#barely spent $500 on the whole trip including bus rides

[slackergami]

Months ago, anon asked me if I've been to Macau. To celebrate my bday, I went to Macau for a quick day trip but I had no itinerary planned and my chronic headache cut the trip very short 😂 so I went to the Ruins of St. Paul's, grabbed some almond cakes and took a cab to The Venetian for window shopping and checked out the casinos (I'm too dumb to gamble dw).

[aprillikesthings]

OKay so what I came here to post about is that while ONE trip to another country is just going to that country, now that I've done TWO international trips everyone (including myself) sees me as A Person Who Travels and I keep getting asked where I'm going next

And on the one hand it's a weird question, because both previous trips were just--

Iceland: Icelandair advertised a huge discount on direct flights on my facebook wall and made a thirty-year dream suddenly seem possible

Spain: I saw like an article? somewhere? about the Camino, read one memoir, then suddenly had a new hyperfixation and I proceeded to read fifteen more (barely exaggerated y'all) and watched a bunch of youtube videos and then asked for the time off and started training

So in neither case was it like, "oh where do I want to travel," it was like "the need to go to this specific place is suddenly consuming my life"

But on the other hand, I mean, I'm kinda thinking England a year from now? But those plans are REALLY hazy past like, "lol the British Museum has an Ea Nasir tablet gotta get a selfie with it" and "I hear Durham cathedral is gorgeous" and "Norwich is a short train ride from London and then I can visit sites associated with Julian of Norwich!!--what do you MEAN there's a three-day pilgrimage route to Walsingham??? 👀" (what can I say I'm a sucker for pilgrimages now)

TBH I just want someone else to arrange one of those multi-day bus tours of churches/cathedrals in England but for LGBT+ Anglicans!! Someone get on this!! (Jay Hulme has other things to do or he'd be perfect for it. God knows some of the churches on my list are because of his photos.)

Anyway.

I have to keep reminding myself that Spain is a huge outlier in Europe for being so inexpensive on a daily basis, plus being a pilgrim means my daily costs were literally food/bed in a hostel/a few euro for church donation boxes.

And I get that Iceland is well-known to be on the opposite end of that scale, but it still boggles the mind to compare them (all approximate):

Iceland for eight days

Flight: $500 Guesthouse room: $700 A few bus day tours + Blue Lagoon + bus to and from airport: uhhhh I think like $400 added up? Daily expenses of food/museums/souvenirs for eight days: $50/day on average, so another $400?

Total: $2,000

Spain:

Flight (into Paris, out of Lisbon) + insurance: $800 Daily cost, including hostels, food, souvenirs, sightseeing: averaged about $50 a day for 42 days total, so about $2100 Add another $100 for train/bus tickets (...I think it was more than that)

Total: $3,000

NINE DAYS in Iceland versus FORTY TWO days in (mostly) Spain.

(Okay, this is admittedly ignoring the fact that 1. I had to buy things I didn't already own for my Camino, like a backpacking backpack and a summer weight sleeping bag and TWO pairs of pricey hiking boots; OR 2. that I absolutely spent like $1,000 on physical therapy while training for the trip.)

They are just such wildly different countries. Museums in Iceland were all (US) $15-25. The cathedral's museum in Santiago (where I spent at least as much time as any of the museums in Iceland) was normally €7 but I got a discount for being a pilgrim. I think I paid €4, which is like $4.30.

Anyway none of this is about whether or not England is expensive, but I do assume it's closer to the Iceland end of things.

Especially since it's one thing to stay in hostels the whole time when you're on pilgrimage and everyone else at the hostel is too and everyone is in bed by 10pm because you're all exhausted. (Also because that's when they all lock their doors. No, really.) It's another thing to stay in a hostel in like...London. But the alternatives escalate in cost rather rapidly, especially when you're traveling alone. Oof.

ANYWAY ALSO the fact that I can afford to travel AT ALL is like 90% due to my having cheap-ass rent, no car, no kids, no student loans, and all my healthcare issues being relatively inexpensive. I've worked the same meh-paying job long enough for my hourly wage to double and to have fuck-tons of PTO. I'm 43 and I live in a run-down townhouse with three other adults and most of my furniture is all ten-year-old Ikea and I don't eat at restaurants hardly ever.

Any one part of my life could change and I would never be able to afford to do this kind of shit again.

Which is why I'm doing it now.

[adventurecatalog2015]

In Retrospect

In May of 2015, I set out on a backpacking trip through Europe. It was supposed to last two months, but I came home after only five weeks. 

While I still have a lot of mixed emotions about the trip, it did teach me a lot about myself. Namely, that it's not a great idea to go to backpacking when you're in denial about your eating disorder.

CW for descriptions of disordered eating behaviours, including bingeing and restricting.

