmm… brains.”

I think I need to cool it with the cake.

And, I’m sorry I am so skinny.

Shorty got low.

I feel like something could come from the dance floor. I’m not really sure what that is, so I figure I will just talk around the dance floor and maybe something will come out. That kind of sounds like I’m going to puke on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Ready? Vomit.

The urge to shake your ass outside the privacy of your home can happen to the best of us. It happened to me this weekend. The funny thing is … I hate the idea of going dancing. I hate the atmosphere. I hate how hot and musty it is bound to get. I hate having my style cramped by a crowded dance floor. I need room for my genius. I hate having beer spilled on me. I hate the junk that is guaranteed to grind on me. I hate the one drunk girl that isn’t that hot and tries too hard. I hate the explicit voyeurism. Really, the whole ‘going out dancing’ thing kind of disgusts me … in theory. But somehow without fail, despite all that, the night will end up a good time. Man, I love to dip it down low.

Enter Wild Onion (I know, I know). Getting there early is the best way to avoid the dance floor drunken grind. The toughest part about an early arrival is you have to go big and balls out. No one else is on the dance floor. So it’s just you and your friends out there holding your own, with the rest of the bar watching and waiting for the night to start its boogie.

For someone who doesn’t like attention and for it being too early in the night for the liquid courage to take affect, I’ll have to admit to my self-consciousness. I’m there to dance and that’s just what I’ll do, but the track won’t jump from song to song without a hyper-awareness of my own body. Every time my hips get caught up on the beat, I notice it. Each time there’s a slightly ungraceful transition from one step to the next, I wonder if they notice it. Or when I catch myself making that stupid, concentrating face, well that I just laugh at.

Still, music bumping and booties following suit always equals a good time.



The male/female balance always interests me. Women go to the club to dance with their friends. I’m sure some women go to dance and finding men may be an added bonus, but I don’t know those women. I only know women that are there for the sole purpose of dancing. This night I was with a married woman and a lesbian, so it’s a valid statement to say they weren’t looking for dudes. It seems that dudes show up at the same venue, to hear the same music, and drink the same booze for a very different reason.

To make a generalizing, ridiculously sweeping statement – Dudes come to stare and hope for the occasion brush on the ass. For the most part, guys don’t dance, which is why I don’t believe they are there to get down (maybe dirty, but not down). They are too reserved in their bodies to let it fly off the handle. The irony there is women love a guy that’s cutting up the floor horrible style. To dudes, I say – embrace the disgrace! Your utter lack of suave doesn’t matter. What matters is the ladies will make you look damn good, no matter how terrible you are. Seriously! Let us make you look good! Every lady loves a man mad-dogging the face of humiliation and settling the score with a dance off!!!

Oh part of me really wants to categorize the type of men in a joint like this, but part of me thinks that’s horrible and people wouldn’t realize that I write for humor first and world view second (it may even be third or fourth). I will say this …

My male encounters for the night:

I fell in love with the Asian dude in his forties that never stopped dancing. He showed up alone and rocked the hardwood like a pro. Completely content in his solitude and letting the beat flow through him.

I was bothered by the middle aged men that fly solo and grab the benches at the counter surrounding the dance floor. They never talked to anyone. Never looked like they were having a good time. And never, ever looked away.

I found out later that a guy was dancing with me that I didn’t even know existed. He never addressed me, or got close enough for me to acknowledge him. Instead, I guess he just danced around me and made it look like were together. Weird.

Another guy took the direct approach and flung his arms around me and Jess. Jess likes girls. Jess’s body completely shut down at his advance and became very still, which made me laugh my ass off and made him mortified. He avoided that side of the dance floor for the rest of the night.

Another dude stopped me on my way to the bathroom, after hearing his southern drawl, I told him that I was sorry he was from Texas and went on my way.

The point is - that is a lot of dude action for a night when you aren’t looking for it. By the time we left, the place was packed and disgusting. It was a sausage fest (a term I recently said to my mom and it made her very uncomfortable which made me laugh very hard). The guys outnumbered the gals by 3-1, easy. If guys really come dancing for the ladies, the percentages aren’t in their favor.

Still, music bumping and booties following suit always equals a good time.

Funsies

How did Coffee News know? They seem to offer decent espresso and telepathy. The first of which I can’t enjoy a cup of given the potential hole in my stomach. Sitting here in the air-conditioning, at my laptop with my ears plugged with Glen Hansard, the placard I was given for my food order was “Funsies”. The defining caption exemplifies the term “Let’s pull funsies on those boys”.

I need some funsies. I would love to pull funsies on some boys. From the moment I woke up yesterday, that was the exact term I was looking for.

This place always delivers. Good coffee. Cute waitstaff. Good food. Good people watching. The only time it didn’t deliver was the first date I had here. They really failed me on that one. This spot offers plenty for the average conversation. A huge sampling of artwork decorates the wall. I even know one of the artists, so I have that going for openers. The crowd is always mixed and interesting. If the people indoors are all Macalester-ites and huddled on their computers (oh man, I hope I don’t look like one right now), the people outside are at least worth commentary. But that day, the first of the online dating e-mails that resulted in an actual date day, there was no conversation to be found. It was hiding under the table.

