It was a lazy Sunday in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Kaley and I laced up our tennis shoes ready for a relaxing run through the city.
It was hot. The air was thick, my shirt was drenched and my hair was fighting for freedom from a tightly bound rubber band.
We ran along cobbled streets, dominating renaissance buildings, trotting puppies and people strolling arm and arm.
Our destination together was a large park—from there we part ways—both being the independent type we blaze our own running path.
I take off towards the Botanicals and quickly become lost in my thoughts. Suddenly I hear a familiar “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” I jolt to the present, my pace quickens to a dead run.
1970’s…
Bee Gees?
Staying Alive!
ENGLISH!!!!!
I DART and SWERVE in and out of people desperately seeking Bee Gees! And English! I have missed understanding—comprehending and COMMUNICATING! I just want to belong again!
Around the corner, through a crowd and side stepping dog poop, I saw it! A STAGE! In the middle of a street? With a man in tight spandex, snapping his fingers up, down, up, down, pointing front, back and KICK!
Women huffing and puffing danced in front of the stage trying desperately to follow his every direction.
The answer is Yes! There is Jazzercise in Argentina!
I jump right in! Hopping, spinning, clapping, kick right, left and damn it, I am good! So good that my spandex teacher says something in Spanish over his Madonna microphone and I’m pretty sure it would translate to “You go girl!”
So I’m swinging my hands, feeling my groove. I leap right and JAZZ HAND. I leap left and thwack! I ACCIDENTALLY slap the lady next to me in face! Damn that out of control jazz hand.
Less then 30 seconds later she sat down on the nearby curb.
I think she was just tired.
Others have differing opinions but they weren’t there, were they?!
I shook my body for another 20 minutes, waved thank you to my spandex laden teacher and ran off to find my way home.
I have a smile plastered on my face because THEY HAVE JAZZERCISE IN ARGENTINA and it doesn't get much stranger or awesome then that.
Channel the Yoda
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Irrational Fears Build Character
Being slightly neurotic can mean being afraid of things that don't always make sense, like worms.
Yes, worms.
They're slimy and icky. And when you cut one in half it creates 2 new worms.
And it's raining! Which I love! Until I run outside in sandals and (shivers) their fleshy, eyeless bodies are squirming around. Puke.
But I love fishing! It's cathartic... and the closest I ever get to sports.
So I work around the worm thing. Mostly by being pitiful and having people bait my hook.
In Idaho, I fished with our family friend Bill on Horse Lake...on top of an inactive volcano! It's filled yearly or more with trout--over 2000 a time!
I'm sitting on one end of the dock and Bill on the other.
It's peaceful and I'm soaking in gliding ducks and breezy trees when I GET A BITE! I reel it in--NOTHING! Not even the damn worm.
Crap.
I run to Bill with begging eyes. And yes, he thinks it's weird about the worms but he baits my hook anyway. THANKS BILL!
I walk to my end of the dock--keeping the slimy little sucker far away. I plop down. My mind wanders to guns and target practice when a little tug-tug happens!
I reel that line like a PRO! And NADA--NOTHING! Not even the damn worm.
Poor Bill.
He worms me again. I dodge the dangling worm back to my end. I plop down, drop the line and before my butt finds a comfy spot another tug-tug happens! You have got to be kidding me?! I yank up the damn line AND THERE'S A FREAKING FISH ON THERE!
I squeal and jump! Reeling and swinging the fish on to the dock--oh cause I don't like touching fish either (yeah, I need help).
Bill's trying to get the trout off my line but I'm so excited and freaked that I swing the line at Bill practically fish slapping him. The stupid trout falls off the line--INTO THE WATER.
Bill worms me up again, don't ask me why, and goes back to his end of the dock.
And I sit down. Drop the line. Sink into brain hibernation. A BITE! A BIG BITE! A MONSTER--I am reeling in a monster and I can do this! Don't be A WEINER NERISSA, just REEL IT IN!
