Here it is. My inevitable requiem on Christianity and my life.

I have tried very hard to escape the religion in which I was raised. Why? Oh, so many reasons, but I guess what lies underneath it all is that it just wasn't serving me anymore. The peace I was supposed to feel was always so elusive, and I never really believed that those who said they had it actually had it. The humility I was supposed to feel towards God (with a capital G) always felt more like guilt. I never got that so many people and so many lifestyles just weren't acceptable to the community. The whole "one way to the truth" mentality made me writch in my seat. (Is writch a word? I want you to picture me squirming and twisting in a church pew, both physically and emotionally, as I tried to find a comfortable place to just be. Yes, I writched.)

So I questioned and I pointed out inconsistencies and I became a thorn in the side of all my Bible study leaders and pastors and Christians friends. Why couldn't I just have more faith? Why couldn't I drink this down the way so many others seemed to do so easily? Why didn't it taste sweet? Then, after years of unsatisfactory answers, one winter Friday night in my twentieth year, I had enough. The four Christian girls I was living with at the time were gathering their coats and Bibles and notebooks to head out to our weekly gathering at the Christian group I belonged to in college. I have this image of them standing in the doorway, adjusting their coats and putting on gloves and securing their Bibles under their arms. One of my roommates held the door open for me, then finally looked back when she saw that I wasn't walking through it. I stood there behind the kitchen counter, all buttoned up and ready, but I couldn't move. They said, "Are you coming?" I said, "No. I don't think I'm going to go to Navs anymore." Long, awkward pause. "In fact," I continued with more confidence, "I don't think I'm going to go to church or Bible study anymore either. And I think I'm done reading the Bible. And I'm done praying. I'm just done with God. It's over." They stopped dead in their tracks, my other roommates peeking their heads in from around the corner where they had started to drift, anxious to get going. I will never forget that image of four pairs of eyes, gaping and oogling at me like I had suddently started speaking in French. They just closed the door and left. When that door clicked shut, I felt more free than I ever have in my life. I know it's cliched, but it was like I could breathe for the first time. I didn't know that air could feel so good going into your lungs. I calmly took off my coat, walked into my room, and put my Bible into the bottom dresser drawer under my stockings and other items of rarely-worn clothing. I didn't take it out again until I moved from that apartment, and I didn't crack it open again until earlier this year when I needed inspiration for a song I was writing called, "I will not be your Eve."

There is no possible way I could write just one blog entry about the journey I embarked on after that night, leading up to this very moment. But to summarize, I pretty much swung as far as I could in the other direction for awhile. After years of being told that all non-Christians were walking around with a gaping, god-shaped hole in their hearts, trying desperately to fill it with sex, drugs, and rock and roll, I figured that was what I should do now that I wasn't a Christian. I didn't yet know that finding peace and a secure identity in other places was an option. I felt I only had two choices before me: continue in this Christian charade or rebel in every way I knew how. So I did. I starting drinking, getting high, doing coke, giving my body to men that didn't value me, partying, etc. etc. If this was a Christian "testimony" this would be the part where I tell you that I felt unfulfilled by all of that and so I came running back to the "peace that passes understanding" in Jesus. But this is not that kind of story.

I actually did feel strangely fulfilled by much of it, but not for the acts themselves - more for the independence they gave me. The confidence to make my own decisions, even if they were bad ones. How frightening and exhilirating it was to make moves in life without praying first! What power I had all of a sudden to create my own opinions! I didn't have to believe any certain way about abortion, homosexuality, Democrats, French people, wars against terrorism, or Harry Potter. I had opened the package of Christian ideology that had been neatly wrapped for me, and I started disassembling it piece by piece. I would take each thing out of the box, examine it for awhile, and then decide whether to put it in the "keep," "toss," or "yard sale," pile.

As you can imagine, that reckless rebellion couldn't sustain itself for long. I started seeing the emptiness in those superficial vices; starting seeing them for what they were - distractions from the hard work I was really going to have to do to find what I believed. So I set most of them in the "toss" pile along with most of my Christian values. Now here I was, starting from scratch again.

I wandered around, meeting people from all walks of life, asking them what they believed and why, making observations about the world around me. I started doing yoga, which led me to Hinduism, which led me to Buddhism, which led me to Taoism. I started teaching at a Quaker school, which led me to Quakerism, which led me to Unitarianism, which led me to Transcendentalism. I started reading philosophy, which led me to existentialism, which led me to mysticism, which led me to agnosticism. Then I went to Europe and did away with all the "isms," which led me back to me.

And now here I am. Am I happy all the time? Certainly not. But Christians are not either - no matter what they tell you. Believe me, I know. I have days of despair and days of inspiration; moments of self-loathing and moments of self-discovery. But I am mine, and that is wonderful.

So what to do with all the Christians from my past? Well, for awhile, they called and emailed and stopped over, trying every tool in their good little Christian toolbelt to bring me back to God. I got everything from patronizing "I'll pray for yous," to shaking heads and looks of pity, to outright anger and threats of eternal damnation. My mom stopped talking to me for awhile. I lost basically all of my friends, and my boyfriend. Slowly, through the next year or so, one by one, they stopped calling. They were giving up; writing me off. Thank god.

Then, six years and eons of self-discovery later, I started writing this blog. I intended for it to simply be a way to update friends back home on my travels. I thought maybe I would write about seeing the Colosseum or the Eiffel Tower, but I found that I wanted to write more about what I was learning about myself on my trip. I was growing up and up and up, almost too rapidly to think straight, and it was exciting! I was learning how to love myself again after my divorce, learning how to think for myself after years of indoctrination, learning how to be my own best friend after years of clinging to people and things that were just never enough. I can't possibly emphasize to you what an amazing, fulfilling time this summer was for me. And I wrote about it all on here. The reaction from the Christians reading it? "Melanie, you have fallen."

Kick in the gut. Wind knocked out of me.

My mom, in her endearing pride for her daughter, had been passing this blog around to old friends and faithful relatives, all of whom were die-hard, accepted-Jesus-as-my-personal-Savior kind of Christians. You know, the kind of people you saw in that documentary, "Jesus Camp." I don't mind at all. This blog is public. I don't write anything I'm ashamed of. Now, why they continued reading when they found my life so offensive, I don't know, but read they did. And email they did as well. I don't know why I was surprised at their reactions. I was in that mentality for most of my life. I should have known that they would see my self-discoveries as poisonous pride and my search for the truth as a desperate cry to be re-saved. How silly of me to think that they would be proud. How ignorant to think that they would applaud my courage at finding my way through 14 foreign cities all alone when I obviously should only be travelling if I'm on a mission trip. How selfish. I guess I had been out of that world for long enough to forget just how cyclical their thinking can be; just how mired narrow-minded, and short-sighted their views are. (Uh oh, now she's getting a little bitey, watch out.)

But it is good of them to remind me that one can never outrun one's past. No matter how much I try to escape it, this thing will always follow me. What's sad is that there really were some times since I left my faith that I was making some pretty ill-advised decisions. I would have agreed with them if they said I had fallen then. But to know that I am in a place of such strength right now, and all that they can see is my absence in that church pew on Sunday morning is what cuts me right to the heart. It reminds me that I really am in this alone. Even my non-Christian friends who support and applaud my recent growth cannot really understand how much it means without also understanding the parts of me that my old, Christians friends do. Perhaps I just like to feel misunderstood in a Holden Caulfield-ish sort of way. Somehow it's more comforting than trying to fit into the little spot that so many have carved out for me in their minds.

I'll end with this image that I keep having. I picture myself as a flower or plant in a garden bed, growing calmly beside all the other plants. We are all drinking in the sun from above and the water from below in our own, sweet times. But all the other flower faces are turned towards each other, or towards the ground, while mine is turned up. I start growing at a more rapid rate, reaching towards the sky, throwing tendrils up, up, upward. I'm nearly flying now, shooting skyward at an incredible rate, my flower face still turned up towards the sun and smiling (if that's possible for a flower). The plants below me send out shoots and thorns of their own, trying to rope me back down. They shout up that they love me and miss me down there and where am I going and so on and so forth in plant language. But I don't even feel their grasping, chlorophylled arms. I just keep growing, all by myself, content and warm from the wonderful sun.

anger

I know I said I wasn't going to blog anymore. Maybe that lost me some readers, but that's ok. It's ok if no one ever reads this again. I only write it for me anyway, and I don't like the way that many people have chosen to judge me as a result of some entries.

