82 pairs of underwear.

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a couple months ago, my mom purchased multiple copies of a book she had read. this is a normal thing for her. i never make it home without adding some form of self-improvement, business, or spirituality book to my suitcase. usually, my siblings and i roll our eyes. yes mom, another book that touched you in some way. yes mom, we promise to read it. no mom, we never read it.

this time i actual did read it. and this time it actually touched me too.

more or less. by jeff shinabarger.

the book takes a step back from our lives full of abundance and asks the question, what is actually enough? enough time. enough money. enough clothing. enough friends. enough love. what is our own personal definition of enough?

i returned home to portland on july 1 after being on the road for seven months. i returned home to my old house. it is not my house anymore, but it is for the next two months. luckily, my old roomie is in india all summer so i subletted his room. it is in the basement next to all my stuff. a whole corner filled with boxes and bags full of my stuff. stuff that has sat there for seven months without being touched.

what is enough?

i decided to take my moment of location stability to evaluate this question and simplify the crazy amount of stuff sitting before me in the basement. daunting me with its presence.

there is always an easy place to start with me when it comes to abundance…the closet. when i originally packed up my chevy cavalier and drove across the country, from michigan to oregon, most of the car was filled with my clothing.

so that is where this journey is going to begin. right in the middle of the biggest pile of clothes i have ever seen in my life.

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i know. it is embarrassing. it is crazy how things accumulate without you realizing it. most of these clothes have been in my closet for years! some even since high school! yikes.

but, unfortunately or fortunately, i am a sentimentalist. give me the smallest material thing, and i will attach the biggest meaning to it possible. clothing falls directly into this category. ohhh, not that t-shirt from college. ohhh, don’t get rid of that beautiful blue dress i wore once on valentine’s day five years ago. you know exactly what i am talking about, and if you don’t, please teach me your ways.

in order to get some accountability and put some startling numbers on paper. i decided to count everything. step one…sort.

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tonight i took the first steps towards emptying some of this mess of fabric and memories, and began the count. i only conquered tops and underwear before i was completely drained. please be loving with your harsh judgments…

sweaters: 37
cardigans: 7
long sleeve: 23
dressy long sleeve: 27
short sleeve: 21
nice t-shirts: 19
t-shirts: 58
tanktops: 26
workout tops: 19
hoodies: 18
underwear: 82

that is 255 tops. 255 TOPS! holy shit. how do i have 255 tops? this number is actually low too because i am sure there are currently 10 more in my laundry basket. and 82 PAIRS OF UNDERWEAR! what! although, it is amazing to think that i could go almost three months without doing laundry and still wear clean underwear everyday. i blame this number on the fact that i get a “free panty” gift card in the mail from victoria’s secret every month. yes, i am already passing blame elsewhere. deal with it.

i put on this week’s episode of so you think you can dance and attempted to lose my emotional attachment. get real. what tops have you actually worn in the past year. what tops have you never worn? (oh yes, there were a couple with tags.)

i thought i was totally ready to be ruthless with my wardrobe. and yet, in my first attempt i only added the following to the giveaway pile:

sweaters: 11
cardigans: 1
long sleeve: 9
dressy long sleeve: 10
short sleeve: 7
nice t-shirts: 7
t-shirts: 30
tanktops: 7
workout tops: 4
hoodies: 7
underwear: 12

93 tops. 255-93=162. I STILL HAVE 162 TOPS! what the heck? i am going to need some assistance in this task i think. please share your advice and encouragement and harassment. i will benefit from it all. despite only getting rid of about 1/3 of my tops, i did feel like i made some big breakthroughs tonight, including parting ways with this never-been-worn t-shirt:

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i am sure jewel will understand what i’m trying to do here.

next, onto bottoms. wish me luck…

 

wds day one: finding a dream

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when you attend something called the world domination summit (wds), you have a certain amount of expectation that comes along with purchasing your ticket. it’s a pretty lofty claim. domination of the entire world? and yet, when you are sitting in a theater with 3,000 individuals who share in this goal, it seems…possible.

it was december 2010, and i was grabbing tea with cathy brown like we always do. catching up on our wild daydreaming and argentine adventures. she mentioned a book i should read. the art of non-conformity by chris guillebeau. i read it quickly. i was inspired. highlighted it to pieces as i do. immediately understood why she told me to read it. i began promoting the book to others completely forgetting the name of the author. i tend to do that. titles stick. authors don’t always.