Bill runs over again ready to catch it as I'm swinging the trout like a piñata but "EEK!" the fish is too close to me. I jump back, the line jostles and "plop" goes the trout, back into the lake.
He didn't even bother to swim away. He just smiled up at me with his fishy face, mocking me!
I looked at Bill. He had no words. He turned and left me there. Deservedly so.
I quickly attached plastic bait to my line and sat on the edge of the dock quietly for the rest of the day like a good girl.
And what did I learn from all of this?
That I owe Bill a beer...or 12.
Yes, worms.
They're slimy and icky. And when you cut one in half it creates 2 new worms.
And it's raining! Which I love! Until I run outside in sandals and (shivers) their fleshy, eyeless bodies are squirming around. Puke.
But I love fishing! It's cathartic... and the closest I ever get to sports.
So I work around the worm thing. Mostly by being pitiful and having people bait my hook.
In Idaho, I fished with our family friend Bill on Horse Lake...on top of an inactive volcano! It's filled yearly or more with trout--over 2000 a time!
I'm sitting on one end of the dock and Bill on the other.
It's peaceful and I'm soaking in gliding ducks and breezy trees when I GET A BITE! I reel it in--NOTHING! Not even the damn worm.
Crap.
I run to Bill with begging eyes. And yes, he thinks it's weird about the worms but he baits my hook anyway. THANKS BILL!
I walk to my end of the dock--keeping the slimy little sucker far away. I plop down. My mind wanders to guns and target practice when a little tug-tug happens!
I reel that line like a PRO! And NADA--NOTHING! Not even the damn worm.
Poor Bill.
He worms me again. I dodge the dangling worm back to my end. I plop down, drop the line and before my butt finds a comfy spot another tug-tug happens! You have got to be kidding me?! I yank up the damn line AND THERE'S A FREAKING FISH ON THERE!
I squeal and jump! Reeling and swinging the fish on to the dock--oh cause I don't like touching fish either (yeah, I need help).
Bill's trying to get the trout off my line but I'm so excited and freaked that I swing the line at Bill practically fish slapping him. The stupid trout falls off the line--INTO THE WATER.
Bill worms me up again, don't ask me why, and goes back to his end of the dock.
And I sit down. Drop the line. Sink into brain hibernation. A BITE! A BIG BITE! A MONSTER--I am reeling in a monster and I can do this! Don't be A WEINER NERISSA, just REEL IT IN!
Bill runs over again ready to catch it as I'm swinging the trout like a piñata but "EEK!" the fish is too close to me. I jump back, the line jostles and "plop" goes the trout, back into the lake.
He didn't even bother to swim away. He just smiled up at me with his fishy face, mocking me!
I looked at Bill. He had no words. He turned and left me there. Deservedly so.
I quickly attached plastic bait to my line and sat on the edge of the dock quietly for the rest of the day like a good girl.
And what did I learn from all of this?
That I owe Bill a beer...or 12.
Friday, March 26, 2010
A Tiger Tried to Eat My Face
I love to ski...now. And am totally psyched for my upcoming ski trip to Winter Park! But the beginning--learning to ski, what a troubling and embarrassing black mark across my brain damaged noggin...
1991 TROLLHAUGEN (SCHOOL TRIP)
I was 11 and awkward with no sports like skills but I was excited to zoom down those hills. NO SWEAT.
A ½ hour lesson later I was scooting to the nearest chair lift completely ill prepared.
And chair lifts—they can be unnerving and confusing if it’s your first time!
I watched people shuffle forward as the chair gracefully swooped them up—easy peasy right?!
I shuffled forward—right left, right left—you can do this—don’t embarrass yourself—wait-stop—don’t do that—don’t cross like that—no—STOOOOOOP!—and THUD on the soft ground. I landed on my side, my skis completely entangled. I rolled on my back and looked up to see the chair directly over my head.
Everybody from my school saw including the boy I had a crush on. My 11-year old heart shattered from embarrassment. But I got on the lift—it took 1 attendant and 2 helpful skiers but it happened.