Lately, I have been so angry. Angry at my bandmates because I'm having trouble with a few songs for our upcoming gig. Angry at my roommates for being in my space. Angry at my boyfriend for not being exactly what I want him to be at every moment. Angry at my co-workers for working too hard and making me look bad. Angry at my mom for not understanding who I am becoming. Angry at the stupid guys on the street who call out at me. Angry at my husband for daring to still be kind and caring to me. Angry at my boss for not paying me more. Angry at the girl I bought a mattress from because it's shitty and she didn't tell me that. Angry at my bank for charging me for my overdrafts. Angry at the Munich hospital for charging me much more than I anticipated for my visit. Angry at the rats and cockroaches that scurry across my sidewalk for being dirty. Angry at the mosquitoes that bite me. I'm just angry.

I learned once that anger results from a blocked goal. I have a lot of blocked goals right now. I don't want this mundanity. It's never enough. But I also know that I usually get angry when I don't want to be vulnerable. As soon as I start feeling a little exposed, I cover it up with anger like a protective coating of scotch guard. ARGH!

bye bye

I'm done posting. Thanks for reading.

nothing

One of my goals this year is to get better at doing nothing. As any of you who have traveled know, America is one of the busiest, stressed cultures in the world. We work 60 hour work weeks in an effort to climb to the apex of our careers, just so we can sit at the top of our corporate kingdoms and . . . fall asleep because we have no more energy. I guess that's why Red Bull is so popular. We walk fast, we drive fast, and god forbid you stand on the left side of the metro escalator! Be prepared to be pummeled down by some tiny, heel-clad yo-po (young professional) on her way to capitol hill. We expect our checks to be on the table by the time we're chewing our last bite at dinner. Oh the horrors of actually sitting and talking for awhile after the meal is over. They need our table! Turnover! And don't even get me started on the nutritional atrocities we commit in the name of not having to leave our vehicles to get food! No wonder heart disease is the number one killer of Americans.

Ok, I'll get off my soapbox now. But being in Europe where people take 3 hours for dinner, get 4 weeks of vacation a year - minimum, and have a glass of wine or beer over a work lunch has made me think about my lifestyle here. Here are some things I've done recently to get better at doing nothing:

- Aside from the quit/unquit meeting with my boss, I have refused to go into work this week. Our meetings don't officially start until Monday, and although most teachers are busily scurrying around their classrooms organizing and sharpening and labeling like hyper chipmunks on a Staples high, I'm happy to let the shit pile up in my room until next week.

- I have spent the last 2 nights sitting on the porch with my new roomates, doing nothing. After dinner, we just sit and talk, and watch the very colorful happenings on our little urban street. (We saw a very interesting lover's spat last night between a very gangly-looking, shy man and his powerhouse of a girlfriend whose chest alone could take out a small animal. We would have taken bets on the winner, but the odds seemed rather unfairly stacked.)

- I seem to be in a contest with myself to see how long I can go without showering every day. I sit around in my pajamas (which is really just a wife-beater and underwear) for as long as I can possibly hold out each day. Eventually, I have to go somewhere, or my own stank just overwhelms me, and I give in. I know I can't do this much longer, so I'm lingering in the dirty phase while I can.

Lazy? Some would say, yes. But I like to think I'm just being mindful. I'm living here and now and taking my time to taste the air and experience each, lingering moment as they slowly roll by. sniff, sniff. What's that smell? What? It's coming from me? Oh dear.

Little things

Signs that I am adjusting/accepting my life here:
- I finally took all of my makeup and jewelry out of the little makeup bags they've been living in for the past 2 months and put them in jewelry boxes and baskets on my dresser. They are no longer travel-ready.
- I returned the backpack I borrowed for my trip to my friend. I feel like I've lost a limb.
- I bought sheets and a comforter for my new bed. Wait, even bigger - I bought a new bed! (Well, a new used one.)
- I went grocery shopping and spent more than $12 for the first time since I left my husband in February. Chipotle is about to lose some business.

Signs that I am still not wholly here (on account of a giant chunk of me being left in Paris somewhere):
- I bounced my checking account for the first time in years. I'm usually really good at that. I just don't want to think about money yet. Donations, anyone?
- I threw away about half of my belongings when I moved. I think a little part of me still wants to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment's notice.
- I check my facebook account about 20 times a day for new photos or messages from my travel friends who are still tramping around Europe.
- I start every conversation with someone new with "I just got back from traveling through Europe all summer alone." Like they care. I've been home for 3 weeks now. Get over it.

Reality

Today, I was showing my Europe photo albums to two of my roommates' boyfriends: Holo and Hubert. Holo hadn't realized that I had travelled all around Europe this summer, but he did know that I quit and then un-quit my job in the past 2 days. When I brought out the photos, he said, "Oh that's why you quit your job! You've been backpacking all summer and you lost touch with reality." Hubert pointed at one of the photos on the page where I was especially glowing with uninhibited-traveller-glee and said, "No man, look at her face. She found reality."

Calendar Girl

I am officially back on the calendar. No, not as Miss January - as in I am ready to acknowledge the existence of days of the week and dates and months and all that. I have been allowing several emails to pile up in my inbox; emails from co-workers, parents of my students, and parents of my tutoring clients mostly. They want to know when I am free to do such-and-such or what I think about this-and-that decision. I have partially been avoiding responding to them because it has felt too overwhelming, but mostly because I am not ready to make appointments. I don't have a planner. For the past 2 months, I have never known what day of the week it was. Sometimes, in Europe, I'd walk outside and see that most everything I wanted to see that day was closed and go, "Oh shit. It's Sunday again." And then when I came home, I had to remember that I was having lunch with this friend on Tuesday or supposed to pick up my photos on Thursday - stuff like that. But I certainly have not been ready to make committments more than a day in advance, and the only reason I even knew it was halfway through August was that my paycheck was deposited on the 15th (thank god).

But today, after a meeting with my boss to solidify my un-quit status (much to his delight, I must say), I drove to Staples and bought my teacher plan book for the year. Wow. I am afraid that you all might not truly appreciate the weight of this action. For the next 9 months, this book will be my lifeblood. I will write everything in it, from what math lesson to teach, to who's homework I'm still missing, to doctor's appointments, and sometimes even just doodles and stray stickers. This rectangular piece of plastic and paper is my committment to live where I'm living and do what I'm doing at least until next June. Now I can reply to those emails and say, "Yes, I'll be there next Monday at 11," because I have somewhere to write it down.

I humbly bow to the gods of days, months, and years, and acknowledge that what they have made is good. But I'm still not going to write anything down more than a week in advance. . .

I un-quit.

Just what it says. More later. This life stuff is truly invigorating and exhausting sometimes.

weirdness.

I'm supposed to be packing up my apartment right now, because I'm moving to a new place in the city tomorrow. But it's 10:30, and I haven't packed a thing. Instead, I've been looking through old documents and photos on my computer, like a virtual memory box. This computer is only 5 years old (I know, that's ancient in computer land), but the stuff I found saved in it truly feels like another lifetime. The first photo above is me trying on my wedding dress in the shop for the first time. I'm enthralled. The second one is my old cat, Marx. I brought her home from the shelter one day in an effort to fill the gap that was ever-widening between my husband and me. It didn't work. She had to go back to the shelter. Unfortunately, sometimes cats (and people) get hurt in separations. The last photo is me with my first class at the school where I teach. We are on a science field trip on the Chesapeake Bay.

Among the old word documents I unearthed were:
- a 3-year-old letter to my cable company over a billing discrepancy - it was pretty heated (oh the things I used to have energy for)
- a 2 year-old letter to my health insurance fighting for a surgery that they initially denied (I won)
- both my and my husband's wedding vows (that was a fun one to read)
- a mortgage application (another thing we threw at our marriage in vain attempt to bridge that damn gap)
- a recipe for my mom's vegetable soup
- a parking ticket appeal (I've spent a little too much time fighting the man)

What a random smattering of shit from all aspects of my life - from the most mundane to the most influential. Why do we keep these things? I'm feeling unbelievably existential tonight. Technically, I quit my job today. I told my boss that I just can't come back. And this was after he offered me this lead teaching position. But he wants me to sleep on it and call him tomorrow morning. I don't know what I'll do. And I don't really want any advice, as well-meaning as it may be. I've got to figure this one out on my own.