it was probably may 2012 (completely arbitrary date), and i stumbled upon the facebook page for the book, and of course, clicked that “like” button with ease. the positive, pro-adventure, crafting-your-own-life posts starting popping up in my newsfeed. a daily head nod of agreement and the occasional sharing took place.

it was january 2013, and i was sitting in brian’s abuelos house in puerto rico. instead of enjoying the hammocks with two of the biggest dreamers i know, i was catching up on the computer. trying to keep the balance up between work and play. i saw a post on the art of non-conformity facebook page about something called the world domination summit happening in portland in july. it was in its third year, and chris guillebeau was the man behind it all. i googled his name because clearly i had no clue who he was. and lo and behold, he was the man who wrote the book.

long story short. i debated on spending the $500 on a ticket, consulted with a couple friends who had attended in the past, and in the end, in a spur the moment decision before tickets sold out, i did it.

it was july 2013, and i walked into a theater filled with 3,000 people ready to have their world rocked. 3,000 people all sitting down next to strangers and after brief introductions, immediately diving into their dreams. their dreams!

i am pretty self-aware and know my passions. i know where i am and what fuels that. but a big picture end of the road dream? a concrete item that i could tell these strangers when they looked me straight in the eyes and said, so what is your dream? sure, i could give them the vague answer involving some combination of underprivileged youth, art, movement, outdoor education, and storytelling, but it didn’t seem like enough.

(enough. that word keeps popping up in my life. what is enough? more soon.)

so the conversation with one fellow attendee, a frenchman who lives in seattle and does marketing for amazon.com, went something like this:

him: so what do you do here in portland?
me: i have me own media business (hand him new business card). i work with small businesses and non-profits on graphic design, online marketing, social media, websites, etc.
him: awesome. so you’re location independent.
me: (take a silent minute to figure out what that means) yes. i can work from anywhere.
him: so why are you here if you’ve already figured out how to live the dream?
me: that’s my for now dream, not my forever dream.
him: ah. so what breakout session did you go to this afternoon?
me: the one on overcoming fear.
him: how was it?
me: meh. i didn’t get too much out of it.
him: you don’t seem too fearful. why did you choose that one?
me: i don’t know. i feel fearful, but once i was in that room with 250 other people feeling fearful, i realized that i already practice a lot of the ways the speakers were teaching to overcome fear. i think i was actually able to share a lot of helpful thoughts with others in my small group.
him: hm. so what is your forever dream?

end scene.

it’s a big question to answer in a rush, but i wanted to do it. so i did. i said it out loud. heck i even said it on camera today for a website called pilot fire.

i want to start an alternative school for underprivileged youth focused on hands-on learning with emphasis in the arts, outdoor education, and foreign languages/cultures.

start is a relative word. thinking about it now, i would like to advocate for these kind of learning environments. if that leads to my own school, okay then. i just want to help bring our education system out of the factory mentality and into creative exploration.

it feels good to roll that around in my brain. to say an end goal and feel excited by that idea. and yet, it’s not news to me. actually, i am describing the kind of school i attended as a child. a school that shaped who i am. a school that sadly had to close its doors in 2011 after 98 years of “education the whole child.” and actually, my eighth grade teacher, mr. mikulak, predicted this goal too…twelve years ago.

he has known me since i was born. (my grandma and mom both worked at the school.) and as tradition had it, the day before graduation, all the eighth graders sat on stage at a school assembly while mr. mikulak read the ten-year predictions he had handcrafted for each of us.

sara schneider. well, she will be right back where she started, running the early education department here at chicago junior school.

our dreams run deep.

our ability to recognize them depends on the time we take to cultivate our listening. listening to ourselves and others. taking time to ask the simple questions that always have such complex answers.

the opening speaker at wds on saturday was a woman named nancy duarte. she is a communication junkie, and her analysis of speech and storytelling was fascinating. she developed a shape and theory that all the amazing speakers of the world seem to follow. martin luther king, jr. steve jobs. jesus. evita perón. it looks like this:

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nancy broke down each of these four leaders’ speeches line by line and matched the sections up with the highs and lows of her shape. it was poetry. concrete poetry, where the lines form a shape. what is. what could be.

what is?
what could be?

the closing speaker at wds on saturday was a man named chase jarvis. he is a photographer, and instead of showing us his images like usual, he spoke on creativity. the importance of creativity in molding future geniuses. the ones who will solve world problems. come up with the solutions no one has thought about yet. he compared our need for cultivating creativity to the already-advocated need for literacy.