Shake it off! And I did, by racing down hills without knowing how to brake and then ICE CHUNK, 180 flip and I slid down the hill—ON MY FACE.
I carved some deep and bloody scratches into this mug. It looked like a tiger tried to eat me.
But did I give up?!
1993 TROLLHAUGEN (SCHOOL TRIP)
I am a pro by now—at falling—not stopping.
WHO NEEDS TO STOP? But as I zip, zip, zip down this hill I suddenly realize why. A little boy is scooting slowly across the hill and I am flying right at him!
I try to stop but I am going way too fast. I DODGE and flip, flip, flip and SPLAT!
Bright splotches swirl my head and someone keeps asking—“Are you okay? Are you okay?” I wonder who the hell is she talking too and who’s crying?! Oh, IT’S ME! And then I’m on a stretcher.
Enough! I was done. SKIING SUCKS. Or I SUCK. Either way, I’m not doing it anymore.
But years pass, brains heal and my stubborness sets in--I want to ski again and do it right.
My 2 friends decided to join me on my plight bringing their own traumatic skiing scars with them.
Cheryl, on her 1st ski trip, broke her foot. She didn’t tell anyone and skied the rest of the trip—in complete pain. Don’t ask me why. She never skied again.
Julie, also her 1st ski trip, was on a chair lift with her friend. The friend bent down to fix her ski, fell off and landed—right into the hospital. Julie never skied again.
Until now.
2006 CHRISTMAS MOUNTAIN (GIRLS WEEKEND)
It started out well—a few bumps and thumps—a couple of beers—a few more bumps and thumps—a couple shots…
By nightfall I was slightly sauced and facing the moguls. OH YES I AM A MORON! Cruising 1 mph I hit the peak and let my poles fly up as I let out a “Wee!”
Behind me I heard “AW SHIIIIIT!” and turned to see Julie flying in the night sky like ET. And then gravity set in and her body plummeted to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Julie gave up skiing.
Not me. It took 13 years but I finally learned how to freaking stop.
2009 PORTILLO, CHILE
So I am in Chile—surrounded by the Andes and this is WAY beyond my skiing ability.
It showed on the very first run when I followed my friend, Drew, down a steep, crusty snowed slope, quickly realizing that I AM GOING TO DIE. So I stop! And now I am stranded. The only way is down but all I could see was PAIN and STRETCHER.
With blinding fear I pushed on and you know what, I flipped and smacked and slammed down next to the chair lift with everyone watching…right back to 1991.
It took another 20 minutes to get down the hill because I WALKED! I am not proud of this. But redemption comes from honesty. I hope.
I wasn’t to be done in. I ate 2 sandwiches, 3 trail mix bars, ½ bag of chips, a pack of cookies, 3 bags of fruit snacks, drank a 2 liter of Coke and took a 40 minute power nap. Either I was starved or a stress eater.
But I woke up ready.
I took those ski lifts all over the Andes and Slalomed my way down like a make-shift pro. I was still scared at times but it came down to one thing: SINK OR SWIM or SKI OR NOT. And I skied. I didn’t fall again.
And the view from the slopes and the lifts was absolutely startling! It made all that was embarrassing and painful melt away into just another freakish incident in a long line of learning do’s and don’ts.
TROLLHAUGEN 2010
Back to the beginning right?!
But this time I went off a half pipe and caught 2 INCHES OF AIR! And the Black Diamonds are just fun and the chair lifts are awkward for everyone, even the seasoned.
But most of all, EVERYBODY FALLS! And, minus dying or truly impairing yourself, falling is just a fact of life. Get up. Figure out who’s crying. Eat a sandwich or 3 and try, try again. Because the view and the experience was worth a billion times more to this girl then the painful memory of skidding down a slope on my face.
1991 TROLLHAUGEN (SCHOOL TRIP)
I was 11 and awkward with no sports like skills but I was excited to zoom down those hills. NO SWEAT.
A ½ hour lesson later I was scooting to the nearest chair lift completely ill prepared.
And chair lifts—they can be unnerving and confusing if it’s your first time!