Back to the funsies. I need a night on the town with the people that make me the silliest. Don’t get me wrong, the trips outdoors have been great fun. A different kind of fun. An enjoyable fun, a satisfactory fun but not a doubled-over, giggle crazy fun time. I need the later. Hard to put yourself into stitches. I need a night of laughter and ridiculousness. In all honesty, I don’t know how my stomach would react to that kind of laughter. Last time it sent me spiraling down the pain cyclone. I’d rather risk it. I need a night to forget about the dumbness of these last few weeks. The dumbness of my doctor’s visits. The dumbness of my new diet. The dumbness that I just wrote “my diet” in all seriousness. The dumbness of my job at the moment. The dumbness of my continued selflessness. I feel a little tapped out of favors. I feel a little exhausted from being so damn nice. I feel a little unlike myself, out of my routine and away from the things I want to be doing.

Screw this melancholy shit … ITunes>Search>Dead Weather.

Belize - Day the Rest

All of the entries prior to this one were written longhand during my trip in April. It took me all these months to transfer the scribbles into typeface. I stopped writing on that 6th day. The island was the island and I must have been all tapped out on new material. Months and months later, when I write today, I can hardly offer you the riveting observations you have gotten used to in my writing. Ha. What I can tell you today about my trip is a little summary of my last days there and offer you the answers to the practical questions I was asked on my return. Questions I never thought to include in my journal.



The last night on the island was a fun one. After dinner we had a huge bonfire and learned some Belizean folklore and a few smooth moves. A group of men that were working on the nearby resort joined us for the dancing. Only they didn’t dance. They stood in a circle around us and watched a bunch of white Americans & Canadians butcher their culture’s traditional dances. Mostly, they laughed at us. And we laughed at us. A few of us took turns on the handmade drums and set the beat for the rest of the travelers who were light on their feet.







The ride back to Dangriga had one unfortunate passenger, me. The water was choppier on the way back to the mainland. I had the frightful seat where the boat broke the waves. My right side was drenched; my left side remained reasonably dry. I was a sight to be seen. When I was seen, I usually got that half smile, slightly amused, pity face from people. Our luggage was getting thrown about from boat to van and it wasn’t really possible to find some dry clothes. A few of us scrounged for wet-naps to at least rid the salt from our skin for the rest of our travel. We were running to catch a tiny charter to fly us back to Belize City where we’d spend our last night close to the airport. The country of Belize is tiny, but the highways are structured (mostly pointed inland, nothing running north/south along the water) in a way that people will opt to hop on these charter flights to skip north or south.

People always ask about the toilets on the island. For some reason this is what people always want to know. There was a two stall structure that leaned left from a previous hurricane. There was a whole bathroom process that happened in that little room. Basically, it was an outhouse complete with composting toilets. The idea was every time you added your own waste, you would put a cup of cedar chips down the well too. Honestly, I wish all campgrounds used this method, rather than chemically treated. It smelled a lot better and was reusable for fertilizer. The trick was remembering to throw the paper goods in the trash, rather than down the hole. Then we all sterilized the seat after each sitting. It was a lot to think about , waking in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to pee.

Midnight runs to the bathroom followed this logic:

Crap I have to pee.
Find my shoes (our feet didn’t have the Belizean soles, we had to wear sandals at all times because of the coral mixed in with the sand, not to mention the hermit crabs).
Find my headlight (no electricity, remember?)
Relief.
Throw the paper in the TRASH.
Scoop a coconut cup worth of cedar chips in.
Sterilize the seat.
Lower the seat (this is an important one for the sake of bugs, I was on my way down one night and had a HUGE cockroach crawl out from under the seat, I had no choice I was on my way down and had to keep going, giant roach or no).
Lock the door from the outside.

Head to the wash bins. There was one bin full of clean water and one wash bin for the discarded soapy water, and one small bowl for the rinse process. So … Take the small bowl and fill it from the clean water bin, hit the soap, then move over to the discard bin. Pour the water from the bowl over your hands to rid them of the bubbles and let it fall into the soapy bin. That’s how we tried to be hygienic. I doubt this process.

The other question I got a lot was about the drinking water. Most places throughout our stay had filtered water. The island was also filtered, sort of. On a salt water island, if you dig a well a certain yardage from the waterfront you will have a self-filtered water reserve. There is a science to this; it has to be a certain distance from shore and a measured depth. A shallow well, the first few feet will be ‘fresh’ water, filtered from the surrounding sediment. Those few feet of water would be scooped out every few days and aged into our drinking water. It remained a little salty to the taste. Not a thirst quenching water, to be sure, but it kept us hydrated.

My it’s a small world story … One of the vacationers, Jen, was from Seattle, my sister’s city. The whole time we were on the island she kept talking about this fitness boot camp she was going to before we arrived in the Caribbean. When I got home, catching up with family, my sister started in on the same conversation. Turns out they were both in the same class. They later connected. Jen was surviving class with her sister. Since then, I’ve heard Jen has stopped going and now her sister and my sister have talked on occasion. Weird.

Lastly, people always ask if I’d do another REI adventure. My answer to that is yes but under specific circumstances. I would love to do it at the serious, crazy adventure level-scaling mountains and shit. My brain keeps circling the idea of backpacking the Grand Canyon. For something like that, I think it’s a great way to experience the outdoors. You have experienced guides, who are knowledgeable about the land, the gear is all there and waiting for your use, you don’t have to worry about food. For an adventure trip that is pushing your skill level, I think it’s a great way to do it. For leisure travel, I would say… not a chance. I would hate following a group through a city. All in all, this was a great way for someone who was traveling alone and for the first time beyond our borders (somehow Canada and Jamaica don’t count as international travel). At times I felt like I was giving up my own voice in my own vacation, but it was a compromise I was willing to make with my travel ignorance. I’m building my smarts. Really, now I just want to go everywhere and am learning more and more than I can do it - mentally, physically, and financially.