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chris looked at our flawed education system, and it’s removal of things that teach our youth to be problem solvers. to tap into that creativity we have as children that is beaten out of us as we march through the societal schooling norms.

i wanted to run up on stage and tell him my dream. i didn’t. although i am sure it would have been applauded with this audience. “the power of dreams compel you” might have erupted from the crowd. a crowd filled with people on their own journeys to find their dreams or maybe re-find their dreams like me.

throughout the whole day, a few friends and family members kept popping into my brain that i wanted to be in that room with me. as i walked out of that theater, i had to remind those people just how amazing they are.

to those people:
thank you for the creativity you bring to this world. i am inspired to know you and just wanted to tell you that.

today, one of the speakers (darren rowse) had a special guest singer come up and share a song. the lyrics might resonant. spark a vibration in you. cause a dream.

p.s. there were way more cool speakers and such at wds on saturday. this is just a rambling sample.

a reminder.

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the past few weeks have been filled with people. people that have been a part of my life from a very young age. people you don’t realize you miss as much as you do until you see them. people that even though life has sent you in very different directions, it only takes a few minutes to fall right back into your groove.

Blessed Mistakei was sitting in a ten-year-old’s bedroom in morganstown, west virginia. her walls are teal, and her shelves are lined with books and board games and photos and accents that show her personality. i remember when she didn’t have a personality. when she was a baby, and i would make her my subject for my high school photography class. and now, she is ten.

i have known her mother since second grade. spent all of second, third, and most of fourth grade with her standing alongside as i played my part of queen bee. in the middle of fourth grade, she moved away.

that is when it began.

friendship.

cherishing people.

no matter how far away they were.

in fifth grade, i boarded my very first airplane all by myself and flew to columbus, ohio over christmas break to see my friend. not because my mom suggested it, but because i knew it was a relationship worth making an effort to keep.

sixteen years later, and i still cannot help but board a plane and see my friend.

she returned to my school in sixth grade, and we finished out middle school with big boobs and even bigger attitudes. after graduating eighth grade, life took us in different directions, but i could never let the roads drift too far apart. airfare is a small price to pay to feel laughter that you know is real. to have shared memories that have shaped you both. to be reminded that distance cannot erase a bond.

it is known amongst my friends that i try my best to stay in touch. it might only be once a year that i get a chance to fly across the country to see them, but they know that i will always make the effort. but does a visit once a year, a birthday and christmas card, and a few phone calls here and there really equal a meaningful friendship?

in college, i had a friend who called me out on this. he was upset with me because i referred to him as one of my good friends yet didn’t really see or talk to him more than a couple times a month even though we lived on the same college campus, minutes apart from each other.

it was my senior year of college when we had this conversation. this startling realization that although most people praised me for flying to visit them in idaho falls or los angeles or indianapolis or austin or jackson hole or new york city, here was someone in my local community telling me that i was not investing enough. i was spread too thin. my past relationships from childhood and high school were impeding my ability to create those types of bonds with my college friends.

that thought has stayed with me for the past four years, but once again it is starting to take on a deeper meaning.

i have been on the go for the past seven months. traveling, yes. but more than traveling, seeing the people that are meaningful to me. the only travel i have done that was for travel sake was my month in india. the rest of the time has been spent cultivating and celebrating my friends and family.

time and distance tend to separate us, change us. the people that were close to us in high school, might not be the people that we want to hold close to us now. the people that were close to us in college, might not stay in contact as they get married and have children. i am learning to morph into the shifting roles of my relationships. i am also learning which ones continue to change who i am. those are the ones worth keeping. the mutual growth and love.