I watched people shuffle forward as the chair gracefully swooped them up—easy peasy right?!
I shuffled forward—right left, right left—you can do this—don’t embarrass yourself—wait-stop—don’t do that—don’t cross like that—no—STOOOOOOP!—and THUD on the soft ground. I landed on my side, my skis completely entangled. I rolled on my back and looked up to see the chair directly over my head.
Everybody from my school saw including the boy I had a crush on. My 11-year old heart shattered from embarrassment. But I got on the lift—it took 1 attendant and 2 helpful skiers but it happened.
Shake it off! And I did, by racing down hills without knowing how to brake and then ICE CHUNK, 180 flip and I slid down the hill—ON MY FACE.
I carved some deep and bloody scratches into this mug. It looked like a tiger tried to eat me.
But did I give up?!
1993 TROLLHAUGEN (SCHOOL TRIP)
I am a pro by now—at falling—not stopping.
WHO NEEDS TO STOP? But as I zip, zip, zip down this hill I suddenly realize why. A little boy is scooting slowly across the hill and I am flying right at him!
I try to stop but I am going way too fast. I DODGE and flip, flip, flip and SPLAT!
Bright splotches swirl my head and someone keeps asking—“Are you okay? Are you okay?” I wonder who the hell is she talking too and who’s crying?! Oh, IT’S ME! And then I’m on a stretcher.
Enough! I was done. SKIING SUCKS. Or I SUCK. Either way, I’m not doing it anymore.
But years pass, brains heal and my stubborness sets in--I want to ski again and do it right.
My 2 friends decided to join me on my plight bringing their own traumatic skiing scars with them.
Cheryl, on her 1st ski trip, broke her foot. She didn’t tell anyone and skied the rest of the trip—in complete pain. Don’t ask me why. She never skied again.
Julie, also her 1st ski trip, was on a chair lift with her friend. The friend bent down to fix her ski, fell off and landed—right into the hospital. Julie never skied again.
Until now.
2006 CHRISTMAS MOUNTAIN (GIRLS WEEKEND)
It started out well—a few bumps and thumps—a couple of beers—a few more bumps and thumps—a couple shots…
By nightfall I was slightly sauced and facing the moguls. OH YES I AM A MORON! Cruising 1 mph I hit the peak and let my poles fly up as I let out a “Wee!”
Behind me I heard “AW SHIIIIIT!” and turned to see Julie flying in the night sky like ET. And then gravity set in and her body plummeted to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Julie gave up skiing.
Not me. It took 13 years but I finally learned how to freaking stop.
2009 PORTILLO, CHILE
So I am in Chile—surrounded by the Andes and this is WAY beyond my skiing ability.
It showed on the very first run when I followed my friend, Drew, down a steep, crusty snowed slope, quickly realizing that I AM GOING TO DIE. So I stop! And now I am stranded. The only way is down but all I could see was PAIN and STRETCHER.
With blinding fear I pushed on and you know what, I flipped and smacked and slammed down next to the chair lift with everyone watching…right back to 1991.
It took another 20 minutes to get down the hill because I WALKED! I am not proud of this. But redemption comes from honesty. I hope.
I wasn’t to be done in. I ate 2 sandwiches, 3 trail mix bars, ½ bag of chips, a pack of cookies, 3 bags of fruit snacks, drank a 2 liter of Coke and took a 40 minute power nap. Either I was starved or a stress eater.
But I woke up ready.
I took those ski lifts all over the Andes and Slalomed my way down like a make-shift pro. I was still scared at times but it came down to one thing: SINK OR SWIM or SKI OR NOT. And I skied. I didn’t fall again.
And the view from the slopes and the lifts was absolutely startling! It made all that was embarrassing and painful melt away into just another freakish incident in a long line of learning do’s and don’ts.
TROLLHAUGEN 2010
Back to the beginning right?!
But this time I went off a half pipe and caught 2 INCHES OF AIR! And the Black Diamonds are just fun and the chair lifts are awkward for everyone, even the seasoned.