End of story.

Belize - Day 5 & 6

I realized I didn’t write about yesterday at all. We took a two hour kayak out to Middle Cay. The island is largely a research base and houses cute Brit’s that are studying the rays and sharks. I got a chance to snorkel with Karm. Karm is one of three guides; he’s amazing to watch under the water. He has a head full of the longest, neatest dreadlocks I have ever seen. Under the water, skinny in his wetsuit, his dreads float around majestically. Like Ursula underwater. I swam alongside a few barracuda. We spotted a nurse shark tucked under a rock. The shark stayed in hiding and that was quite alright with me. I saw a lobster that was my same size. We kayak sailed back to base over shallow water that housed sting rays few feet. Beautiful. Then a few of us sat around playing cards after dinner, the likely reason I didn’t feel like writing.





I got to taste coconut water and munched on raw coconut. After a hard battle, Ed and Mike cracked the nut open and we all got to see the monkey face under the husk.

It’s hard to keep writing when the time is standing still and blazing past. There aren’t defining events to our days on the island. One day rolls into the next … I feel like I am lacking in observation. I’ve got a sufficient amount of hammock time logged. But I have to say I am disappointed with the hammocks here. Instead of giving way and hugging your butt, the middle remains tight and the leisure activity becomes a balancing act.

Everyone else is burned and I feel like I am losing the race somehow. I need to crisp up tomorrow. Need some battle wounds to show off when I finally make it home. So far my limbs are toasted, not fried and my center is still white girl white. Maybe tomorrow I’ll dive without the rash guard. Why am I wishing for skin cancer?? I’m dumb.

This morning a group of us went fishing. I think it was my favorite thing on the trip so far. Weird, right, for a vegetarian? I caught a lot of large snapper, grouper and grunts. The whole boat was pulling them in minute after minute. It was beautiful to be further out on the water and luckily I brought my camera on board. Two of us even managed to pull in two huge barracudas. Using another fish we pulled on board, our driver filleted the meat into little tendrils for bait. Dragged behind a slow moving boat, the fillets look like jellyfish skimming along the water. Perfect for a barracuda dinner. I’m glad I saw those teeth up close the day AFTER I was swimming with them. I loved the opportunity to be out with just a couple of my travel mates. It’s a different dynamic than the full group. For that reason, I hung back again today in the afternoon.


I still haven’t made up my mind about this kind of travel … I think for the most part I don’t like playing by someone else’s rules. Still this place is amazing. The accommodations are unreal, the food outstanding, and the company is pleasant enough. I would still stay another week if I could. Being here alone (ok, with people but not with my people) does make me a little homesick for the laughter of my friends. It makes me ache to be sharing this with someone. I wish I had another person that could brew up this beautiful place again in rendezvous. I yearn for normal conversation, conversations about nothing instead of getting to know you conversations that say nothing about people. It’s funny that the real world doesn’t exist for us. Time is only told by the meal setting and the sun’s arch. Movies, politics, and work don’t get talked about here. Maybe for the better. We don’t have a clue to what is happening in the US right now. The island has a radio to the mainland that they use twice a day for weather reports, or in the off chance of an emergency. Who knows what’s going on out there?

The wind is ripping through my tent … I feel like I may take flight.

Everybody Poops

If you view me as a “girl”, the kind of girl that doesn’t have basic bodily functions… Stop! Look away! Alt + Back Arrow! ALT + BACK ARROW!!!

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Cause what I have to say isn’t dainty or pretty. Or any other adorable feminine adjective.

I feel weird about splicing this in with my travel writings, but today is today and I feel like writing about now.

The online world has made our medical records immediately accessible. Getting blood work on Friday filled my inbox with results on Saturday and left me wondering ‘what the heck do these mean’ until today, when I heard from my doctor. Reading my own charts … I could tell a few things. Simple math showed me that the test on my liver fell within the standard range. Same for the gallbladder. It was the third test that was most important in this ‘threat of an ulcer’ business. The third test for the H. Pylori bacteria (common cause of Peptic Ulcers) result said … Inconclusive.

I understand the human language pretty well. I can confidently say I have a decent knack for words - can offer spellings, definitions and synonyms to people in need. But… what the hell does Inconclusive mean?

I learned today what Inconclusive meant. Inconclusive means more tests. The subtext on the test results said another specimen was needed. "Bummer," I thought to myself, "I have to go back into the clinic to give more blood”. I couldn’t have been more wrong. My doctor told me the bacteria reading in my blood was right on the border and that the specimen they needed was of the fecal variety.

I can’t poop in a jar! I can’t do it. This is when I become completely immature about my ailments. I don’t even know how to poop in jar. Seriously, how does one poop in a jar? They probably don’t need the whole shooting match, right? Just a sample? A sample seems worse! Does that mean I’m going to have to cut up a piece of my own poop? Like a sausage? Oh god, I don’t do sausage!

The lunch table got a little poop talk. I gave warning and it was addressed pre-consumption. Appropriate microwave talk, no? Hypothetical talk of the most comfortable way to contain your own poop came up. I realized there is only one way that would distract me from my own reality. That way is to take a mental camping vacation - go out into nature, dig a hole, place the container in the hole, etcetera. I can do that. I’ve done that. Hmmm … the square of grass behind my building isn’t really a viable option with apartment complexes towering on both sides of my squat. The house I am sitting for on the other hand…

The thing is - this isn’t going to be a hypothetical situation for very long.