Grape Italian Ice

Tonight I went to get Rita's with my Dad, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my perfect 3 year-old nephew, Brian. (My other perfect nephew, Davey, had to stay home because he was being not-so-perfect earlier by throwing a baseball bat at Brian's head in frustration at Brian's 3 year-old pitching abilities. No Rita's for Davey.) Our t-shirt and shorts-clad crew sat clutching our end of summer treats under the bright lights of the red and white awning. The sky was a slate blue dusk, illuminated by what Brian dubbed, the "spooky moon." What a quintessential American scene for my return home after Europe.

Brian likes to "share" his food. That means he forces a little spoonful of his italian ice into your mouth, (dripping most of it onto your shorts), so he can feel justified helping himself to as much of your italian ice as he would like. But every time he would take a spoonful of grape ice out of his little cup, he'd leave some hanging over the side, dripping down over the wax coating. His mother noticed this, as mothers will. So every so often, when he was busy eating my chocolate banana gelati, she would absentmindendly wipe the side of his cup. She also noticed that between all of his "sharing" from our dishes, he was quickly consuming more than a kid-sized amount of pure liquid sugar. So in addition to wiping his cup, she began taking secret scoops of his ice and eating them herself, therby protecting him from sure sugar-frenzy-madness or a stomachache later on.

No one really noticed this act but me, and the way she was doing it, it's like she wasn't even thinking about it herself. But something about those little wipes and bites really touched me. I thought, what would it be like for us if every time we turned around, someone cleaned up our little messes behind our backs? If they secretly ate our gelati when they knew we were about to have too much?

I guess eventually we need to turn into our own mothers. We need to figure out when to wipe, and when to just let it drip; when to eat out of every italian ice dish we can get our hands on, and when to put the plastic spoon down. But for now, Brian's job was just to bounce around, happily slurping slush and dancing to the music in his head, while mom cleaned up the trail of purple left behind.

MY time

Since I have returned from Europe, there is one thing that I have been avoiding - and I mean avoiding like cockroaches avoid the light. Work. Not work in general, as in laundry, cooking, and carrying heavy objects - I mean my occupation. You know, the place I'm supposed to go every day so I can continue to feed myself and take long, frivolous trips around Europe. Just the sight of a Back-to-School sign outside a department store is enough to make me want to put another flight to Paris on my credit card - pronto. Seriously, I have only had two feelings in regards to returning to work - fear, and dread.


Well I couldn't continue that way for long, since I had to spend this entire week in New York City with two colleagues for a teaching writing conference at Columbia. I spent Monday morning slumped down into my plastic, stackable chair in a large auditorium full of smiling teachers wearing clogs and carrying unnecessarily large tote bags. I listened to the presenter take something I love (writing) and neatly place it into organized categories with cutsie labels. "These are the steps to writing," she chirped cheerfully into the microphone. I tried to resist the urge to stab myself slowly with the plastic knife I had used to spread cream cheese on my sesame bagel.

I can't do this, I thought. I am a free spirit. I need to be unhindered so I can fly around the world and experience all that life has to offer! I love children, but I don't love teaching them these rules and routines. There is no magic in this! And what about all the political drama at school? I will have to start going to staff meetings and parents will want to know what I plan to do with their child and. . .ahh! By the time the morning session was over, I had convinced myself that I could no longer be a teacher; that I could not return to that work or any work. I was feverishly whipping up plans in my head to sell my car, waitress at night, work on writing a book during the day, and continue playing with my band. Then I would move overseas and teach English, or maybe the Peace Corps - that is, of course, if I didn't become a famous writer or singer first.

But, no. My kids. It was my students that brought me back to reality. If I just worked at a job with all adults in some office, I would have no qualms about marching right in and saying, "Hey guys it's been real, but I'm off to explore the world and be poor for a few years. Peace." In fact, I have quit many jobs in such an abrupt, unceremonious manner. But I don't just teach to help kids learn the steps to writing or make sure they know how to organize their math binder. I teach because my kids inspire me. They remind me that life is fresh every day, and that there is no end to new things to learn and be amazed by. They are counting on me to come back and be their teacher this year. I would never forgive myself if I ran off now.

So, avoiding the uncomfortable feelings was no longer an option. I would have to actually face them. During the afternoon session, I started journaling (yeah, honestly I didn't get a lot out of the conference that first day). I asked myself the really hard questions. Why did I really feel this way about returning to work? What was behind this dread? All of a sudden, it hit me. I was afraid I would no longer own my time. Let me explain.

Pre-Europe, I longed for someone to manage my life for me. It all just felt like too much. I would even have fantasies about getting in some sort of mild car accident that would be just bad enough to land me in the hospital with some fixable injuries for a week or so, where I would be lovingly cared for and I wouldn't have to make any decisions on my own - not even about what to eat. But then I went to Europe by myself all summer, and I was forced to be in charge of myself again. You know the deal - I became my own best friend and all that. I realized that for every second of every day for the entire summer, I have been entirely in charge of my own life. I haven't had to answer to anyone for anything I've done. I didn't have to go anywhere I didn't want to, eat anything that didn't look appealing, or wake up at any certain time (except when I had to meet the bus in the mornings, but I'd just roll out of bed and onto the bus, where I would resume sleeping immediately).

My real fear about returning to work stemmed from my desire to continue owning my time. I was afraid that as soon as I stepped back into that building, people would start pulling at me, taking pieces of me and doing with them what they pleased. "Melanie, we need to you to come to this meeting." "Melanie, could we schedule a conference with you immediately?" "Melanie, could you type that up and send it to the staff by the end of the day, please?" Um, no thanks.

But whose fault is it when we feel like we are not in charge of our own lives? That's right - ours. The solution to my fear is not to avoid responsibility and work, but to take what I've learned on this trip and apply back in my life here. I do want to have a life full of adventure, but I don't need to be on the Swiss Alps to experience that. I need to learn to own my time and continue cultivating this rich, inner life while working. And if I give it my best shot and still get bogged down, well, then I'll consider a career change. Perhaps a skydiving instructor. . .

dessert

"Did I eat enough to get dessert?" that was my daily dinner question for my mother. It didn't matter what the dinner was, whether it was tacos (which I loved) or beef stroganoff (which I hated - really mom, what were you thinking?), I just wanted to rush through it to get to dessert.

I can't help but see a little of my sugar-crazed, childhood self in me now. As I experience this recent bout of growth, I have been becoming more and more comfortable with being alone. You've read my blog entries - finding my way in foreign cities, finally not feeling cold in my bed at night, rediscovering my songwriting abilities, etc. To the casual observer, I have grown into a downright independent woman - the real, live thing. I walk confidently, speak my mind, love my body, and certainly don't need a man to be happy.

But, if I'm completely, painfully honest, I can still hear that little 7-year-old inside asking, "Did I eat enough to get dessert?" I can't help it. There is still a part of me that thinks I will be rewarded for all of this growth with - what else - a man. That somehow the point of all this introspective solitude is to prepare me to be with another man; to be more successful in my next relationship. I guess it probably stems from my Christian wives-submit-to-your-husbands training from back in the day. The whole, "just look sweet and love God and He will reward you with a husband to take care of you" mentality. (Please, nobody email me Bible verses. I appreciate the thought, but I know them already.) How absurd. How embarrassing.

I am ashamed to think of all the perfectly delicious, nutritious dinners that I didn't even taste, because I just wanted to get to dessert. And you know what the real karma was? I often didn't even enjoy dessert once it came, because I had made myself nauseous from inhaling my meal. I need to learn to love this time in my life for its own, unique perfection, not just as a stopover on the way to something sweeter. Because, the reality is, many meals don't end in dessert. But it doesn't make them any less nourishing, or any less delicious.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Hello. This is only a test. Do not be alarmed. This is a test of the Melanie Cobb blogging company to see if anyone is out there. Is anyone other than Melanie's mother continuing to read this blog? She will continue writing no matter what, because it's a sick form of therapy for her now, but she's curious about her audience. Don't be afraid to post comments folks! The man behind the curtain actually wants to be paid attention to. Remember, this is only a test.

independent woman ring

So before I left for my trip, I was visiting a good friend of mine. She called me out on her front porch, asked me to sit down, and said, "I have something for you to borrow for your trip." She took this beautiful ring off her finger, and put it on my left ring finger (where the indent had finally gone away from my wedding ring). It's a silver ring with an amorphous woman's form. You can see her outline, her hand over head, and her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She is sort of swimming in these silver waves that wrap around my finger. My friend said to me, "This is my independent woman ring. I bought it for myself at a time in my life when I needed to remember that I was really all I needed; that I am truly my own best friend. I want you to wear it for your trip. Anytime you get lonely or scared, just hold that ring and remember that you have the strength. And I don't want it back, so just pass it on to another woman on your trip who might need it, whenever you're done."

