Oh, the Places I'll Go Too...

I have a bone to pick with travel snobs.

I've come across too many people both during and since college with an attitude that seems to suggest that they possess a sense of elevated intelligence, or perhaps a self-created worldliness, owed entirely to the fact that they have traveled great distances. Forget the med student who forfeited the opportunity to backpack across Europe and instead chose to study for the MCAT, as surely he could never obtain the inner-peace afforded only to those who have clutched a Eurorail pass.

Do not misunderstand. I fully agree that few life experiences can be as rich and rewarding as the opportunity to travel. Setting foot on new soil, hearing unfamiliar words, meeting people you will both never forget, and likely never see again. These are the experiences young adulthood is made of. That being said, I have found that I have little patience for pretentiousness from those whose good fortune has carried them to distant lands sooner than others. Travel, like winning the lottery or maintaining profitable self-employment, is a gift. It should be appreciated, humbly shared, and most importantly...earned.

Time and again I have witnessed (as well as experienced) the pain of 9-to-5 adjustment. Finding out that our ideological college days give rise to jobs where our opinion is not sought and our feelings don't matter is one of the greatest let-downs we are likely to experience, save for broken hearts and loss of loved ones. Selfish as it seems, there is nothing more genuine than the fear that settles in as you wonder, "Is this as good as it gets?"

Of course not. It just takes patience and a willingness to earn it. I think once you climb out of the sand, working becomes something you take pride in and actually begin to enjoy, not to mention profit from. It always gives me a chuckle when I hear a young, well-traveled soul express their discontent with their full time desk job, instead pleading to return to their wandering ways, exploring the globe as perhaps only other seasoned travelers could understand.

So, what you're telling me is you want another extended, all expense-paid vacation? Well, I'll be damned. Why didn't I think of that?

We all long to discover new ideas, people, and ways of life. Its part of the human condition. One of the hardest things we ever have to do is build a life for ourselves with our bare hands. It is initially unrewarding, indescribably exhausting, and frightening enough to stun you into silence. But, if and when we pull it off, the rewards are endless.

I can't wait to travel. I can't wait to see Italy again and eat pasta and gelato until I burst. I can't wait to take pictures and write about it.

Travel. Travel as far and as long as your willingness, your wallet, and your vacation time allow. If you must, get a job that allows you to travel even more (but don't be disappointed when it's not all museums and wineries). Travel alone and travel with others. Learn other languages and see old art. But do it when you're ready and able. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you know less than they do because they had an opportunity you haven't had yet. You have all the time in the world.


"You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose..." - Dr Suess, "Oh, the Places You'll Go"

Photo courtesy of Ryan M. Vickers>

Birthday Presence

Silly bike, I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long. What random consequences of the universe have allowed it to remain there, day after day, when it is so clearly immobile? I imagine countless pre-occupied New Yorkers passing by wondering the same thing, or possibly assuming someone else will surely take care of it eventually, or if they’re like me, nearly tripping over it because their head is up in the clouds somewhere.

In reality, of course, I’ve never seen this bike. Ryan Vickers took this picture and I actually have no idea where he was at the time (he wanders with his camera. Arts and farts and crafts. Things type-A stress cases like me fear above all else). I do, however, know myself well enough to be certain that I would never have noticed it had I been passing by, unless of course I face-planted into it.

They say New Yorkers never look up. I disagree. I don’t think they look anywhere, and I also don’t think this characteristic is limited to any geographic region. I think it has to do with presence, and the general lack of it we feel in our day-to-day lives. When we are present, we tend to think of how nice it is that we are being present and how we should really make an effort to do this more often (“Look at that beautiful sunset. I really should pay more attention to the sun going down instead of planning the verbal thrashing I will later give to DirectTV over yet another failed DVR recording”). It’s as though a sense of control is always just out of our reach. As soon as we pay off our debt, or catch up on emails, or return that DVD, or lose 10 lbs. As soon as we get everything in order, we can be more appreciative of things around us, feel better about ourselves, fall in love, travel, or have the presence of mind to see that beautiful broken bike on the side of the road. Not notice that we noticed it, but to see it for what it really is. A broken bike. I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long.

You know, you’d have to move that bike if you wanted to fix it. I wonder if we moved first, what things we could fix as we headed along?

Posted July 11, 2011 at 3:13pm via MeandHerBlog.com.

The Deflowering of a Virgin Virginian

Well...sort of. I wasn't technically a virgin Virginian. Virginia and I had fooled around before in the sense I've been to DC a few times. Those who are familiar with the area know that you can walk out of a DC pub, trip, fall on your face and land in Virginia. Not to mention the airport is in Virginia.

Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.

Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.

Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)


"C'mon fellers, freedom ain't free, so let's round up some slaves!"


Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.


Norfolk International Airport


Old-ass Sears Building



Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.


Check it out. Totally cute floral cardigan sets and, you know, clogs.

...On Finding God at the Bowling Alley

I've been pretending to be a grown up now for a little over 5 years. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but frankly, I think I'm going a pretty darn good job. I mean, people I meet usually dont find out for at least a few weeks that I'm really a confused, severly ADHD child who still hopes to become an Olympic gymnast when she grows up. In order to appear grown up, there's a couple of things I have to do. One of them is selling insurance. I have to sell alot of insurance to people in alot of different places, and in order to get those people to let me sell them insurance, I have to feed them and socialize with them and get them to think that I am a functioning adult. It's a vicious cycle really.

Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).

A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).

30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.

I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.

You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.

I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.

I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.

Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.

I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.

Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?