Talking over my poop complex over a sociable G-Chat, a friend put things into perspective for me. “Aren’t you glad they are letting you surrender your own poop? I mean, at least they aren’t coming into claim it themselves.” That was actually a pretty comforting thought. Well, as comforting as poop talk can get.

Ha, I was so excited to write about my poop.

Don’t worry. This is something I will figure out on my own and won’t report back with details (unless there is comic value, anything for that).

Belize - Day 4 I think...

The overcast skies are getting a little old. Yes, it’s beautiful to see a sudden downpour roll in over the Caribbean, but I think we are all ready to roast in the sun.

The Schedule (I think I have a hard time playing by someone else’s schedule):

I tend to wake up with the sun each day around 5:30.
7:30 is breakfast.
First activity of the day by 9:30.
Back to the island by noon.
Lunch.
Second activity of the day.
Back to the island by 5:30.
Dinner promptly at 6:30.
By then it’s dark and we sit around talking for a bit.
Most people head towards by 8pm.
As tired as I am, I can’t do the eight o’clock bed time. I refuse to fall asleep any earlier than 10:30. If I can’t convince someone to stay up and play spoons with me, I usually retire to my bed to write or read. The on/off rain has left us all in constant tent-window madness. Up and down and up. As I write this, it is rather stuffy in my tent, but I chose the murky air over the midnight rise to rain and the need to go out of the tent to let secure the window flaps.

This morning we kayaked to a nearby shallow bay for some snorkeling. I wish I would have practiced at home. Me fighting my bathtub with my mask on seemed ridiculous at the time. Now I wish I would have committed to the self-embarrassment. It’s going to take some time to get used to that feeling. But hell, I’ve got nothing but time on this island a handful more opportunities to figure it out. I’m going to do it. Get over the anxiety of distorted breathing. I took my time heading out but made it out to the seahorse eventually. The second half of the day, I hung back to do my own thing. I don’t think I like traveling with the pack 24 hours a day. It was nice to explore the island and get my camera out for what felt like the first time.

I keep being bothered by the lack of music here. I haven’t heard music since the airport in Atlanta. My ipod is still fully charged ... I just haven’t gotten it out. Even though I completely miss my music … I would hate to plug my ears, since I will undoubtedly miss the sound of the tide as soon as I leave this place.

I can’t say that I’ve learned anything fascinating today. Maybe how to calculate a nautical mile.

Even with all these clouds, the group came back before dinner with a reddish hue. Burns through the stormiest of rain clouds. I’m starting to wonder how toxic my skin has become. The slathering process is outrageous. Sun block in the morning and throughout the day. Come 3pm it’s a good time to add a layer or bug spray to deter the sand fleas. Night time I try to wipe down with a cleansing cloth and then add a layer of lotion to get some moisture back into my salt-ridden skin. My toxic derma has stripped the painted labels off my camera. I’ve hardly even used my camera. One day with my fingers of toxic death and suddenly I just have to remember what all the buttons do. Remember?

I haven’t showered since Banana Bank. My hair is a new kind of crazy. I should have taken pictures and made a hair log. I had no idea my hair could do the things it’s doing.

That’s all I’ve got. Everyone is getting more social by the day. AND my swimsuit strap broke … again! These giant jugs just can't be contained, I guess. Glad I brought two suits.

Belize - Day 3

I can hardly remember this morning. It seems like a lifetime ago. How have we possibly done so much in three days? How have we been through six towns and slept in three different locations. I am looking forward to hunkering down here for the next five nights. Tomorrow we won’t lose part of the day to travel. We are here. On a remote island... doing island-y things.

I was right about the caged macaws and toucans. I didn’t expect the puppy and mangy mutt to wrestle at 5am as well. Stupid of me not to expect that, really.

Most of the day was just spent getting here. An hour car ride south to Dangriga along the Hummingbird Highway. Hummingbird because of all the twists, turns and dips. Like the flight of the bird itself. Somewhere along the rainforest walls there is a spot after an uphill climb where just as we are about to descend, our guide Anatashio throws the car into neutral. Somehow we start rolling backwards uphill. It was a slow pull, but our driver insists that at times it can bring a car back up the hill pretty quickly. A little mystery of Belize. The cause is speculated to be a magnetic shift. That day the magnets of the world must not have been properly aligned.

That drive also gave me a chance to try my first cocoa plant. The insides of the bumpy yellow gourd were not what I was expecting. Fleshy, round seed clusters made up the guts of the plant. It looked like pieces of raw fish, lumped together. I was told to suck on one. Obediently, I did as I was told. The ‘flesh’ was the cocoa plants fruit. Locals suck the pulp off the actual seeds; the seed itself never gets eaten. Standing alone the cocoa seed has very little taste, but that is the part that gets ground down and sweetened into my weakness. The fleshy part is actually very sour.

Who knew?

The drive got some heavy rain and made us all nervous for our destination …. a boat. The downpour politely kept to the mountains. We lucked out with smooth sailing and a few showers for the last ten minutes of the hour long rider. Glovers Reef is 36 miles off the coast. I can see how that boat ride, in the wrong conditions, could easily become a two hour journey.