I wore that ring like it was my left lung. As the plane glided down onto the runway at the Paris ariport, I squeezed my ring finger, feeling the cool metal grooves of the waves. One time when I got lost coming home in Amsterdam, I started to panic, but then I stopped, held my ring for a minute, and eventually found my way. On a stretcher, all alone in the hallway of a German hospital at 3am, waiting to have my ankle x-rayed, I held that ring for strength. Then, when no one offerred to help me with my bag when I was on crutches, I looked down at my ring, took a deep breath, and hoisted that baby on my back while standing on my one good leg. But something happened over the course of my trip. Sometimes, towards the end, I would rush out of my hostel in the morning and forget to put it on. In the beginning of my trip, I would put it on often before my clothes so I wouldn't forget. But by the last week, there were times when I would look down at my finger in the evening and notice that I hadn't had it on all day. I was growing not to need it anymore.

When I returned home earlier this week, I had lunch with the friend who let me borrow the ring. I told her how much I used it and appreciated it during my travels. I told her I also kept my eye out for another woman who might need it, but I didn't really come across anyone who fit the description. I felt sort of badly about it. I didn't want to hog the ring now that I felt like I didn't need it anymore, but I just didn't meet anyone else who seemed. . . "worthy." She told me just to hang on to it until I found someone.

Well a couple of days later, she called me rather upset, because she and her serious boyfriend of over a year had just broken up. She is one of the strongest, most self-realized people I know, but she was telling me over the phone about how she was scared to be alone now. They had been discussing marriage, and she didn't want to be lonely now that she was so suddenly single again. I said, "You know what? I think it's time I give you your ring back. I knew there was a reason I couldn't find anyone else."

Does this mean I am forever independent and strong? That I am better than her or any of the other single women out there feeling cold and alone in that big bed tonight? Of course not. But I think we take our turns through the valleys, and at the top of the peaks. My friend was there for me through my valley, and now, as I stand at the top of what feels like a small, but very victorious hill, I gladly turn to her and reach down my hand - with nothing on my fingers but a little dirt from the climb.

down from the mountaintop

Well I hope you all read my mom's comment on my last post. I loved it because it was the most quintessentially mom thing to do - post on your daugher's blog telling everyone how great she is, while injecting a hearty dose of hard-knock-life reality. Time to come down off the mountaintop, eh? Yeah. I guess that's exactly what I'm hoping never to do. And hearing my mom say that it's time to do that makes me want to not do it even more!

Let me explain, lest you misunderstand my comment for simple, adolescent, blind rebellion. I love my mother. And I know she loves me. And I am not in any way offended by her friendly suggestion that it's time for me to get back to "real life." Nor was I offended by my ex-husband's resistance to travel, saying that it was too costly and impractical for us. Nor have I been offended by the many people who have told me that anything I wanted to do was unrealistic, or when they told me I should just think things through a bit more. Admittedly, I have a tendancy towards hasty, emotional decisions. I often just feel my way through life, using my gut as a sort of "divining stick," and ignoring my other senses all together - especially my common one. So I would certainly understand why the people who love me the most would be concerned about my ability to make healthy decisions.

BUT (you knew it was coming), this is the only way I feel free. A counselor that I saw in college for a bit told me, "Melanie, you have a thing for brick walls. When you see one, you just don't believe it's there, so you bang your head up against it repeatedly until you have proven to yourself that it hurts. You won't let anyone tell you that it will hurt, you have to find out for yourself." Exactly. And I have the bruises to prove it. But I would never, ever trade those bruises for the simple answer from someone else that the brick wall will hurt. That's what true living is really about - testing out all of those brick walls!

Now that I am in my mid-to-late twenties, I'm not so much in a brick-wall-banging place anymore. That initial impulse to run headfirst into what others told me to avoid simply for the pleasure of disobeying has faded. I no longer gain pleasure from mindless rebellion (you can exhale now, Mom). But I still won't accept well-meaning advice, especially when it contains words like "reality" and "practical." I have gotten to the place where I understand that people say these things because they love you, and so I appreciate that love - really I do. But I know that in the end, I have to be the one to make the final decision. I can't do things just because they make life easier for others, or because they are the common, accepted thing to do. I see that more than ever now. I will never simply tolerate a job or a lifestyle just to pay the bills.

So that mountaintop? I'm still on it. And I'm not coming down. I will not with fox. I will not in a box. I will not in a house. I will not with a mouse. I will not eat them, Sam-I-Am, I will not eat green eggs and ham.

work

All summer, I have been pretending that I don't have a job, all the while telling people that I am a middle school teacher at a progressive Quaker school and I love it. I do love it, but when I saw any work-related emails in my inbox while abroad, I would cover my eyes and archive them for later reading, trying to not even accidentally read the subject line, lest I become interested in what it said. All those emails are still archived, and none of them have been read. My friend in the front office at school has been sending me friendly reminders that I need to write a back-to-school letter to my kids' families telling them what they'll need for school, saying what a great year it's going to be and blah, blah blah. It's due today. I haven't done it. I don't know if I can. I am starting to seriously doubt my ability to return to work.

Don't get me wrong, I do love my job. Teaching is very fulfilling. I missed my students this summer, and I am excited to be around crazy middle-schoolers every day again. I work with some really awesome people, some of whom are my closest friends. We just got a new head of school that I helped to hire, and am looking forward to working for. So why does the thought of walking into that school building make me go instantly naseous? I can't think about getting up in the morning again, and "reporting" somewhere by a certain time like I am owned by them or on some sort of computer-regulated schedule. I don't think I'll mind when I'm actually in my classroom with my fabulous kids, but it's the thought of preparing for that that I can't handle. That is the worst part about teaching. Teachers can never just get up and go to work. They have to prepare to go to work on their own, non-work time. I can never just walk into my classroom in the morning and say, "Ok, it's going to be a great day, what should we learn about?" Each day takes so much preparation, forethought, and research. What if I don't feel like doing that? What if I don't like being on a schedule anymore? What if I think there are more important things in life than having my bookshelves alphabetized and my school board materials neatly hole-punched and in a binder? I don't think teaching is conducive to living in the moment. It forces you to constantly live at least a week in advance. How can I be mindful about the moment I'm teaching if I'm supposed to have next Monday's lesson ready to go already? What if next Monday, I don't think the class would be into that lesson? What if the energy of the room doesn't feel like it meshes with that lesson? What if next Monday is a beautiful day and I feel I need to go spend it in the mountains?

I can't go back to work!! What am I going to do??

America the beautiful

Well, I'm no longer Uncle travelling Mel, I'm just Mel. But I don't want to stop blogging. And my fans are begging for more. :)

So what has it been like returning to the U.S.; to my "real" life? Well, I hope you have learned enough about me now to know that I treat every moment of life as real life, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. In the airport on the way back, I waited for 2 hours in the immigration/customs line. People were so cranky. They were scheming about how to get into the shortest line, and then very upset when any line moved faster than theirs. They complained about their sore legs, they worried about making their connecting flights, they said they were hungry, tired, and ready to go home. I felt these things as well. But I kept hearing J.J.'s voice in my head saying, "Mel, can you affirm even this moment? Can you love life while waiting in this airport line?" I said yes in my head. Yes I can. And I will. And I began to look around and enjoy watching people. When my mental space wasn't crowded with worries and complaints, I had room to appreciate all that was going on around me. I thought of how there were so many people waiting in this line who are coming to visit America, maybe for the first time. I thought of how excited they must be, just like I was in the Paris airport 6 weeks ago. I felt excited for them, and silently hoped they would have wonderful time here.