The bus ride to Munich took five hours, and I cried the whole time.

For what it’s worth, it was a nice bus. I mean, it had wifi, and a USB plug in so I could charge my phone, which I took advantage of to watch the latest season of Orange is the New Black while I sobbed softly, occasionally looking up to wonder why no one was asking me what was wrong.

The tears had been building up in my chest for a while, and I’m not sure what specifically broke the dam—maybe watching the buildings of Prague whiz past the window in a daze and thinking gee, I’d like to go to Prague someday, even when I’d spent the past 48 hours exploring the city. Maybe it was the comfortable seat, or how when I finally sat down I could actually feel how twisted and bloated my stomach was. Maybe it was the knowledge that as tired and as sick as I felt, I still had four more weeks of what was supposed to be the best experience of my life stretching out endlessly before me. I tried to imagine Greece and Rome—the white sandy beaches I had been so looking forward to visiting, the ruins, the beauty of Cinque Terre that everyone had told me I absolutely had to see—but when I did I only felt lonely, and tired, and numb.

I don’t think I’ve ever truly experienced depression, but when checked into my hostel room in Munich later that day and sank to the floor sobbing before I could even take off my backpack, I was closer than I’ve ever been.

I had set out on my quintessential backpacking journey five weeks earlier, after months of planning. I had carefully budgeted $6000 for my two-month trip from Ireland to the UK, mainland Europe, and the Mediterranean. I was “winging it” as much as I could—I hadn’t booked any hostels or flights, and had only a loose idea of the things I wanted to do and see. This would leave me open to experiences, I reasoned.

For the record, I still like this approach to backpacking, and my chosen method of travel was not the problem.

The problem was that for the previous two years I had been fostering disordered eating habits that had lead me to lose almost fifty pounds in ten months while simultaneously descending into a hellish binge/restrict cycle that occupied most of my waking thoughts.

I’m still not comfortable saying I had (have?) an eating disorder; “disordered eating” feels better for some reason. I’ve always dealt with anxiety, and maybe OCD, so the way I see it, an obsession over food and exercise was just a fun new way for my mental illness to manifest. At the time, though, I didn’t see it as mental illness.

When I boarded my flight from Vancouver to Dublin, I still thought that my obsessions and anxiety were a flaw. Just like the way I sometimes opened the cupboards and ate everything in sight, my fears were something to be conquered. If I could just grit my teeth and get over my stupid neurosis about food, I could have a good time in Europe, god dammit. I mean, it’s Europe! Once I got there, I told myself, I would be so distracted by the cool things around me that I wouldn’t have time to have a panic attack because I ate a fucking French fry.

As soon as I boarded my flight, my thoughts turned to food. What would they be serving? Would it have protein? Would it be fried? If there was a dinner roll, could I resist eating it? If I couldn’t sleep, I would be hungrier—I would probably end up eating a whole extra meal just because of the time change. What if I ended up eating two breakfasts? I could always just not eat the protein bar I had stashed in my purse; that could make up for it… Shit, the mere thought of my protein bar made me want it. I wasn’t hungry, but I ate it, and then felt simultaneously terrible that I had caved and relieved that it couldn’t taunt me anymore.

I watched movies on the in-flight TV. The first meal came, and I ate the dinner roll, with butter. In the bathroom, I lifted up my shirt and studied my stomach. I’m still okay, I thought. If I don’t eat all of the breakfast meal, I’ll be okay.

I ate all of the breakfast meal.

By the time I had landed in Dublin and found my hostel, almost all of the shops were closed. I ended up getting Subway, because I still remembered how many calories were in my favourite sandwich. I ate it in the restaurant and thought about how many meals I had eaten that day—too many.

It’s okay, I told myself. If I just have a light breakfast tomorrow, I’ll be okay.

I did not have a light breakfast.

So here’s a thing about hostels—they’re cheap. And guess which food macro is the cheapest? That’s right: carbs! My hostel in Dublin offered several breakfast food choices: corn flakes, Muesli, and toast.

I avoided it for as long as I could. I thought of buying eggs from the shop next door and cooking them, but a quick tour of the hostel kitchen ruled that out—it smelled like garbage and there were flies crawling on all of the dishes.

I walked into the dining hall and surveyed my fellow travellers, eyeing their sugar-topped cornflakes and white bread with Nutella disdainfully. I resolved myself to have one bowl of Muesli with milk and a cup of tea. That would be okay. But after that I was still hungry, so I poured myself another bowl.

Fuck, I thought as soon as I sat back down. I really fucked that up, didn’t I? God dammit. Well, if I just eat this last bowl, I’ll be okay—I can still save this.

And then that thing happened. My heart started racing, and my brain was filled with two opposite sentiments: hey, when in Rome! You’re in Europe! Enjoy the food! and Fuck fuck FUCK you fucking failure, what the hell are you doing?