1001459_10102690002180883_1705205925_nwe hung out by the pool in her west virginia townhouse community and had girl talk. i had not seen her in three years and had maybe talked to her once a year on the phone in that time. we both delved into our successes and challenges of the past few years, and i had a moment where i thought, why didn’t i know all this? why didn’t you call me when this was happening?

a reminder.

she is always a reminder for me in my life. she has been since the day i met her in second grade. her lack was a reminder of my plenty. her cynicism was a reminder of my optimism. her responsibility was a reminder of my freedom. our consistency has always been a reminder of love. the kind of love between sisters. we fight. we make up. we laugh. we cry. we talk each other down from the ledge or push each other when it’s time to fly. but we are on different paths in life. i am grateful that i have always had someone in my life to remind me of the differences we face in life. she is also a reminder that some bonds don’t dissolve regardless of time and distance.

two close friends got married while i was home. one on a farm in the middle of nowhere michigan. one at a golf club in the suburbs of chicago. a perfect representation of the juxtaposition of the people that fill my life. both weddings were perfect for that person and their loved ones.

i was honored to be in the bridal party of one of them. a mutual friend of ours and i got to talking (as most unmarried girls do) about who we would put in our bridal party. it’s always an interesting exercise. who are those females who mean the most to you? the ones you would want to stand next to you for support as you make one of the biggest decisions of your life.

944426_10102677628762313_1988261844_nshe stated that even though i was faraway and only saw her a few times a year, i would definitely be there by her side. i felt the same. i have known her since i was six, and like my time in west virginia, my time in st. charles reminded me of the close relationships that have made me who i am and continue to do so.

thank you for that reminder.

finding a home for wireman.

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it’s been over two months since i returned from india. two months since i came “home.” two months since i have written a blog post. two months since i have slowed down.

in those two months, i have coasted along maintaining my vagabonding. i have not paid rent since november. i have paid taxes. i have bought plane tickets. i have paid contract workers. but i have not paid rent.

india to paris to los angeles. los angeles to bishop. bishop to los angeles. los angeles to boulder. boulder to portland. portland to boulder. boulder to portland. portland to las vegas. las vegas to portland. portland to boulder. boulder to detroit. detroit to ohio to new york. new york to grand rapids.

here now. back in grand rapids. catching up with clients. keeping connections strong. meeting new clients face to face. seeing old friends. enjoying the sunshine. dreaming big, but getting exhausted. but it still feels home-ish. i know where to go to find my favorite yoga. i know which coffee shops have the comfy chairs. i know where to go without opening google maps on my iphone. it is rooted in me.

grand rapids to chicago. chicago to boulder. boulder to chicago. chicago to madison. madison to chicago. chicago to west virginia. west virginia to chicago. chicago to montana. montana to boulder. and then?

there is no return ticket booked yet.

“a small boy was being pitied because he and his family were living in a hotel. he replied, ‘oh, but we do have a home. it’s just that we haven’t anywhere to put it at the moment.’” (finding a home, from the christian science monitor, march 15, 1978)

i tell myself that i do not need four walls surrounding me to make me feel home, and i don’t. i have lived in three cities since i left chicago in high school. each one felt good. because the city didn’t matter. it was always the people who made me feel home. yet, recently i have realized that four walls don’t make me feel home, but they do give me a routine. a routine i miss sometimes.

a space to call my own. hang my artwork on the walls and play brian’s aretha franklin album over and over on the record player loudly in the mornings. finding the silverware drawer that is instinctual for me.

last week, i went on a road trip with children’s book author sue stauffacher. read the blog. see the videos. detroit to new york. four schools and a library. probably over a hundred youth. we were sharing the tale of wireman, a literacy comic book that currently has two volumes. an amazing tool. an amazing story. an urban setting. an ethnic cast of characters. a plot to which every single child we talked to could relate. their faces lit up when they could read something that was about problems they faced, problems they had to solve.

our youth are so smart. they amaze me with their intuition. their insight. their passion. their need to be successful.

you could see several of them dance around the depth that wireman was causing them to feel. but there were a brave few who took the leap. let wireman’s plot penetrate their reality. giving them a medium to speak anonymously about the bully at lunch or the family situations at home.

home.

wireman creates a home for his crew. they live on the roof. they help each other. it seems so safe. they want safety. they find their wish fulfilled. a home. a safe home.

what is my wireman? who is my wireman?

there are only two volumes of wireman so far. eight issues. they bring you to a second grade reading level. did you know that there are 300 basic words that comprise 65% of written english? wireman includes them all. the story is ready to continue. volume three. four. five. a set of comic books that brings its reader up to a fifth grade reading level. we need this tool. wireman needs to find a home.

soon i will too.

day twenty-three: goodbye to mumbai

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do not waste your mornings. do not waste this last morning in india.

we don’t.

feel the sun rise and allow our bodies to rise with it. this time we know how to get to the beach. we walk briskly along the waterfront sidewalk. our distance marked out in kilometers for us on the cement. over two miles easily. so many people up early and exercising alongside us.