I have been quite overwhelmed by the little things since returning. I know I was only in Western Europe, and it's not like I'm returning from a 2 year stint in the peace corps in Zambia or anything, but it still feels like an adjustment. Driving on the beltway, for example. Wow. It's so much faster than I remember it. And ads - all of a sudden I'm accosted with images of anorexic-looking women again, and magazines full of meaningless celebrity gossip. I had forgotten how obsessed with we are with that plastic image here. Just sitting in the airport, I watched the news for the first time all summer, and heard about a hurricane, an earthquake, a shooting, and some kind of prison case - all within about 4 minutes. Do we really need to know all that's going on? I used to say yes for sure, that it was important to stay informed, but now I don't know. But the biggest thing I've had to adjust to is my phone. I had gotten so used to being unreachable, and I loved it. Since I've returned, my phone has been blowing up with texts and calls. This is wonderful, because it makes me feel very loved that so many people missed me. But I'm not quite sure how to handle this constant communication. Sometimes I just put my phone in the other room and ignore it. I have become used to silence in my head, and now I need it. This morning I had breakfast with a friend, and he had to be somewhere so we had to eat very fast and rush out. It was jarring. I have spent the entire summer leisurely drinking cappuccino (spelling?) and eating chocolate croissants until I felt like getting up to do something. This downing coffee, waffles, bacon, and OJ in 15 minutes made me feel sick, and not just physically.

But I am trying to affirm all of these moments as well. Because anyone can be happy and peaceful in a city like Paris. It's not hard to think life is beautiful when surrounded by gorgeous architechture and art. It's not hard to be un-stressed when the most difficult decision you have to make in a day is which flavor gelatto to get this time. But can I keep that bliss on the beltway? Can I continue to love everyone? Even impersonal American beauracracies? Can you?

home

Here are a few pics from my last night in Europe. I had just one night in paris before flying out today. It was strange and wonderfully fulfilling to be back where I began my trip, but feeling like a whole new person.

Now I am home. I thought about that word a lot on the plane - home. What does that really mean? Each evening for the past 6 weeks, after a long day of sight-seeing, I have said, "let's go home," but I obviously just meant whatever hostel or couch I was sleeping on. When people would ask me where I am from, I said "I'm from philadelphia, but have been living in D.C. for 4 years." But I don't really live in D.C., I live in Maryland. And I didn't really grow up in philly, I grew up in Allentown. But people recognize the big cities more easily. And, truthfully, I will be moving back into D.C. in 2 weeks. And then of course, every time I go to see my parents in pennsylvania, I also say that I am going home. That's complicated.

So if home moves with us, then is it really an external place? An address? A bed to sleep in or a kitchen to cook in, perhaps? Maybe home is something that exists within us. I think home is a place where you can be yourself. Where, as they say in Cheers, "everybody knows your name." It has something to do with belonging. But then, I don't always feel like I belong in America, especially after seeing the rest of the world's image of Americans. (I'm not gonna lie to you folks, it's not pretty.) So does that mean I'm not American? A part of me belongs in America, sure, but I felt like I recognized a part of me in each city I visited on this trip as well. I'd like to think I can be a citizen of the world. So that means that I belong everywhere, and everywhere belongs in me. In that case, I would say "I'm home," but I guess. . . I always have been.

a big, hearty gulp of Europe

I leave for the airport in 1 hour to fly home. I am fighting to stay mindful in this moment. To be present. Not to slide back to the past and cry about not wanting to leave all of this magic. Not to spring into the future and begin making lists of things I need to do when I get home or get excited about who I will see. But I feel as though I am not really leaving Europe. It is a part of me now. I have taken a big, long, satisfying, 6 week gulp of Europe, and I will be digesting it forever. I have drunk everything in, from my first days wandering the streets of Paris to my last adventure jumping out of a plane over the Swiss Alps. It all tasted good, my friends. It all tasted good.

black man loose in Germany

I'd like to take a minute to try and write about a very difficult subject - race. I've been writing a lot about personal growth and spiritual experiences on mountaintops and finding yourself, and lots of things that 20-something white girls from America write about. But today, I will make an effort to delve into this complex and charged topic, because it has come to the forefront of my life as of late.

In case you haven't noticed, J.J., the guy I've been travelling with for the past week, is black. Now right away, some of you over-educated intellectuals might be thinking, why is she pointing that out? It doesn´t matter. And some of you might be thinking, yeah, I've been wondering what's been up with that black guy in your pictures. And some of you are thinking all sorts of other things that I couldn't possibly guess. I hadn't honestly thought a great deal about the fact that J.J. is black, except that it had quite an effect on his prison story. But tonight, my eyes were opened in a drastic way.

It started this morning in Lucerne, Switzerland. We stopped there on the way to Munich. We had an hour to walk around, and J.J. decided he wanted some tea. We looked all over, and finally found a little cafe. It was a typical Swiss place; very clean and filled with crisp, polished people with tucked in shirts and carefully groomed hair. There was a flea market across the way, so I told J.J. to just run in and get some tea to go, then meet me over at the flea market. He got very uncomfortable, looked down at the ground, and said, "Nah, I don't really want tea anyway." I said, "What are you talking about? You've been going on about wanting tea all morning. Just run in and order some quick." He just stood there, staring at the ground. This was very unlike J.J. He is the gregarious guy with an arresting smile that pulls everyone around him in. He is interminably, unshakably confident. Finally, he said, "I don't want to walk in there and, you know, disturb people's morning with my tats showing and everything." (He was wearing a grey tank top with a scarf, which revealed the 4 philosophy tattoos he has on his arms.) To make a long story short, I argued and argued with him, telling him how ridiculous that was, and that he had as much right to be in there ordering tea as anyone else. We eventually agreed to disagree, as he told me I just wouldn't understand.

This evening in Munich, we got some cheap dinner, then sat out at a sidewalk coffeeshop, drinking delightfully American coffee and talking. Our chairs were next to each other. He had his arm around me as we looked through pictures on our cameras. I was aware of lots of people passing by, but I wasn't looking at them. All of a sudden J.J. said, "Are you seeing this?" I said, "What?" He said, "The way people are looking at us." I said, "You're crazy. Come on, this is the 21st century. A white girl sitting with a black man is hardly something out of the ordinary, even if the guy is 6'5". Would you stop with this black man stuff already?" He said, "Just watch." I started noticing the people's faces as they walked by, and I was floored. Almost every single person stopped their conversation and turned their heads to look at us. The looks spanned across the board from quick, furtive glances to lingering stares, with several dropped mouths and eye rolls thrown in just for fun. Wow. I couldn't believe it. Could I really have been this naive? Some people even looked directly into our eyes and gave purposefully disgusted "hmphs." My own mouth dropped. J.J. said, "Now do you believe me about the cafe this morning in Lucerne?"

What the heck?? This throws off my entire concept of the world. This is not how things are supposed to be. This is not how I thought they were. I mean, at least not in the "civilised" western world. What is it? J.J. gave all kinds of explanations. People think I'm taking one of the "good" black men? They are just surprised to see a tall black man in the middle of Munich? Admittetly, it is an unusual sight. Are they just curious? Judgemental? Doesn't make sense at all. What do you think? What is one to do with a black man on the loose in Germany? Does it make you mad that I'm even daring to write about this?

I guess I operated under the idea that black and white cultures weren't really different. I wanted to be an open-minded, post-modern thinking girl without bias or stereotype. J.J. has shown me to be wrong. There are certainly differences. Whether they're due to nature or nurture, I don't know. And I'm also not sure whether these differences are good or bad, or whether those words are even helpful.

J.J. and I started having fun with the whole looks-from-passersby thing, commenting on what we thought people might be thinking. But I felt badly, because in the end, I could walk away and continue to blend in to the crowd, and J.J. would walk away and continue to be a 6'5" black man who has to think about whether he feels comfortable getting tea at certain cafes in Europe. Not that he wants to walk away from that, but what must it feel like not to have the option to blend in?

letting go

I am rapidly nearing the end of my trip. I have 2 days of bus travel through Munich and Paris, then I fly home. I can't help but become rather introspective at this point. People always ask you the questions, "What was the best part of your trip?" and "What was your favorite place?" and "What have you learned?" Well, the best part of my trip is this second, and I would give that answer at any time I was asked. My favorite place is where I am right now, which is always how I've felt. And as for what I've learned, well. . . wow. Here's one thing: I've learned how to let go.