But most of all, EVERYBODY FALLS! And, minus dying or truly impairing yourself, falling is just a fact of life. Get up. Figure out who’s crying. Eat a sandwich or 3 and try, try again. Because the view and the experience was worth a billion times more to this girl then the painful memory of skidding down a slope on my face.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
30 Years and Counting!
On the eve of my 30th birthday I am happy to report that it is A BEAUTIFUL DAY! The snow is melted, the grass is brown and my cough has eased up on my wretched lungs and throat.
I am enjoying my life and the choices I have made as of late. But I admit that closing in on 30 is slightly unnerving.
My life is in no way normal. Besides the obvious of no marriage, children, house or mortgage, PTA or preschool, or 9 to 5 employment, I tend to spend my life in transit. Whether driving an hour to work, hour back, moving to foreign countries and then back, flying here or there, heck everywhere, I sometimes find myself out of balance.
That is the best way to describe me as of now, out of whack. It will pass and is great fuel for writing which, besides travel and coffee, is my greatest passion.
But it is hard to not follow the path most traveled. I could’ve gotten married, popped out children, found a quiet job, bought a house and became STATIONARY but deep down I always knew it wasn’t the right path for me.
Maybe it’s the compulsive in me—or the traveler but I am nothing more or less than a free spirit ebbing and flowing with the current of life. I feel most alive and free when I just let it all be.
And I write this last part for my grandmother who worries about my future—if a man comes along someday who moves with my current and well, doesn’t annoy me too much and accepts my quirks as much as I accept his, I MAY, just may let him share my coffee. We will just have to see.
With that I say a big THANK YOU--THANK YOU for reading my blog the COMPULSIVE TRAVELER and most of all, being with me on the momentous 30th birthday!
I am enjoying my life and the choices I have made as of late. But I admit that closing in on 30 is slightly unnerving.
My life is in no way normal. Besides the obvious of no marriage, children, house or mortgage, PTA or preschool, or 9 to 5 employment, I tend to spend my life in transit. Whether driving an hour to work, hour back, moving to foreign countries and then back, flying here or there, heck everywhere, I sometimes find myself out of balance.
That is the best way to describe me as of now, out of whack. It will pass and is great fuel for writing which, besides travel and coffee, is my greatest passion.
But it is hard to not follow the path most traveled. I could’ve gotten married, popped out children, found a quiet job, bought a house and became STATIONARY but deep down I always knew it wasn’t the right path for me.
Maybe it’s the compulsive in me—or the traveler but I am nothing more or less than a free spirit ebbing and flowing with the current of life. I feel most alive and free when I just let it all be.
And I write this last part for my grandmother who worries about my future—if a man comes along someday who moves with my current and well, doesn’t annoy me too much and accepts my quirks as much as I accept his, I MAY, just may let him share my coffee. We will just have to see.
With that I say a big THANK YOU--THANK YOU for reading my blog the COMPULSIVE TRAVELER and most of all, being with me on the momentous 30th birthday!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Muscle Atrophy is Just Part of the Fun!
I’ve been planning an all US, drive until the car breaks, lost leg muscles to atrophy ROAD TRIP.
This means I’ve been staring at maps with blurry eyes, adding and subtracting road buddies, figuring gas mileage, planning food preparation, tent operation, state park location and alien arrival festivals, all the while creating an overwhelming sensation to gnaw my own arm off!
GET A GRIP! I just physically shook myself. Why am I so concerned with details?
My first real out of state road trip took no planning at all. That was the beauty of it.
JANUARY 1998.
For about 2 months I was mooning over this FARGO (the movie) snow globe at the local film store. It displayed the “foot in the wood chipper” scene. Alas I waited too long and some other morbid soul bought it.
I had a car and 2 days free. So I thought, why not drive to Fargo, North Dakota and buy one.
My friend Lee took post as navigator and we quickly devised a plan. Drive to Fargo, buy snow globe and drive back. It sounded relatively simple.
So with nothing more than a couple blankets, a map of Minnesota and a few hundred dollars to our names we hit the road—jack.