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what feels good for today?

we take some time to practice for ourselves. to melt into the muscles that are calling out in ache. to take in the arabian sea sand beneath our feet one last time. words and symbols drawn into the sand. i sit down and close my eyes.

about four months ago, i got a tattoo on the top of my left foot. it says, “here.” sometimes we all need a reminder to be where we are.

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tomorrow i will be back in los angeles attempting to pick up the debris leftover from three months of globetrotting, but today, i am here.

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in god’s own country. where you are tested daily. where light switches are overabundant and smiles come free. where everyone still takes time to read the newspaper even though they have equally, if not more, electronic boxes of endless information in their pockets.

i am grateful i get to be here.

we hop a cab back to the hotel and i just take it all in.

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over breakfast, we think about our top three memories of india. we get lost in conversation about america’s culture. does it have one of its own? or just a collection of other cultures? we debate the need for less options. explore the ways that endless choice leads us millennials to feel lost or overwhelmed. we discuss our passions. when we knew that they were our passions. i come to the verge of tears twice.

writing and my mom’s incredible strength.

i like that talking about things can bring me to the verge of such intense emotions. i like that i am not afraid to reach those moments over breakfast at 8am in india with jasprit, teresa, and sybille.

for the first time ever on this trip, jasprit takes out pen and paper and we make a schedule. for what you ask? back rubs! one final massage from the master. his generosity is welcomed but not unnoticed. love is reflected in love.

we all set times to meet for lunch and dinner, but the hours in between are ours to embrace. only a few remain before we board our 2am flight to paris and then to los angeles.

teresa and i head out to find a paper store. with iphone map in hand, we guide ourselves through the city talking about everything and anything. mother daughter bonding style. it is sunday and most things are closed, but we do find one store with cute journals and cards and gifts. i see happy things in sidewalk stands.

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i buy a few things including the sara must-have classic: a shot glass for my collection of shot glasses from everywhere and anywhere. the collection that sits boxed up in a storage unit in chicago.

why do we fuel our collections?

i have lived for three months out of a couple bags while all my stuff sits in a basement and collects who knows what. i always want to purge, but i can’t bring myself to give up my dad’s old elvis records or the love letters from my sixth grade boyfriend. furniture can go, but the books i wrote in elementary school about ocelots and dance competition miracles cannot.

we don’t need a lot to survive. we don’t need a lot to be happy. we don’t need a lot to find meaning.

we all meet back up for lunch and dinner. by now, we all know our favorite dishes and want to make sure we get them in one last time before heading home. for me, this must include an evening stroll to the india gate plaza to find another corn cob cooked over an open flame and covered in lemon and spices. after some scheming and smiling, i managed to get some of the corn masala to take home with me. yum.

and even on my last day i am still finding more favorites. cardamom milk. wow. i am all about this whole adding spices to milk thing.

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pack it up. head to the international airport. it is chaos. pure chaos. but only outside. you have to wait in line to even step foot into the airport.

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i am pretty sure our passports and tickets were checked six different times. but, once we were inside, all was well. through all the documentation stops and onto our twelve hour 2am flight to paris.

i did not sleep at all, but i watched a couple movies that kept me entertained.

the trip is over. my leftover rupees are useless. until i return.

day twenty-two: indian tourister

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6:30am. chai. car. a bigger car this time. mainly to fit the mass amounts of luggage we seem to be acquiring.

flight from the long capital of kerala city name to mumbai at 1:40pm.

let the race begin.

the driver estimates that it will take five hours to get us to the airport. india roads and traffic are more unpredictable than los angeles. will there be a detour? likely. a random road closed? probably.

he starts off as a pretty conservative driver. not passing too daringly. not veering to the right every five seconds to check if the coast is clear is speed ahead. and then, as the minutes passed, his cautious facade cracked and crumbled. he was going to get us to the airport on time, no doubt about it.

i sat in the back seat staring out the right window, holding onto the handle above the door to alleviate the pressure being pounded into my lower back as we flew over each bump. ipod in my ears. driving and staring out the window becomes epic with the right soundtrack. i felt like i was in a movie. the road trip scene where they catch half my face in the frame but focus in on the scenery through the window.