I've always been a bit of a clinger. I have a habit of finding things or people that I love and holding on to them for dear life. I wrap my fingers around them and squeeze, doing everything in my power to make sure they never leave me. I guess it goes back to that control thing again. I think, "My life would be so empty without ________." What an uncertain existence. What an unstable place to pin your contentment. I don't know why I felt like I had to own something for it to bring me happiness.

When travelling like this, it is impossible to cling to things. The second you fall in love with a city, it's time to leave. Everyone you meet will eventually move on to a new place, and there's a very good chance you'll never see them again. You leave your comforts and familiarities at home, and are in a constant state of adaptation. Every time I see a beautiful sight, I want to take a picture to be sure I never forget how it looked. But is that really how it looked? Will that photo show me how the air smelled, or what my friend was saying next to me when I took it? Will it show how I felt or remind me of the sounds at the time? When I really feel connected to place, I immediately think, I have to come back here again. But why? Why don't I just say, I'm so grateful to be here now, instead of planning my next trip here? And finally, the people. I have met so many amazing people who have inspired me, challenged me, and just plain made me laugh. I always get their email addresses and we talk of visiting each other or travelling together in the future. But will those things really happen? Does it matter? Does having a thing again make it more worthwhile than just having it once?

So as I prepare to return to my "real" life at home, I am pondering these questions. I hope I can continue to let my favorite place be the place where my feet are planted this second. And no matter how many wonderful people I meet, this trip has shown me that my favorite person is still me.

the big drop

Well today I ended my trip with the most extravagant thing I could think of - skydiving over the Swiss Alps!  I am currently in Lauterbrunnen, the most beautiful town in all of the Swiss Alps, home to the highest point in Europe and some of the most breathtaking scenery that this good earth has to offer.  I decided to celebrate a wonderful, soul-searching, fun, challenging, inspirational trip by jumping out of an airplane from 11,000 feet in the air.

The first question everyone asks is, "Were you scared?" and the answer is a solid, resounding, "No!"  I kept waiting to get scared, because everyone acted like I should be.  But I was only excited.  The peace I found in Nice is still with me, and everything has just seemed magical lately.  Skydiving felt like the most natural, safe, thing to do.  As we ascended for 15 minutes, gliding over the jagged peaks and green valleys of the Alps, some of my fellow jumpers started getting scared, but I was just smiling.  I felt so connected to everything and so grateful to be up this high, about to plummet with nothing but a thin piece of nylon between me and death.  (Ok, that was a little dramatic, but this is a pretty dramatic activity, you have to grant me some license.)

When they opened the door, the air came rushing in and you could no longer hear anything.  My tandem jumper and I were the last of the 4 partners to go.  There was a split second as I looked down out of the plane, noticing my feet dangling, that I started to think "What am I about to do. . ." but then he jumped, and my stomach flew up through my body and out of my mouth.  We didn't just jump either, we did a backflip from the plane!  I screamed and screamed and screamed with joy for the entire 45 second freefall, which felt like at least a year.  I couldn't feel my arms or legs, my ears were completely blocked, and my mouth was so dry from all the screaming and the air flying in and down my throat.  Then, he opened the chute and we smoothly righted ourselves.  We could hear each other now, and I was allowed to take my camera out from under my jumpsuit and start to snap photos.  (It was secured around my neck, too.)  I just shot photos without stopping in every direction.  My guide asked me if I was ok, and I yelled, "I feel so alive!"  He laughed.  I think he got a kick out of me because I wasn't trying to hide my excitement at all.  He asked me if I wanted to do some tricks, and I said "Yes!  Do everything you can!  Give me the full treatment, like you would with an experienced jumper!"  So he flipped and twisted us in every which way, sending my insides flying again.  I kept begging him not to land, to let me fly longer, but he laughed and said, "There's nothing I can do to stop gravity!"  

The second my feet touched the ground, I wanted to go up again.  But I stopped myself from indulging that desire, because I didn't want to make the experience seem less than perfect in and of itself.  I don't need to go again for it to be wonderful.  I had those few moments, and they were exactly as they should have been, and I was present and aware and exhilirated for every one of them.  When they took off my harness and chute, I gave Dave (my guide) a big hug and did a running cartwheel in the landing field.  All the other guides were laughing at me.  I haven't been able to stop smiling all day.

Nice

Something really important is happening in Nice. In me. Everything I have been learning on this trip is coming to a head. It has been building up, rising inside me like a powerful tide, but it hasn't had a shore to spill out on until now. I would say that I feel like it's coming out, but that's not really accurate, because it's also coming in. It's as though I have been opened up from every angle, and am experiencing life transparently. As though life is happening right through me. I feel it all around me. There is no entrance point and no exit point. There is no "it" and "me," only life in its entirety, existing all at once, in me and outside of me and all through me. I observe it. I let it all soak in, then spill out, then soak in again. I am like my own tide.

Let me pause for a minute to tell you about J.J., the guy in the photo above. Now before you start making things up in your head, just stop. This is not a romance story. This is a story of freedom and inspiration, and so much more than silly travel romance. J.J. is a philosophy student from Toronto. A few weeks ago, he had his passport stolen on the way to Greece. When he tried to dock, the Greek police arrested him, assuming he was an illegal Nigerian immigrant, despite his repeated explanations of his nationality and situation. (They didn't even ask his 3 white travel partners for their passports.) He was thrown into a jail for illegal immigrants. This jail was one long hallway, with about 40 guys in it. There was one light at the end, and a hole where everyone went to the bathroom at the other end. There was no ventilation, no windows, no rooms. The air was full of smoke. The walls were covered in blood and semen. Rats and cockroaches scurried across the concrete at his feet. He was held for 3 days with no explanation, no phone calls, and no rights. He saw people get beat up - badly. He didn't know if he would ever make it out alive. But you should see this guy - he is the happiest person I HAVE EVER MET. EVER. I have learned so much from him, but this is the main lesson he's taught me: If you are going to say yes to any part of life, you have to say yes to all of it. You have to affirm your entire life for exactly what it is. You can't say "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger," because that's assuming that the only purpose for difficulties is to make you stronger. He says you can't love the rain just because it makes rainbows. You have to love the rain for being rain. You have to say "yes," to it all, and love it for exactly what it is, a part of the human experience.

Now back to my story. Most of you know that I have always been afraid of sharks. Really, really, nonsensibly afraid. I was afraid of them in aquariums. I was afraid of them in swimming pools. I have had recurring nightmares about sharks since I was a child. I cannot go in the ocean. The counselor I saw in college thought it had something to do with my feeling of control and safety. I have always had a "slight" control problem (tee hee). The feeling of being in the middle of the ocean at the shark's mercy, in their territory, is the most out of control feeling I can think of. Well, a few nights ago in Rome, I had a different kind of dream about sharks. I dreamt that I was looking for an apartment. I went to see this place that was on a pier jutting into an ocean. I loved it. As the realtor was showing me around, she said "lots of people like to swim from here." But then I saw sharks in the water around my place. She saw me looking at them and said, "Well, yes there are some sharks here. That keeps some people from swimming." I thought about it for a moment, then said in full voice, "No, I think I can handle it. I'll take it." Then I woke up. That is the first dream I have had about sharks that was not a nightmare. Ever.

Today I went to the beach in Nice. Like I said, I don't do well with oceans. Every time I've tried to swim in them, I freeze up. I get so paranoid about what might be around me or under me or coming towards me that I have a near panic attack. Today, I dove right into the water - and topless at that. (Everyone else was too, and it just added to the feeling of freedom.) I didn't even have to tell myself to do it, I just wanted to. I swam very far out without an ounce of fear. I floated on my back with my eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the sun on my bare chest, hearing the sounds of the waves in my ears under the water. As the water moved me up and down with each passing wave, any remnants of fear ebbed out of me. I felt connected to the entire universe. But I did not feel afraid. At all.

So today, I said "yes" to life. All of it.

Oh, and I haven't had a cigarette in 2 days.

Chianti (without fava beans and liver)

I haven't blogged in awhile, which can only mean one thing, I've been too busy having a great time. I've just had what I have officially deemed the "best day" of my trip - that slippery, elusive phrase that all travellers want to say aloud but don't. Why? Fear of ruining the moment or eventually being topped and then sounding dramatic and superfluous I guess. But I've ruined my chances of being too dramatic a long time ago, so, yes, this was the official best day of my trip.