We estimated that the drive to Fargo would take 14 hours.
7 hours later we arrived. We scoured gas stations, trinket shops, etc but NO SNOW GLOBE! And when I asked people about it they actually seemed offended. To my surprise, the city of Fargo was not proud of the movie FARGO and therefore had no “foot in wood chipper” snow globes to sell me.
So we went to Denny’s because that’s what you do when your bubble of hope bursts.
With all the extra time on hand, we did some road trip “restructuring.” Do we go home? Continue? Where? West—South?!
And the SOUTH WINS because it’s January and it sounds warm.
Al, our attractive server, located North and South Dakota maps, gave us the SENIOR discount on our food and wished us good luck! What a guy.
Oh South Dakota how I love thee! 75 miles per hour! Casinos attached to gas stations?! And the air was different—bold and clear—like it was preparing for a blizzard. Crap.
I am an AWFUL winter driver. I tend to slam on the brakes and do 360’s until I land with a thud in any nearby snow bank. Then walk to the nearby farmer and ask him to pull me out with his tractor.
So there I was, driving 35 mph through South Dakota in a blizzard—I am hyperventilating with every slip and slide as the snow continues to tumble down. I CAN’T HANDLE IT!
“You drive,” I tell Lee as I maneuver the car to the side of the EMPTY, repeat, EMPTY road.
No cell phones. No cars. No nice farmer with trusty tractor. We were in the unfreaking unknown. And I feared greatly I was going to experience FARGO (the movie) first hand. Stupid snow globe.
But Lee powered through like a champ while I threw a blanket over my head and whimpered like a puppy that needs to be let outside.
We pulled off the freeway to SAFETY! And pie. And we sat in a quiet, odd little diner right out of Twin Peaks and watched the snow fall... and just let it all be.
Eventually the snow dissipated and new maps appeared—NEBRASKA come on down! And I, O, IOWA!
Because, well, why not? I had geography in school—why not see what it is that I studied?
There we were—2:00 a.m. in Sioux City, Nebraska. I took a picture of Lee.
There we were, 2:10 a.m. in Sioux City, Iowa. She took a picture of me. I still have it!
Contrary to what we had idealistically believed it wasn’t warm though and we were tired and low on funds. It was time to go home.
And roughly 10 hours later that’s exactly where we ended up; in my driveway giddy from our conquest. We drove to 6 states in 28 hours. Crazy? Maybe. But we really experienced the freedom and adventure of the open road.
With that, I throw my hands in the air over this current inflated road trip. Ripping up my careful notes of mileage and tossing them in air with sweet freedom and blood from paper cuts.
I leave the planning to fate and my strange obsession with snow globes…and cheese. Because a tour of cheese houses could be just what this girl needs.
This means I’ve been staring at maps with blurry eyes, adding and subtracting road buddies, figuring gas mileage, planning food preparation, tent operation, state park location and alien arrival festivals, all the while creating an overwhelming sensation to gnaw my own arm off!
GET A GRIP! I just physically shook myself. Why am I so concerned with details?
My first real out of state road trip took no planning at all. That was the beauty of it.
JANUARY 1998.
For about 2 months I was mooning over this FARGO (the movie) snow globe at the local film store. It displayed the “foot in the wood chipper” scene. Alas I waited too long and some other morbid soul bought it.
I had a car and 2 days free. So I thought, why not drive to Fargo, North Dakota and buy one.
My friend Lee took post as navigator and we quickly devised a plan. Drive to Fargo, buy snow globe and drive back. It sounded relatively simple.
So with nothing more than a couple blankets, a map of Minnesota and a few hundred dollars to our names we hit the road—jack.
We estimated that the drive to Fargo would take 14 hours.
7 hours later we arrived. We scoured gas stations, trinket shops, etc but NO SNOW GLOBE! And when I asked people about it they actually seemed offended. To my surprise, the city of Fargo was not proud of the movie FARGO and therefore had no “foot in wood chipper” snow globes to sell me.