So what the fuck do you do then?

Well, you get another bowl. And another. And the whole time though your brain is screaming at you to stop, for the love of all that’s holy, STOP but you keep getting up, you keep pouring yourself bowl after bowl, and when you realize how spectacularly you’ve fucked up you just and pour yourself some cornflakes, too, with sugar, and make yourself some toast with Nutella, because if you’ve already failed so badly what’s 500, 1000, 2000 more calories anyways?  The whole time you try to be casual about it, you hope no one notices, but you’re sure they do.

By the time I met up with my travel buddies I was so full I could barely move. And it only got worse from there.

Now, I’m not going to relive every time I binged in Europe—that wouldn’t be very interesting, because every time kind of looks like that. Every binge starts with me hating myself for eating, and every one ends with me in pain, short of breath, and promising myself that that this will be the last time.  

I won’t relive every binge, but I will tell you about a few of the worst ones.

In London, I stayed with an acquaintance who I had met through a mutual friend, and who had graciously invited me to stay with her. While I was there she went to work as normal, and I filled my days with sightseeing in the big city. She also very kindly gave me permission to eat whatever was in her cupboards—a nice, normal thing to do. But for me, it was terrifying.  

One day I got home before she did. I decided to have a snack—peanut butter on toast. The peanut butter was good, and slightly different from the stuff we have in Canada. Peanut butter has always been one of the things I am most afraid of—delicious and high calorie, it was one of my favourite binge foods. I had banned it from my house, and even got mad when my partner bought it solely for himself. Consequently, I hadn’t eaten peanut butter in a very long time.

So, I had another piece of toast. And another. And then I didn’t even bother toasting the bread. And then I started eating it by the spoon.

I paced the kitchen, spoon in hand, horrified at myself. Why was I doing this? This wasn’t even my fucking food. Surely my friend would notice how much of her peanut butter I had eaten. It was a smallish jar, and it had been almost full when I started.

And still, it taunted me from the cupboard. My mouth watered. She wouldn’t notice one more spoonful missing, would she?

It took me just over an hour to consume the entire jar, and it was one of the worst hours of my life. I felt sad, sick, out of control, and guilty. At a certain point I decided the only way to fix what I had done was to finish the peanut butter altogether and buy another, identical jar to replace the one I had stuffed myself on.

I still remember lying on Kaitlin’s bed after it was over in the fetal position, in pain, clutching my stomach, yet feeling almost victorious. I had eaten it all. I had replaced the jar. She wouldn’t know what I had done and now I felt so sick and awful that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I would never, ever, binge again: this was the low point. The fever dream was over now; I could see clearly at last, and I would be better now.

In case you haven’t guessed it already, that’s not what happened.

Another version of this story: I’m staying with relatives in Holland. They’re distant cousins, all removed and various degrees of separated from me, but they’re some of the most welcoming and hospitable people I’ve ever met. One day they leave me alone in the house. In a daze I rummage through their drawers for food, stuffing myself on cheese, meat, cookies, chocolate, sprinkles—anything I can get my hands on. I pace the house, berating myself but unable to stop. I’m out of breath so I lie down and think this is it; it’s over; I’m done, but that lasts five minutes before I get up and eat another cookie. When they get home I wait for them to say something—to make some surprised comment at how half their food is missing—but it never comes.

Another version: I’m staying on a farm in rural Ireland. They eat mostly bread and potatoes, and I should be grateful that they’re feeding me but all I can think about is how much I hate that the nice old Irish grandma making my dinner insists on making up my plate herself. She sets it in front of me and I feel bile rise in my throat. After dinner they take me to a gathering with a few of their friends and I eat the meat and cheese and bread they’ve laid out until I feel like I might puke. In the bathroom I lift my shirt and stare at my stomach—to my eyes it looks distended, bloated, horrific.

Another: I’m walking through downtown Brussels with an American girl I met at my hostel, eating from a mixed bag of chocolates. I laugh about how I don’t even care that it’s my breakfast, lunch, and dinner but I feel panic rising in my throat, and because I don’t know what else to do or how to stop myself I eat the whole bag.

I’m sitting on the back steps of a hostel in Amsterdam. An Australian boy is sitting beside me, waxing poetic about British Columbia and its wonderful natural beauty, and I’m eating my fifth peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The calories are all I can think about.

I’m in the train station in Berlin, trying to find something to eat for breakfast. I get candy and cookies and eat them while I wait for my train. By the time I get on board I feel like I’m bursting out of my clothes; I give the remainder to the girls sitting beside me and silently congratulate myself for not finishing the bag.