I met some wonderful people in Florence. No young, partying Aussies. No spoiled rich kids. No obnoxious philistines. First, there's J.J., the philosphy student from Toronto who spent 3 days in an inhumane Greek jail after having his passport stolen. He is in love with life and has brought a fresh light back into my trip. There's Brett, the kind, genuine lawyer from Sydney with a listening ear and a great sense of direction. Then Heather, the socialogist/criminologist from Winnipeg with an independent spirit and a deep sense of loyalty and friendship. And Amy, the wide-eyed first-time traveller from a small village in the north of England, with a sweet spirit and a contagious laugh.

The first day, we walked the city of Florence and checked out the museums. We oohed and ahhed over Michaelangelo's David, Boticelli's Birth of Venus, and lots of other moving Renaissance art. We frolicked through the cobblestoned streets, gazed longingly at the picaresque bridges and churches, ate lots of gelatto, and visited the home of Fydor Dostoevski. All this was punctuated with some of the best conversation I've had on this trip. These people are really seeking to experience life. They want adventure and meaning, and I felt so grateful to finally be around some kindred spirits.

So yesterday, we set out on our great adventure. We rented a car (an absolutely adorable, pale yellow, stick shift, Fiat) and drove into the Chianti wine region surrounding Florence. We had no idea where to go or what we would see, but we knew that our company would be enough. I volunteered to be the driver, since you all know how much I love to drive. My city girl came out in full force as I swerved and swore just like a real live Italian, narrowly missing bikers and yelling at busses like I wasn't one eightieth their size. We drove up through the most breathtaking hills, covered in endless rows of grape vines and fields of sunflowers in full bloom. We stumbled upon this tiny winery tucked into one of the hills, and drove in to check it out. The owner came in from the field to give us a free wine tasting, where he poured several liberal tastes of their best wines. He loved having visitors, and chatted away with us about everything "under the tuscan sun" (it had to be said somewhere - come on). Then we bought a couple bottles, ordered some antipasti from their restaurant, and sat on their balcony, which overlooked their wine fields, stretching in every direction. Finally, we made our way back, while singing to a mix of bad American pop songs, Italian opera, and whatever else we could find on the radio. We returned the car, and went out to see Batman at the local English cinema. The evening ended with some more wine and great conversation back at the hostel.

My night with the Romans

So my night with my Roman friends from Camper was beautiful and so Italian in every way. Mirko asked me to meet him at the store at 9:30 so we could get some dinner and drinks. Now, I grew up eating dinner at 4pm when my dad got home from his very early shift at work. When I moved to DC, I had to adjust to the city dinner time of around 7pm. But in Italy, it's bascially a crime to consider eating dinner before 9pm. So, knowing myself, I got a gelatto at 8:00 to hold me over. They were ready to go by about 10pm, at which point we walked around and talked, sort of aimlessly discussing where we might eat, among other introductory things. Then one of the guys' mates called and said he would drive us to the place we would eat. So my new friends Mirko, Linda, Angelo, and Gian Paulo and I started driving through Rome at night. This in itself was a spectacular sight. I don't think I would ever adjust to living in a city full of buildings that have been around since before the New Testament. My eyes were just popping out of my head. Then Mirko said, "We are going to eat at a place under the Colosseum, is that ok?" Um, yeah. That's ok.

So by the time we got to the restaurant, waited for a table (eating out is like an all-night marathon for Italians - the evening has just begun when the meal is over), it was almost 11:30. I had the full treatment: fried balls of cheese, olives, and tuna; zucchini blossoms stuffed with cheese and anchovies; a pizza topped with mozzerella, fresh tomatoes, and arugula; tiramisu, white wine, and limoncello (a lemon after-dinner liquor that is popular here). The four Italians I was with talked feverishly with their mouths and hands the whole night. Mirko or Linda would occasinally translate for me, but it didn't even matter if I could understand. I was in heaven. I just drank in their words like they were the water of life. When there was no English, I just sat there listening, smiling stupidly. They discussed their corrupt mafia leader. They argued over which brand of pasta is the best (no kidding, Italians really talk about that). They spoke every sentence as though was the last one they would ever say, punctuating every point with a wild gesture or a belly laugh. We closed out the restaurant, at at the end of the night, Mirko paid for my entire meal.

On the way home in my cab, I just stared out the window at all the lights and beautiful, dirty, raw energy that is Rome and my whole body smiled. I am so, so lucky to be here.

I'm officially back!

Ok, I know I've been posting on here a lot lately, but when I'm doing the solitude thing I have to tell someone what I do with my days or I'll explode! This blog is like free therapy for me. So grin and bear it.

Anyway, I had a day alone like I promised myself. It was awesome!! I started by laying out at the pool for 2 hours, listening to my ipod and getting a nice tan. I didn't seem to get tan anywhere else I went. It's almost like my skin recognizes it's ethnic home in Italy and wants to help me blend in. Whatever, I'll take it. Then, I had a plate of spaghetti (the sauce wasn't even chunky, mom) and an entire bottle of wine for lunch. I hear those clicking tongues - don't judge me, it was a small(ish) bottle and it was only 4 euros.

Then, into the city. I rocked the sketchy public transportation like an allstar. No pickpockets for me. I had my ipod in and walked with confidence, pushing past everyone just like a the little Italian old ladies do here. Then I walked. And walked. And walked. I walked the diameter of the entire city today, which is no small feat. I planned my streets strategically to hit the shopping districts. I bought so much stuff!! I know, I know, budget blah blah blah. But I needed some new duds to lift my spirits and make me feel a little less feral. So I bought 2 dresses, 4 pairs of underwear, 2 tank tops, 1 sweater, 1 bath scrubby (mine unravelled a few days ago and I just can't be bothered to use only my hands), a few awesome souveniers for people back home, and the creme de la creme of the day. . . (drumroll) 2 pairs of shoes!

Why so excited about shoes? you ask. Well, I'll tell you friends. After buying all of the above-mentioned items, I spotted a Camper store. Now, Camper is one of my favorite shoe brands ever, but they are kind of pricey and we don't have many stores in the U.S., so I have bought them online in the past, but they're even more expensive that way. I knew I shouldn't go in because I had already bought all that other stuff, but somehow gravity just pulled me there. It was beyond my control. I instantly spotted at least 23 pairs of shoes that were obviously made just for me. I thought, what's the harm in just trying a few on? I'm tired anyway, it would be nice to sit for a minute. I started trying shoes on and chatting with the sales guy. He loved my tattoo. We bonded instantly. After trying on about 10 pairs (I was too embarrassed to try any more than that), my sales guy friend said, "I give you a deal. I want to give you the family and friends sale. I not allowed to give sale on only one pair, but if you buy two pairs, I give you half off each, so you get two pairs for only one price." Whoa. Back up the train. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief and heard that squeaky squeaky sound that makes when they do it in the cartoons. "What?" I said. Maybe I heard him wrong. "You would do that for me?" He said, "Well it's only for family and friends, but I like you. So now it's for family and friends and people I like." The clouds over my dreary stay in Rome opened up, and a light of mercy shone down on this poor American girl. (And he's gay, so I knew he didn't have any ulterior motives for giving me this bargain.) I narrowed it down to 2 pairs and bought them. Then, I did the scary, ballsy thing and asked him if he wanted to get a drink when he was done with work. He couldn't tonight, but was so excited that I asked. We have plans to go out tomorrow night with some of his friends that also work at Camper. He said he would show me the real Rome. Finally! I met a local!

After my glorious time in Camper, I had renewed energy. So I decided to keep walking to the other side of the city, even though there was a metro stop right outside the store. I walked all the way to the Vatican. I hadn't seen that yet in this trip, so I figured I should at least walk into St. Peter's square and get a picture of the darn thing. Plus, I think my grandmother might disown me if she heard I was in Rome and didn't at least walk by the Vatican. I walked into the square, did a 180, and said peace out to ol' popey.

Now I am at the end of my long, long day. All I have left to do is get a pizza to go from the brick-oven pizzeria at my campground, take it back to my room, and eat it while I gaze at all my new purchases from the day. I think the sun has come out again for me.

Aussies - once and for all

Ok, I've been doing a lot of thinking about why the Aussies bother me. They shouldn't. Some of the best friends I've met on this trip are Aussies. I can't really despite the entire race based on a few dozen drunken, rich, college-aged ones, right? But why do they continue to get under my skin?