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elephants in truck beds. four people crammed onto a speeding moped. brightly colored buildings becoming a blur. we drove through our driver’s home town. he rolled down his window and caught up with someone he knew who happened to be driving next to us. and threw a couple waves to several others along the way.

community. those places where everyone knows everyone. the places you hate because you have no privacy and love because you feel home. the places that remind you of why you left but make you always want to return.

we are returning. to mumbai.

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one more night in this massive city. a new hotel a few yards from our last one. the neighborhood is familiar now. i can walk around and know where i am. i can point you towards the sea. or the train station. or the best fruit stand. or the blocks packed full of shoppers.

i ventured out among them with jasprit and teresa to find a bag to transport the collection of magical gifts i had acquired back to the states. a red and black duffel bag decorated with a patch deeming me an “indian tourister.”

tourister.

i like made up words. i am a tourister. touring around this world looking for the next location to pull me into an adventure like this one. suck me into the loud music streaming through the air outside my hotel windows and hammer honking horns into my head forevermore.

it is my last night in this city. in this country.

i catch up on work, yet i want work to wait. i’ll be home in two days.

i unpack everything and repack strategically separating out the items i want to put in the bag i am going to check. what am i willing to part with if my bag goes missing in action? i pack all my stuff into the soon-to-be checked bag and pack all my gifts and memories into the indian tourister. it would be a shame if i had nothing to bring back to you but my dirty clothes. those can get lost, the scarves and spices cannot.

journal in hand with purple pen ready to capture mumbai once more. i head into the night. i am ready to head into the day.

day twenty-one: spices spices tea tea

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rise and shine (insert cedars camp song here amy and dan). field trip to munnar day!

pile into a car at 6:30am and drive drive drive six hours to munnar, the city of tea plantations and spice fields. a quick stop at a halfway restaurant for breakfast full of “homely flavours” and then back on the road.

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a little bit before munnar, we stop at a spice garden for a tour. i learn about rubber trees, touch me not, cardamom, nutmeg, cocoa, papyrus, and so many other herbs and spices. we walk through the garden with our guide learning all the ayurvedic used of each plant. touch me not is for migraines. funny.

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cardamom.

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black pepper.

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and nutmeg.

and then we head into their small shop.

up to this point, i have managed to fit all my purchases into the two bags that i brought on this trip. not anymore.

what? saffron for $4? um, yes please. so all of load up our bins with spice gift packs and homemade chocolates and masalas and coffees and teas and and and and…

i will definitely need to buy another bag to fit all these goodies, but i cannot wait to make my own warm milk with saffron or cardamom. yum.

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after we shop, teresa and i decide to make a stop at the fish pedicure stand they have set up at the entrance. yes, i said fish. have you seen these? for a couple bucks, we sit down and stick our feet into a tank of water full of little pirañas or something like that. the lady called them “thailand fish.”

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oh. my. gosh. what a strange feeling. a hundred little fish mouths eating the dead skin off your feet. it felt like a bunch of little painless shocks, and it tickled horribly. but ten minutes later, my feet were so soft. my dancer/climber feet were so soft. amazing. i can’t figure out why this hasn’t taken off in america yet. maybe i’ll just set up my own home fish pedicure station. although, i need those dancer/climber callouses, so maybe not. maybe one day.

we get back in the car and continue along the curvy mountain roads marked every 100 feet with signs reminding us this is an “accident prone area.” going higher and higher in elevation, getting better and better views. the tea plantations roll over the hills. the bushes covering the land with leaves greener than portland forests during the rainy season (yes there is a “rainy season”). the bushes all form symmetrical rows creating a sort of an organized checkerboard.

near the top, we reach munnar. a small town in the midst of all the tea plantations.