After lunch, our new hosts stuck us in kayaks regardless of the overcast skies and strong winds. We paddled out a bit and got our first lesson – tipping the kayak. We worked it like pros. You would have never seen such a graceful dump or such a swift remount. Pros except pros that didn’t properly check their gear before setting out on the water. Neither seat had bailing buckets or sponges, so we had to borrow for our boat to float again.

This camp is amazing. The island is shared with a few other businesses but this week it is totally deserted. Our group is the only one on the island. I am in love with our Belizean guides. They ask me to marry them and it seems tempting. The locals are all warm people that are just looking for laughter and lightheartedness.

It is a long way from the hot shower and air conditioning I woke up to, and yet it is still comfortable. I am writing this by kerosene lamp. No electricity. No running water. Compost toilets. There’s a little well water for rinsing off but I am considering avoiding the showers all together for the five days here. We’ll see how crazy my hair gets. My locks are already on their way to wild. It’s funny to think that none of us have any idea what we look like in the real world, day to day. We recognize each other in our rawest states. They will forever remember me with island hair. I have island hair! Awesome.

This place in surreal in beauty and I feel like the group is warming up a bit more.

I have to remember to tell Alicia I ate twelve Johnny Cakes. Pastries here tend to have a man’s name within. Mmmm… what I wouldn’t give for a Fry Jack right now.

The Threat of an Ulcer

I really wanted to post my Belize series in a row. What enjoyable vacation reading. Educational even. Who knew what cashews look like in the growing stage? You do!

But I cannot avoid my ultimate reality this week. And after the phone conversation I just had with my dad, I had to pause my Belize memories, hit New Document and start anew on my current discomfort.

My phone conversation with my dad:
“Yellow?”
“Dad, what the hell are you doing up it's nine o'clock?”
“We’re watching the last 8 minutes of Monk. Can she call you back?”
“Sure, but aren’t you going to wish me luck with my ulcer?”
“You don’t have an ulcer. It’s call nervous stomach. You don’t want to have an ulcer.”
“Dad! I’ve had nervous stomach. Nervous stomach has never laid me out on the floor, immobile.”
“Oh dear. Maybe it’s an ulcer”
“Thanks Dad.”

There are things in that conversation that could get me talking forever. The fact that my dad never answers the phone, is never normally awake at 9pm and how if he is up, he and my mom are undoubtedly watching TV and would never pause it (they can do that, they are like God with a remote) to talk to their daughter. I could talk about his use of the word “she” and how he assumes I only want to talk to my mother. But the point of me writing is not to embarrass my mother publically (I love you Mom, you are my favorite reader).

It sucks to have your insides and your outsides hurt simultaneously. Last week I played too hard and this week I worked too hard, leaving my muscles in constant tension and complete soreness. It was Tuesday that the abdominal pain set in. A pain that wasn’t helped by my chiseled abs pressing so tightly against my internal organ. I spent the week lifting heavy objects, laid out on the couch, leaving work early in pain and learning what foods do the most damage. The four “L”s, that wasn’t intentional but I like the lifting, laid, leaving, learning alliteration.

I don’t think I have an ulcer. I think my stomach lining is inflamed, but I really don’t want to have an ulcer. So I went to the Doctor. She told me I probably have an ulcer. They took a blood sample. I don’t think I’ve ever had my blood drawn as an adult. I don’t have any memory of it. I don’t even know my blood type. Anyway, I’ll get the results tomorrow. This is boring reading, I just know that when I start talking about it people get all concerned and want the information I just gave.

What bums me out the most is not the pain. I mean, the pain sucks, but what sucks more is the bland diet. I don’t know if this vegetarian can live without spices, caffeine, alcohol, cigarettes … Being someone who never restricts what she eats (ok ok I’m a vegetarian, restricted diet exemplified, but as long as it doesn’t poop, I’ll eat any and everything, I have my gluttonous moments, there’s a reason my family calls me a bottomless pit [that was a very long parenthetical statement]), I never gave a second thought to whether I should or shouldn’t be eating something. Selectivity and food do not mix well for me. How many bananas and waffles can I eat? This is terrible!

The other things that has been on my mind this week is people who live with pain everyday and how miserable that must be. To arrange your life according to your pains. That thought is beyond words for me. I should shut my fucking complaining yap!

Lastly, went to Cirque Du Soleil with Alicia. The juggling act had us both in stitches – Sparkle Ham-berg and Wavey-Arms McGee. We laughed so hard, we were both wiping tears from our cheeks. I laughed so hard my insides hurt, but my insides already hurt, which made it hurt more and then I just wanted to cry from the pain but the thought of sobbing seemed too painful. So I won’t cry. But I’ll take that pain any day for a laugh like that. Ohhh Sparkle Ham-berg, I love your jumpsuit. I want to be in it.

Belize - Day 2

Day 2

The birds at the Tropical Education Center have a pleasant morning alarm. I was lucky enough not to have the one obnoxious bird gurgling outside my window. The twittering was soft, musical and unobtrusive. Those sounds got my feet to swing over the edge of the bed at 5am. We were out of there by 9am and onto our next stop – the river float through Mayan caves.