So we went to Denny’s because that’s what you do when your bubble of hope bursts.
With all the extra time on hand, we did some road trip “restructuring.” Do we go home? Continue? Where? West—South?!
And the SOUTH WINS because it’s January and it sounds warm.
Al, our attractive server, located North and South Dakota maps, gave us the SENIOR discount on our food and wished us good luck! What a guy.
Oh South Dakota how I love thee! 75 miles per hour! Casinos attached to gas stations?! And the air was different—bold and clear—like it was preparing for a blizzard. Crap.
I am an AWFUL winter driver. I tend to slam on the brakes and do 360’s until I land with a thud in any nearby snow bank. Then walk to the nearby farmer and ask him to pull me out with his tractor.
So there I was, driving 35 mph through South Dakota in a blizzard—I am hyperventilating with every slip and slide as the snow continues to tumble down. I CAN’T HANDLE IT!
“You drive,” I tell Lee as I maneuver the car to the side of the EMPTY, repeat, EMPTY road.
No cell phones. No cars. No nice farmer with trusty tractor. We were in the unfreaking unknown. And I feared greatly I was going to experience FARGO (the movie) first hand. Stupid snow globe.
But Lee powered through like a champ while I threw a blanket over my head and whimpered like a puppy that needs to be let outside.
We pulled off the freeway to SAFETY! And pie. And we sat in a quiet, odd little diner right out of Twin Peaks and watched the snow fall... and just let it all be.
Eventually the snow dissipated and new maps appeared—NEBRASKA come on down! And I, O, IOWA!
Because, well, why not? I had geography in school—why not see what it is that I studied?
There we were—2:00 a.m. in Sioux City, Nebraska. I took a picture of Lee.
There we were, 2:10 a.m. in Sioux City, Iowa. She took a picture of me. I still have it!
Contrary to what we had idealistically believed it wasn’t warm though and we were tired and low on funds. It was time to go home.
And roughly 10 hours later that’s exactly where we ended up; in my driveway giddy from our conquest. We drove to 6 states in 28 hours. Crazy? Maybe. But we really experienced the freedom and adventure of the open road.
With that, I throw my hands in the air over this current inflated road trip. Ripping up my careful notes of mileage and tossing them in air with sweet freedom and blood from paper cuts.
I leave the planning to fate and my strange obsession with snow globes…and cheese. Because a tour of cheese houses could be just what this girl needs.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
What Would Ethan Hunt Do? (Cue: Mission Impossible Music)
New Years Eve 2009; Con Con, Chile.
I’m lounging on a giant rock while gazing at the Pacific Ocean.
The sun is bright. The air, oh the air, is salty and fresh, misting my dirty face.
But my brain is elsewhere…coasting down a slippery slope of future plans and big, scary “WHAT IFS.” It glides past the present moment of confused reflection and right off the crazy cliff of I MOVED TO CHILE?!
Just as I am breaking into the show tune “My life is in the crapper!” an angry grunt from a determined man, hanging one handed on a cliff 20 feet above me, brings my focus back to the task at hand.
I am going to rock climb today. It will be hard. But I am Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible. I am not a weenie.
I strapped on the harness, chalked my balmy hands and gulped.
I took my first step on to the cliff, using my nonexistant upper body strength to hold myself in place. From there I began my slow ascent. Foot by foot, ledge by ledge, finger cramp by finger cramp, I made it 10 feet up.
And there it happened, I was stuck! I could see my next finger hold but no matter how I stretched upwards I couldn't reach it. And the super helpful spectators kept yelling, “Derecho! Derecho! (Right! Right!)”
I screamed back, “How? Where? Speak to me in English!”
I was flustered. What would Ethan Hunt do? And like lightening it struck…HE WOULD JUMP!
So I crouched down and leaped. AND I TOUCHED IT! For about a half second.
And then it was gone and my body slammed hard into the harness. But that’s okay—that’s what the equipment is for; protection from falling.
But something happened—something went wrong—I went wrong—suddenly I’m swinging like Tarzan in the sky. Without warning I felt a crack against my skull and then pain in my ribs!