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we walk through a beautiful garden and take in the sunny day.

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we eat lunch at a fancy restaurant overlooking the mountains and plantations.

we breathe in the beauty.

and then, we pile back in the car for the six hour car ride home. yep, we did it all in one day. i am pretty sure i have driven this much in one day before, but man oh man, it was a lot of car time. luckily, staring out the window at the views was pretty occupying. a good way to see a lot of landscape in a short amount of time.

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we breathe out the beauty.

and then, we are back in fort cochin. and the strike is over. and the traffic sucks. the empty city has disappeared. horns are honking. we are not moving. welcome back to indian reality. it was so nice to experience the city on strike first. the silence, the calm. but the reality is welcome too. the noise, the excitement.

as we get closer to our hotel, we pass by a huge festival complete with men dancing on elephants and loud music. the city is alive. india is alive.

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i need to keep myself alive, so i head back to the hotel and do some work in the hotel lobby. now, when i say hotel, i really mean a small homestay with probably six rooms. and when i say hotel lobby, i really mean the living room of the house.

i sit on the couch, plug in, and tune into all the clients who make my adventures possible. as i try to work, the innkeeper and his buddies keep trying to give me a beer.

no thanks, i’m trying to get some work done.

five minutes later…

are you sure? you want a beer?

nah, i’m good. got to get some work done.

five minutes later…

you can have a beer now?

hah. oh gee golly gosh. i show him what i am working on and explain my company and what i do. he is like, ah you are like me, work 24/7. yes, yes, i am like that. okay lady, do your work, but the power is going to shut off for 30 minutes from 10-10:30pm just so you know.

don’t worry, my computer battery lasted during the random power outage that they knew about. apparently it happens every night? still didn’t figure that one out.

late night. pack up. prepare to head back to mumbai. the last leg of this journey.

day twenty: the best hug ever

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sorry for the delay. onward with india…

waking up early is easy with the promise of chai. walk down the dead streets and find the nearest chaiwala. in fort cochin, pay two rupees and get a sugary shot of chai. served in a small glass vessel (literally think shot glass) and steaming hot. your mouth and tongue adapt. it is nearing the end of this trip, and i am starting to be able to slam the heat without burning my mouth. teresa said it’s about breathing over the liquid in your mouth or something like that. she is amazing at this feat of magic. i bet teresa could swallow fire and not even blink.

all chai-ed up, we head to the dirty beach in fort cochin.

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it is lined with chinese fishing nets and boats. they throw out the nets and reel them in.

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what are they catching? i have no clue. i did not make the tourist stop and pay them for a tour and explanation. teresa and sybille did though, so maybe this information made its way into one of the russayog blogs. but i can tell you about the shoes.

there is so much trash on part of the beach, and the majority of it is shoes! if i wanted to dig through it all, i bet i could find a hundred matches, easily. where did all these shoes come from? do people really lose their shoes to the arabian sea that often? or lose their shoes in general that often? high heels, tennis shoes, sandals. they all found a second home upon the fort cochin beach.

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we yoga it up. and then teresa and i retreat into the fact that we are actually children inside. we do some ballet moves and draw in the sand with our feet. “chardi kala” we write. unbounded optimism. i draw a smiley face. we run into the waves and rush out. they wash away our words and leave a black film outlining each letter. smiles.

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walk through the empty streets (kerala still on strike) and daydream. it is around 7am and the field is already packed with boys playing soccer and cricket. i guess i would be doing the same thing if i had the day off school due to a strike. and perhaps, they wake up early to beat the heat, but i think they literally hang out there all day. sweating running base to base. are there bases in cricket? it seems like there is.

and then i see her!

a fellow yogi friend of mine from portland has been traveling around india parallel to me. for most of the trip, i would see her location on facebook and it would be following me from city to city but a few days behind. (you can read her amazing blog/project here.) she and her boyfriend are making a documentary over the course of their six weeks in india. i had seen that she was going to be in kochi, and hey, so was i! finally our paths cross. she sent me a message with the name of her hotel.

walking back from the beach, i see her hotel from a distance, but it is breakfast time, i will try to find her later.

not so much.

i see her standing by the field. cue dramatic music for our should-be-in-a-movie reunion scene. i start running towards her screaming, UMA! she sees me. we hug the biggest hug ever and never let go.

and then we let go.

and then we share our two totally different experiences thus far in india.

and then we say good bye, for now.

and then i eat breakfast at the hotel.

today is for exploring. alone. i walk aimlessly around fort cochin. taking photographs of baby goats and girls practicing dance on doorsteps.