I wish I had a waterproof camera. Instead my memory maker was sitting in a dry bag on Anatashio’s lap. The over-use of camera’s around me left my normally click-happy fingers to do other things. Somehow this ‘touristy’ photo madness turned me off to my own hobby. The only times I played behind the lens was in the moments I found to myself. The river float was amazing. That’s all I can really say about it. Each cave opened to another cavern that opened to an opening with waterfalls pouring from the sky and streaking the eroded stone. Anatashio had taken a group through the day prior and one of the tubers bumped along the wall, put his hand out to push off … only that wasn’t wall. That surface he pushed against with all his might was one of the most poisonous snakes on earth. Luckily, the snake was sleeping and didn’t ruin the traveler’s vacation with a bite. Anatashio lingered behind the rest of the group to kill the poor snake with his bare hands. A pissed off, poisonous snake has no place in a tourist attraction. Sad.

We restacked the inner-tubes and crammed in the van once again to travel to Banana Bank Lodge. My single room is more than comfortable with A/C and mosaic stained glass bathroom. It was a relaxed day at the lodge. We took a boat ride up the Belize River for more birding and ecological banter. By the end of which I had a crick in my neck because I was forever on the wrong side of the boat for the good viewing. I am a terrible birder. I can’t initially spot them, then I can’t find them in the binoculars and don’t even ask about species identification. I never seem to listen to the final verdict on the species. So what it comes down to is this … I can tell you when it’s a Social Flea Catcher (only because I made a joke about Anti-Social Flea Catchers, yes, my memories mostly consist of times I tell a joke and actually get a laugh). And I’m good at pointing out vultures (turkey neck and black vultures alike). That’s all I got. The boat also offered up some good sitings of howler monkeys in their natural environment, iguanas that weigh more than me, and two people whose plan to skinny dip was ruined by our binoculars.

I have never eaten so much rice and beans. Every meal.

Banana Bank is over 4,000 acres. They have a spider-monkey chained to the trees. Very sad, but it was kind of funny to see it play with farm dogs. Everyone in Belize seems to have a jaguar, Banana Bank is no different. Tika-Two. My lodge is a bit detached from everything else. The stone path brings me right alongside the jaguar cage. Cool to say hi to the cat throughout the day, but approaching the chain-link in the dark rattled my nerves a bit. It’s the type of dark that only real wilderness brings. So when the basic silhouette my eyes made out was the shape of a jaguar, this time directly in my path, my heart jumped. The dark made me momentarily forget about the strategically placed feline statute just outside Tika-Two’s den.

I am not looking forward the the 5am bird calls tomorrow morning. Toucans and Cockatoos are caged outside my room. I’m sure I’ll wake to “Hello, Hello”.

Tomorrow we hit a long car ride and an even longer boat ride out to Glover’s Reef Atoll. I can’t wait to hit the water.

Belize - Day 1

Crossing the border alone and boy am I an idiot. I’m pretty sure I filled out the customs paper work wrong. They probably think I am exporting native vegetation and importing American made methamphetamine. I’m not even sure what to write on the entrance paperwork under the line ‘intended address of visitation’ … Um… Something about Glover’s Reef, some other cities along the way? All I want to say is “I have no idea” but I don’t think that would go over well. The downfall of someone else planning your vacation… I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing or where I am going. I fear these first hours render me a failed traveler. I don’t even have the slightest idea how to make an international call home to tell people I am not dead. Ah well, leave my family in suspense for a week.

Day 1

Best airport experience of my life. Enter MSP International. Not a sole at the counters. Not an employee at the security gate. EMPTY. The place is deserted aside from a single file line taking shape in the middle of the spanning hallway. I trust the herd mentality and hope this is going to take me where I need to be. My plane is one of the first to leave the tarmac on this day. Both of my flights were empty. I got a stretching 3 seats to sprawl out on, I got two blankets to snuggle up with, and two bags of peanuts to thoroughly parch my mouth. Hardly a half an hour between flights. Best flight ever! Thanks Delta.

The airport arrival was something else entirely. The travel itinerary was very vague about pick-up. I head outside and hope to see someone standing there with my name in front of their chest. I don’t see it. I don’t see it for a while. In fact, I never see it. For a split second, I almost believed the cabbies that would tell me Island Expedition (yeah, it was a good 20 minutes before I realized it wasn’t an REI company leading the travel) would never pick me up on a Sunday. I thought better of it and stuck it out. Plus, I had no idea where I would even have a cab bring me. I knew the first night was supposed to be by some zoo, or something??

After a bit of waiting, I was found by Anatashio and was whisked away in a sort of official looking van. I was happy not to be the vacations getting piled into the dented caddy with company names spray painted on the side. I spent a few hours waiting at a hotel near the airport until the other travelers arrived. Then it was off to the Tropical Education Center, owned by the Belize Zoo, the sleeping quarters were built by Island Expedition and regularly house researchers, students, and eco-interested travelers.

Rattling of role call and assigning bunk mates. I was paired with twenty-something Heather in cabin 7, but Heather has already formed an earlier alliance and opted to continue their budding relationship. So I became the 13th of 12. The odd man out and the single living lady. Was I sad to miss out on pillow talk? Maybe. I enter my forest cabana complete with tiny porch to find a double bed. I thought, was this the cabin I was supposed to be sharing? I would have had to sleep in the same bed with the people whose names I can’t remember? I find out later that there were double occupancy cabins with two single beds. Here I get to sleep like a queen with two pillows, drape myself in two towels and make myself squeaky clean with two tiny soaps.

Dinner was meager for a vegetarian. I already ate potato salad just for the helping of veggies and egg within. I hate potato salad. Off to a nocturnal visit of the Belize Zoo. I didn’t take a single picture because I was overwhelmed by every other flash and the flood of Petzl headlamps at their highest setting. May as well have been set to strobe.