It gets a little fuzzy after that…
I remember blood on my hands. I remember crying and silently berating myself for being a baby. I was so confused--what just happened?
WHAT JUST HAPPENED?! The rope was caught in a crevasse on the cliff. No one realized until it was too late. When I fell the rope yanked out of the crevasse causing excess slack on the line. This allowed me and my head to pile drive into a jagged rock.
And yes, I had a beautiful, bloody goose egg on my head and a bruised rib…again.
I carefully sat down, trying to make sense of what happened, but my head pounded. I gazed at the waves but they looked fluorescent and made me nauseous. So I closed my eyes and concentrated on my name and age; Nerissa—age, 22.
And all I could think was…please don’t have a concussion…please don’t be bleeding out the brain…please oh please be okay.
And all those scary “WHAT IFS” that had flooded my brain less than 20 minutes ago became irrelevant. Because the future is only what you make of the present. And what happens in the present may deter the future from ever happening…like crashing into jagged cliffs, 8.8 earthquakes or hitchhiking through the South of Chile…oops, story for another time.
And the slippery slope I call “future plans” is only scary now when I think I may not be here to live it. And that is just not an option. (How very Ethan Hunt of me.)
I’m lounging on a giant rock while gazing at the Pacific Ocean.
The sun is bright. The air, oh the air, is salty and fresh, misting my dirty face.
But my brain is elsewhere…coasting down a slippery slope of future plans and big, scary “WHAT IFS.” It glides past the present moment of confused reflection and right off the crazy cliff of I MOVED TO CHILE?!
Just as I am breaking into the show tune “My life is in the crapper!” an angry grunt from a determined man, hanging one handed on a cliff 20 feet above me, brings my focus back to the task at hand.
I am going to rock climb today. It will be hard. But I am Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible. I am not a weenie.
I strapped on the harness, chalked my balmy hands and gulped.
I took my first step on to the cliff, using my nonexistant upper body strength to hold myself in place. From there I began my slow ascent. Foot by foot, ledge by ledge, finger cramp by finger cramp, I made it 10 feet up.
And there it happened, I was stuck! I could see my next finger hold but no matter how I stretched upwards I couldn't reach it. And the super helpful spectators kept yelling, “Derecho! Derecho! (Right! Right!)”
I screamed back, “How? Where? Speak to me in English!”
I was flustered. What would Ethan Hunt do? And like lightening it struck…HE WOULD JUMP!
So I crouched down and leaped. AND I TOUCHED IT! For about a half second.
And then it was gone and my body slammed hard into the harness. But that’s okay—that’s what the equipment is for; protection from falling.
But something happened—something went wrong—I went wrong—suddenly I’m swinging like Tarzan in the sky. Without warning I felt a crack against my skull and then pain in my ribs!
It gets a little fuzzy after that…
I remember blood on my hands. I remember crying and silently berating myself for being a baby. I was so confused--what just happened?
WHAT JUST HAPPENED?! The rope was caught in a crevasse on the cliff. No one realized until it was too late. When I fell the rope yanked out of the crevasse causing excess slack on the line. This allowed me and my head to pile drive into a jagged rock.
And yes, I had a beautiful, bloody goose egg on my head and a bruised rib…again.
I carefully sat down, trying to make sense of what happened, but my head pounded. I gazed at the waves but they looked fluorescent and made me nauseous. So I closed my eyes and concentrated on my name and age; Nerissa—age, 22.
And all I could think was…please don’t have a concussion…please don’t be bleeding out the brain…please oh please be okay.
And all those scary “WHAT IFS” that had flooded my brain less than 20 minutes ago became irrelevant. Because the future is only what you make of the present. And what happens in the present may deter the future from ever happening…like crashing into jagged cliffs, 8.8 earthquakes or hitchhiking through the South of Chile…oops, story for another time.
And the slippery slope I call “future plans” is only scary now when I think I may not be here to live it. And that is just not an option. (How very Ethan Hunt of me.)
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