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of cricket winning scores and high fives.

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i find a post office and get excited, but of course it is closed. the whole town is shut down. so, i shut down too. i find a tree by the beach and lay down underneath its shade.

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it is hot here. hot and humid. like a midwest summer. just how i like it. i pass the day away by the seaside. watching people. watching waves. watching the black film outline each letter i write.

in the evening, sybille and i put on our tourist hats and head to a traditional kathakali dance performance. it starts with an open viewing of the men putting on their makeup. an hour of transforming the normal into the fantastical. becoming the story. kathakali is a form of dance that includes super detailed movements of the eyes, hands, feet, and whole body to act out a play. the combination of movements creates an actual language. sign language becomes full body language. there a series of movements that means father, mother, baby, happy, a bee pollenating a flower (yes this is actually one they demonstrated), etc. any word has a set of motions.

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the play we went to see was about an evil god pretending to be a beautiful lady trying to have sex with this warrior dude in order to get into heaven. he figures out who she really is and kills her.

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now. i can tell you what the story was about because the handed out the script prior to the start of the performance.

i now know how most people must feel when watching one of my modern dance performances. wow was i lost. had i not had that script, i would have been so confused. clearly, i did not understand the body language. but nonetheless, it was quite a performance. big costumes, big drumbeats.

my bedtime is getting earlier and earlier. maybe the heat. maybe the exhaustion of traveling. but as soon as that performance let out (maybe 7:30pm), i headed back to the hotel and crashed. dreamland status.

day nineteen: improvising in a strike

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a hard workout in the hot sun on the beach. a great way to start the day. the waves cresting and crashing like dominoes. sending a ripple from one end to the other. only four more days in this sacred country.

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what sara does after a hard work out. perhaps a little loopy from dehydration…

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we had gotten word that today and the next day would be a 48-hour strike in kerala due to an increase of the price of diesel, and as we walked back from the beach, every store was still closed. and remained closed.

all taxis were out of commission. the state is shut down. it is amazing. a place so busy now so quiet. no horns honking. nothing.

but wait, we need to get to kochi!

jasprit had preemptively booked us a train to kochi instead of our initially-intended taxi ride. but we still had to get to the train… our hotel arranged a car for us to get there. when we unloaded, our driver got hassled by locals about giving us a ride. it’s a strike! what are you doing? come on.

but, we got to our train. a sleeper train! it was late, but it arrived. and i laid on a top bunk for five hours as we moved back up north.

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we arrive and now have to figure out how to get to our hotel. hmm.

jasprit goes over and talks to a policeman for awhile. he motions for us to come with the luggage. the policeman has called us a ride. how? apparently, he told the driver we were with the army. hah. that is one way to get a ride in the middle of a strike.

so we pile ourselves and our luggage into the tuk tuk and drive the empty streets to fort cochin. as army men.

jasprit has managed to make every transition in this country completely seamless. no matter what curveball india throws our way, he is there to make it work. a completely different experience than most foreign tourists experience during their first visit to india. i feel truly blessed to be a passenger along for this ride. the wide-eyed child just taking it all in from the backseat.

we arrive at the good karma inn around 7pm. the mosquitoes and i are becoming quite close. as in, we are now blood sisters. as in, i think they think my body is the last supper. oh well. i’ve seen worse.

we head to dinner at one of the few restaurants open during the strike and eat a “quick” meal. quick in kerala time. aka it took almost two hours. i feel like i am back in south america. argentine time was my favorite time.

and yet everyone moves so fast. they talk fast. they massage fast. they drive fast. they wiggle their heads fast. and yet, life moves slow. even slower for the next 48 hours.

i wish we could orchestrate a 48-hour strike over a hike in gas prices in america. impossible.

bedtime. our windows and balcony door open to let in some air. and mosquitoes. oops. close the door after an hour of slapping and swatting and hiding under the sheet. a mosquito actually bit my lip! after we shut the door, all was fine. except it was hotter.

you win some, you lose some.