The zookeeper brings us up some stairs to a wooden deck nestled between two banks of trees. He tells us to look up and then performed his best impression of the Howler Monkey call. As the branches all around us started to shake, I was sure something prehistoric was about to emerge from the canopy. That sound made me bet that T-Rex was about to show and I was the unlucky one who’d get eaten off the toilet. The sound of Howler Monkeys is like freight train meets lion meets the torture device in the Princess Bride. All this sound coming from your average sized, unassuming monkey. Had I heard that sound alone in the woods I would have shit my pants and run the other way. I wish I had someone with me to hear that noise. I would be talking about it for the rest of my life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=REPoVfN-Ij4

I like this moment to myself in my forest cabana. I’ve stumbled through the day not knowing what to think. Too much to take in. Too touristy? Too peopley? Too planned? Too unreal? Too early to tell. For now, sleep. Can’t wait for the 5:30am bird awakening.


PS Now I know why cashews are so expensive. I have seen a cashew fruit. Yes, fruit! It’s one of the few fruits that the seed grows outside of its body. It has a bright, acidic plum-like fruit and a single nut sits atop. I can imagine the harvesting process. To pick each handful and remove the nut from its body. The fruit itself is rarely used … Cashew wine, not so good.




Speed bumps are sleeping policemen.

An Elementary Reflection

Housesitting without internet has made me use my computer in a new, old way. I was going through the various pathways that all these writings are saved in and during my consolidation or re-organization I came to a few old writings. That made me laugh. I loved reading them again. So I will post a few of those. Sans internet I have also started getting my pen and paper writings onto the QWERTY. Those should be soon. I'm going to try to post something every day. Some new, some old, some bad, some not bad. Anyway, this one makes me happy.

An Elementary Reflection


The other day I saw a sign posted that read “Lost Dinosaur” – the writing, so fresh and new to the world, detailed a lost friend. A penny reward was offered for rescue and recovery. At the time, I smiled and thought how great my life would be if my adult worries only entailed lost dinosaurs.

Fast forward a week until today – an 80 degree afternoon that I fortunately had free from the grips of employment. I take my 10 speed out for a spin around the lake. While flicking my bell as I pass a rollerblader on the left … the sound of nostalgia sets in. I am reminded of my pink childhood bike adorned with streamers and, of course, a bell.

How far is my life from adolescence… really? I refuse to accept that the only similarity is my child-like figure.

Last night, like most nights, I got to be a part of an eccentric production – bright lights, music, ball gowns and a captivated audience … a scene that originally materialized on my parent’s front porch. Maybe those hours of home video footage are more than an embarrassing glimpse of my past ... instead the endless film reel serves as a humiliating prelude to my future.

On this near perfect day, the place I choose to etch my thoughts is not a café to brew up sophisticated reflection with the help of a tall vanilla latte. Instead, I sit, where most early memories start … in the grass, under a maple, watching nature and human nature alike. Although, in youth I would probably be bossing around my friends (not unlike the kid screaming behind me today) to play the games that I wanted to play and, of course, initializing the “NOT IT” vote.

Staring at this notepad (very diary-like in size) I realize that the poster’s script is not unlike my own. His hand shows he’s unused to the circles and lines that draw our language. My chicken scratch, however, is from knowing these shapes so well that I no longer dwell on their appearance, my attention focused on their content. My sister would tell you my writing is actually due to the thumb wrap I never unlearned. None the less, the surfaces (of poster and pad) share an uncanny resemblance.

I could go on to say that the message on the flyer is simply a cry to find a lost companion and that this cry never refrains as life persists … but I’d rather keep this 80 degree day sweet, not sad.

My 8 year old brain and my 24 year old brain still thinks that marriage, family, careers, and the rest of adulthood are eons away. I wonder how long that ignorance with hold true …

Another Day at Apostle

7/30

Starting a fire at 8pm, I plan on keeping it roaring. Feeding it my last pieces of wood and crawling to my cot. The heat of this fire (a fire that took me thirty seconds and one match to start) will have me sleeping by 10. That’s my hope at least.

This morning I sat in bed until the rain stopped (the cot, by the way, was a lifesaver with the rain and moisture this time, call me a sissy… I’m out here in the woods alone, where are you?). It worked! Tumbling out of my tent around 10am kept the rain away for the rest of the day. I set out with overcaste skies but not daunting rain clouds.

I had a foolish dream of biking down to Bayfield, a 15 miles trek and then hopping on the ferry to Madeline Island. I got a mile past the camp ‘office’ and realized what an idiot I was. This body cant take a 30 mile commute followed by a 10 mile island today. Instead, I wised up or sissied out, threw my bike in my car and drove south on Old County Road K. Madeline is ride worthy enough. The round trip ferry ride for a bicyclist was $17! Crazy! Still I’m glad I had my bike. Made it out to Big Bay State Park. The sun came out just as I hit the pavement. I pulled to the side and shed a layer of clothing immediately.


I’m glad an itsy, bitsy bikini packs nicely in my camelbak. I made my way to the water while my skin was still begging for a cool down. The beach towel didn’t pack well on the bike … instead I settled for air drying on a mere 70 degree day. The hours on Madeline were the only few that received sun that day. Timing. Timing. I paced the beach and sat on a boulder to dry off. Remember, no towel so laying out wasn’t really an option. Well, I suppose it was an option, but a sandy one. I listened to ten year old complain of their freezing balls in the water. Mostly, I laughed. Then I took a nice hike along the ridge.