I’m in a cat café in Prague. The cats aren’t very social but there are free snacks; I keep making passes by the table to grab fistfuls of peanuts and cookies before returning to the cats. I play with them as best as I can and try not to cry.

I hold out until an hour later, when I board the bus to Munich.

When I check into my hostel later that day, the boy at the counter looks at me with concern. I don’t quite know what I looked like then, but it couldn’t have been great after five solid hours of crying on a bus.

“Do you need anything?” he asks uncertainly as he hands me my room key. A few sad tears leak out of the corners of my eyes and I shake my head. As I walk away to the elevator, I wonder if he thinks something terrible has happened to me.

I make it to my room, but just barely: as soon as I shut the door everything I’ve been holding inside my chest spills out and I’m sobbing with all my heart, gasping, clutching my face with my hands. Somehow, I manage to call my mom, and she answers.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I can’t do it,” I say between sobs. “I thought I could do this, but I can’t. This is so much worse than I thought—I’m so much worse—and I don’t know what to do now.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to—you can come home.”

“I can’t,” I say, thinking of the hotel I booked on a small Greek island and my return flight from Rome that doesn’t leave for another four weeks. Oh god. Four more weeks of this? It seems like an eternity, and the thought fills me with a deep, aching exhaustion I can feel in my bones.

“Don’t think about money,” my mom says. “If you need to come home, you need to come home.”

When I finally make the decision to cut my trip short, it’s the best I’ve felt in weeks. I find the cheapest—and soonest—flight back to Canada that I can, and book it before I can second-guess the decision. My hostel is noisy and uncomfortable so I check into a hotel for the last two days of my time in Munich.

Those two days are filled with more anxiety, more binges, and more pacing around my hotel room. Eventually I find my way to the airport and board my flight home.

I wish I could say that when I got back I was instantly better—that being back in a familiar environment with people I loved somehow fixed me. I wish I could say that, after some reflection, I realized that the good memories of my trip outweighed the bad, and I didn’t regret going.

The truth is, I shouldn’t have gone to Europe. Two years later, the memories are still painful, and even though there were some good times and cool experiences, what I remember more than anything else is my obsession with food. Thinking about it, fearing it, and bingeing till I couldn’t move or breath and I hated myself more than anything.

At the same time, that trip was a wake-up call. Would I have realized the extent of my eating disorder if I hadn’t gone? Or would I have just kept going—kept counting every calorie, measuring every spoonful, spending hours every day working out on an empty stomach until I couldn’t take it anymore and binged again, only to redouble my efforts to restrict in the morning.

I don’t know. But I think I’m glad things happened the way they did. The most valuable thing to come out of my experience was the realization that I wasn’t okay. The things I thought were simply character flaws ran much, much deeper, and it just wasn’t possible to grit my teeth and will myself better.

My journey back from that hostel room in Munich didn’t end when I got off the plane in Canada. Two years later, I’m still working to repair my relationship with food and my body and to figure out how to deal with my anxiety.

I haven’t shared this story too freely, because I think a big part of me is still ashamed. Not just because I bought into the toxic attitudes towards food and our bodies that society pushes on us every day, but because part of me still buys into them. Part of me still thinks my life would be better if I was thinner, even though I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that that’s not the case. This belief is the product of decades of messages telling me that the only way to be valuable is to be thin; decades of people all around me repeating this simple truth ad nauseum. Not always with their words, but with their actions, spurred on by their own self-hatred; their own attempts to strive for nonexistent ideals.

This is what I am trying to unlearn.

I haven’t weighed myself in years, but I’m pretty sure I’m back to where I started. It’s hard to make peace with that, especially now that I know what it feels like to be thinner, like I’ve wanted to be since I was eight. Every time I have to buy clothes in a bigger size I panic, and all the old feelings come up again—if I just eat less, if I just exercise more, if I just…

But if I did those things, I know I wouldn’t be happy in the long run. Whatever satisfaction I got from being thinner was hollow. Sure, it made me feel better about myself in the short term, but it was more like a fleeting ego boost than any genuine increase in self-esteem. Because no matter how smug I felt about losing weight, my sense of satisfaction was always, always coupled with fear. More more than anything, I was absolutely terrified that I would slip and lose control and gain everything back. That terror drove me to restrict, and it drove me to binge. I don’t want to be in that place again.

I don’t count calories anymore, nor do I restrict or over exercise, and I haven’t binged in a long time. I finally enjoy eating out at restaurants again, and panic doesn’t grip me when my coworkers bring treats to work. That didn’t happen overnight, and some days are still hard. But you know what? I think that’s okay.

Truthfully, I’m afraid to share this. I’m afraid that you will judge me, or think less of me, or maybe that you won’t even believe me. But maybe someone will see themselves in my story. To you I say: please know that you are not a failure. Please know that it is okay to ask for help. And if you want, I’d love to talk.