Well, I think it's because they're all doing what I'm doing (travelling through Europe), but they're doing it so young. 9 out of every 10 Aussies I meet has this story: "Hey mate, I just graduated Uni and decided to take a year off to travel the world before I move to London to get a job. Oh, and my budget is 100 euros a day, not including accomodation." My usual response: WTF?? First of all, how can you afford to travel just after graduating college? You haven't even had a real job yet! Second of all, how in the world can you afford to travel for a whole year? Third of all, how do you have a budget twice the size of mine, even though I'm only travelling for 6 weeks?

I guess the root of it is that I'm bitter. When I graduated college, my dad handed me a very fat envelope. I assumed what was in it would be a card and a nice, thick stack of cash. But I opened it to find my student loan bills, my car loan information, and some pamphlets about finding my own health insurance! Haha, yes, it was joke, but still, I was on my own. All I have since graduating is a mediocre-paying job and a student loan that won't be paid off until I'm 43 - just about the time I'll have to take out more loans to put my hypothetical children through college. The only way I could even afford to make this trip happen is because I got in a car accident in December and combined that money with my tax return and economic stimulus package. Even then, sometimes I have to just eat gelatto for lunch (not that I'm complaining).

There is something about the way that so many of the Aussies can just pick up and travel the world with what seems like not much forethought or worry that just drives me absolutely bonkers. Don't they know that this trip is huge for me? Don't they know that most of my friends have never done something like this, and none of my family has ever even been to Europe? Don't they recognize how courageous and independent I am to take this big step into the unknown for a whole six weeks? Don't they want to just buy me drinks and ask me questions about life because I am so wise and brave??

When I tell people I've been married, their eyes widen into saucers before they can restrain their gut reaction and try to act nonchalant. It's like they've never met anyone who was married. Like it's a rare disease and they want to put me under glass and inspect me for further study. Wow, what could possibly make someone get married before the age of 30? And you looked so normal. . .

Needless to say, I'm going to have to stop looking to the people I meet on this trip to pat me on the back for my unprecedented courage and valor. The fact is that lots of people travel Europe at all ages, for all reasons, and with all sorts of budgets. That doesn't make my experience any less valid. But I'm also going to have to stop expecting to have long, philosophical conversations with fascinating locals who have never met an American before. I'm not travelling in some remote village to go see a medicine man or something. I'm in huge, European cities where there are often more tourists than locals, and the opinions of Americans are. . . well, less than great. I usually have to spend some time as soon as I meet someone debunking the myth that all Americans are ignorant religious fanatics who care only about waging war and consuming all the world's resources. Because, that's not true, right? Right? RIGHT?

This is me putting on my big girl pants

Alright, I'm doing my best here, people. Yesterday, after my ranting post on here, I put on my bathing suit and went down to start drowning my sorrows at the pool bar. As I sat there in the sun, I thought to myself, you're sitting at a pool on a hill drinking beer with the sun beating down on you - IN ROME, ITALY! Cut the crap. Things could be worse.

I read a few chapters in the Bhagvahad Gita (an ancient yoga/Hindu text I've been working my way through) and had some time to meditate. I was reminded that the root of all unsatisfaction is desire. Our nature is to always desire something else; something other than what we are and what we have. When I was at home, all I could think about was leaving for Europe. Now that I'm here, all I can think about is going home. What is it that keeps us from simply living in the present; from appreciating what we have? Desire itself is not "evil," of course. I read in the B.G. something about how the wise man absorbs all desires the way that the ocean absorbs all the water. I know it was written much more beautifully than that, but the point is that I need to absorb this desire, not allow it to dominate me. It's ok for me to miss home. It's ok for me to desire a healthy ankle, or a hug from a good friend who knows me, or a chipotle burrito (it's killing me, friends, just killing me). But I need to just sit with those desires. Absorb them. Let them become part of me without letting them jerk my attention and contentment in every different direction. I mean, the main reason I came on this journey was to learn how to know myself, right? I wanted to learn how to be alone; how to be my own best friend; how to appreciate the beauty of solitude; how to celebrate independence. Yes, part of that is frolicking through the streets of Paris writing poetry, and part of it is laughing over beers with some new friends. But part of it is also feeling sad and lonely and empty inside. Those feelings are also a valid part of the human experience. How will I really grow from this trip if I all do is laugh and frolic and drink beer? Even though it's much more difficult, I am trying to accept all of the emotions in the spectrum with open arms, and allow them to teach me.

That said, it certainly helped that I got a new roomie last night and she's pretty cool. She's travelling alone too and was looking for a friend to hang out with while here. Last night, we did our laundry together, got a pizza, and hung out at the bar for awhile. Then we talked in bed for like an hour before going to sleep, just like middle-schoolers at a sleepover. Today, we did a walking tour of the city together, which was fantastic. I finally got my ass into Rome and saw the stuff you're supposed to see. The forum, the pantheon, the colosseum, the trevi fountain, Mussolini's balcony, etc. The tour guide was this total history nerd from America. He was really funny and cool, and made all the ruins come to life before our eyes.

There is still a very big part of me that would like to be home, but I am also starting to accept that I will still be in Europe for 2 more weeks, and that's not that bad. I just have to ease into the walking thing, and spend time icing the ankle every day. It's really not a big deal. I changed my itinerary yet again to spend more time with my new roomie. We'll be together through the rest of Rome, Florence, and La Spezia. But just for good measure, I told her that I'd like to spend tomorrow alone. I want to make sure that I don't cover up all these important emotions and fears with surface conversation with strangers right away. I'm making myself sit with them a bit more. So I think I will go to the big park in Rome tomorrow, and maybe the modern art museum. Art always makes me nice and introspective.

So take a good look at me, because this is what I look like wearing big girl pants.

(The photos above are me at the Pantheon, me eating my staple food here - gelatto, and me in front of the colosseum.)

BLEHHH!

Well I've had my third piss-ass crap day in a row. I went on a pub crawl last night in Rome, hoping to meet some people, since all my friends are gone. Everyone was - you guessed it - 20 years old, Australian, and just out to "get wasted mate." This whole trip I have been surrounded by the kind of people I worked very, very hard to avoid all through college. I like to think that one of the wonderful things about getting older is that you start to find people whom you can groove with. People who nourish your spirit and ride your kind of waves, know what I mean? I was very lucky to meet the four friends I have been travelling with, but I think I am out of friend karma at this point. I have been thrown back into this hell of frat parties and spilled beer - and I'm just talking about at the hostel, let alone the bars.

Anyway, I woke up with quite a throbbing ankle since I stupidly walked on it all night last night without my crutches (didn't want them to get in the way of meeting people). I decided that it was time to go home. I told myself, Melanie, you've had four good weeks of independent travel. Enough is enough. Go home. So I got my hopes up as I waited anxiously for the office I needed to call to change my flight to open.

Finally, after missing my walking tour through Rome and doing nothing but hanging around the hostel all day, I could call. With visions of comfortable beds, clothes neatly folded in dressers, Amercian dollars, and all my friends and family dancing in my head, I called to find out that I cannot change my flight. I begged. I pleaded. I cried. Nothing. People that work at airlines have hearts of steel, my friends. My only option would be to purchase a brand new one way ticket which is obviously out of the question.

So I did the only thing that a girl in my sort of predicament can do - I hobbled back to my room, scratched every mosquito and bed bug bite on my body vigorously and without shame for a full 5 minutes until most of them started to bleed, and then cried until I fell asleep.

Now I am awake and trying to see the bright side of things. I am in Europe. I am in Italy. They have lots of cool stuff here. Yippee. I would go into the city now to try and take my mind off of things, but there are several reasons why I can't. First, my hostel is 40 minutes outside the city and the public transportation stops at 6pm (it's 5:30 now), so I would have to take a taxi back which would cost at least 15 euros. Second, my ankle has just now stopped throbbing, and if I want to do this walking tour to the colosseum, parthenon, and all that tomorrow, I shouldn't walk on it any more today. Third, I don't feel like it.

So I will now book the accomodation for the rest of my trip and, as my friend Melanie would say, "put on my big girl pants." This will most likely come in the form of getting rather inebriated tonight. All alone. That's not pathetic or anything.

Hopefully I will have a less pissy blog entry for you soon. Right now you are just getting brutal honesty. Take it for what it's worth folks.