People are funny when you are traveling alone. Several people offered to take my pictures. I didn’t even ask. I didn’t even have my camera out at the time. They just offer. People I keep pace with for even a few minutes, end up wishing me safe travels and great weekends. Maybe when I travel alone I wear a happier, more inviting face … People approach me more. Or maybe people are just less intimidated by strangers that are detached from friends/family.

I don’t really know what else to say about today. Biked. Hiked. Swam. Ate an awesome curry tofu wrap.

I love ferries. I wish I needed them for everyday commute. What a great way to start the day. On a boat, looking out at the water.

I have found an obscene amount of daddy-long legs crawling all over my body. I don’t rip there legs off anymore like my youthfull years.

I am sort of ready to feel my own sheets.

A few hours at the Apostle Islands

7/29

Not what I expected. Pulling into the campground was unlike any other. A woman sat at a picnic table with a locked shed behind her labeled “store” and a pile of chopped firewood beside her. I left the “office” and headed towards my site. By far the most disappointing site I have ever had. Rows of picnic tables file down towards my site. I wonder why I am so far down this empty row. This will be a place for sleeping. Just SLEEPING. I am hoping to do that soundly tonight. Every muscle is begging for rest. Can’t rest. Must push! Rest is not a part of the reason I am here. So…

After setting up camp … I realized that I should maybe invest a little money into this camping thing. That four person dome tent is no picnic for a sole camper. I bet I looked sort of ridiculous. After all that work, all I could think of was getting the hell out of that site.

I headed for Meyer’s Beach around 6pm. The map read there was a lakefront trail head, a good 5 miles out with an identical return. I quickly hit the sand and start down the beach. About a mile out the shore gets washed out. Is this the trail? Sort of bummed, I dick around for a while then head back to my car. The couple picnicking was no longer lakeside. Feeling a bit defeated on my way to my mini, these sad, slightly dumb eyes, noticed the pick up to the actual trail. I wanted desperately to make it out to the sea cave overlook at the very least. Two miles out. Two is not a scary number. Hmmm… that gives me four miles roundtrip with an hour and half of daylight left. Can’t forget the photography minutes in there, oh and the quiet reflection time. Well, I’m here. I have to try.



With each step I was racing the sun and avoiding bears with a whisteling version of the Oscar Meyer Wiener song, my keys jingling at my hip. Every minute I was sure to see a bear beyond every bend in the unkempt path. And each minute ticked by uneventfully, but very sweatily. I made it back before the sunset, got to watch that on the beach. Glad I went, took in some pretty views that my camera is sure to fail at capturing. I can say that Cardiovascular Whistling should be the next health trend.

Tomorrow … hmmm bike Madeline or take my chances on the kayak? Muscles say no, soul says both.

Note to self – frozen burritos that are meant for microwaves aren’t very good over the fire. That’s what I get for finding groceries at a late night gas station. Looking forward to better food tomorrow.

Ummm… the coyotes are howeling all around me. What am I doing out here alone?? Ha.

Eagle River, Wisconsin – Bridgewater Inn 7/28

I keep smelling meat in the air as I lay here at the Bridgewater Inn. Something about that smell makes me want to check the bottom of my shoes for dog shit. How does meat smell like dog shit to me? Maybe that’s why I am a vegetarian.

Eagle River without a boat would be a travesty. The lily pads here actually bear the fruit of lilies. The water is brown but often times more pleasant than the chill in the air.

My muscles ache from Erica’s wild jet-ski ride, Gator’s brutal tubing session and my own failed attempt at wake boarding. I suppose the 15 mile morning bike rides and the kayaking out to the old Pioneer Campground-turned-Condo’s probably have something to do with my screaming muscles as well. I am hitting the road tomorrow, a two and half hour drive, immobile, sounds torturous. This is me remembering to take pain killers.

A couple days here and a couple days there has made for a long week. I am looking forward to a change in pace. Since we have arrived here in Eagle River no one has ever stopped talking! Never! It’s sun up to sun down chatter out on these decks. It seems impossible for a group of 40 people to cease making noise. My ears want to rest from the human voice. But… what is it I am looking forward to? A complete refrain from human interaction? Or maybe the looking forward to the possibility of a bear’s growl instead? Kinda getting a little nervous here.

This place with these people is nothing but entertaining. We’ve had to do the heimlich because of a medium well done piece of steak. This first responder failed her aptitude test. I seriously doubt my ability to react to an emergency. I’m trained. Went through the motions in my head. But at the second I hesitated. Thought there were nurses in my family better suited to save my wheel chair ridden uncle. Where the hell were they? Granted, someone else was already helping … but what if there were no one else? Could I have done it? You want to assume you would do the right thing in those situations, but in that second all I could think was “Oh George, I never wanted to have to do this.” What are we, as bystanders, afraid of during an emergency? To do ANYTHING is better than to do nothing. But maybe to do anything commits us to a scary responsibility of someone else’s life. We become a part of the outcome – good or bad.

I have also learned that us Phelps’ only know how to travel within 5 feet of each other, we need close quarters to function. Somehow we work best with five to a room, five to a tiny car … annoying each other along the way. Here and in Appleton there were bits of us everywhere. Shoes in this car, food in this room, that person asleep in this room, that person disappeared to who knows where. Every trip we were sent to this room or that car searching for something that wasn’t even there only to realize we didn’t have the key to the supposedly location in the first place. I guess we just didn’t know what to do with the freedom of space when we got it.