theroyalmile

[theroyalmile]

Started from the Bottom Now We’re... A Little Bit Above the Bottom

Note to Readers: I wrote this on Sunday morning at 5:30a.m.  It captures one of the lowest moments I have felt throughout this whole experience and though I am feeling much better right now, and very much so looking forward to my surgery on Tuesday, I think it’s important, when being open about this whole thing, to capture this snapshot of emotion.  I will warn you ahead of time that this is not a “fun” read. But it is honest. And I truly believe the sentiment at the end- this was very close to rock bottom for me, so I’m looking forward to the journey back up, beginning with my surgery in 5 days. 

*******

A couple of weeks ago, I reached a milestone I never thought would happen.  I finished chemo.  This milestone felt triumphant.  It felt miraculous.  I had successfully leaped this giant hurdle, with more ease than I ever expected.  Lucky was the word I kept using.  Lucky I had never gotten sick.  Lucky neuropathy had never taken hold.  Lucky my lifted fingernails had never fallen off.  Lucky my hair was starting to grow back.  Lucky that while still terrible, chemo had been so much easier for me than I knew it was for most. 

I rode this high into a wonderful celebratory night with some close friends.  What was meant to be a large BBQ outside was hindered by a rainstorm, relegated to the indoors, and made much smaller, and yet, I was still deliriously happy. I held onto that delirium from one thing to the next- a laughter filled game night at my parents' new home, a lovely, relaxing few days with my partner’s family, to a productive, incredibly normal feeling day back in the office.  

As I prepared to continue riding that high into my long awaited “girls weekend” with some friends who had all banded together to come in from out of town, I received a call.  It was the plastic surgery department calling to confirm my surgery date for June 22- a date that was three weeks earlier than the date I had in my calendar and that I had spent the last two months making plans around. I was confused, annoyed, and a little scared.  What had happened, I wondered?  I contacted my social worker via email to ask her, nicely of course, what the ever-loving f*** was happening.  She told me she would get to the bottom of it immediately.  I did my best to enter into my girls weekend undeterred from having the most fun ever, as was planned.  

The next day, I received a call from my surgeon who walked me through why the date had changed, and the pros and cons to changing the date.  I won’t get into the details but the most important point is, she said it was ultimately my decision on which date to keep, but from a cancer care perspective the earlier date was optimal.  This is not to say the later date would have been dangerous, just not-optimal, whatever that means.  I asked if I could have the weekend to think about it and she said of course.  I called my partner to discuss, and my mother.  I made a little pro/con list in my phone that I would let ruminate for the weekend.  And then I did my best, mostly successfully, to put this all in the back of my mind until Monday so I could enjoy my girls weekend as planned.  

Ultimately, after what ended up being a wonderful, mostly cancer-thought-free weekend, with the help of my family, partner, social worker, and little pro/con list, I decided to move my surgery date up to the earlier date.  After all, my number one goal here is to be cancer-free.  Why would I not do everything I could to best ensure that result.  Somewhat begrudgingly, but confidently, I altered all my plans.  I informed work of my new surgery date which they wholeheartedly accepted and supported.  I cancelled my “staycation” and other various plans I had made to enjoy my last free weekends before my procedure.  I went through the process of reworking my entire brain to accept that this was all happening much, much sooner than I had planned.  I found a way to become re-excited by my surgery and what it meant.  No more cancer in my body.  The light at the end of the tunnel was back and closer than ever.

One particularly hard pill to swallow with this closer date was that with my post-chemo energy climbing, I had been excited to start working out again, and start eating healthy again.  I had hoped in those 30+ days I might even lose some of the 5 pounds or so of the chemo weight I had gained.  I wanted to go into this surgery feeling powerful, strong, positive and healthy. With this newer surgery date I felt that this goal was still possible, I just had less time to accomplish it.  That was fine, I thought, after all, it wasn’t about the weight loss as much as it was about feeling good.  And I was determined to do my damndest to feel as good as possible with the time I had.   

I started working out every day.  Nothing crazy or overzealous I thought.  Some brief cardio, 30-45 minutes on the stationary bike.  Light weight lifts.  Beginner level stuff.  Enough to work up a minor sweat and push me a little.  But not to push too hard.  With the support of my partner I started eating well (emphasis well, not less).  More salads, more fruit, more water.  Less junk food.  I was meditating daily, which is something I have never done before.  I was feeling good, feeling empowered.  I had even lost 2 pounds, which was, frankly, just a bonus. 

I went into my plastic surgery pre-op appointment excited and nervous.  I was going to be able to ask all of my questions about the surgery, which I had written out ahead of time.  I was going to learn about how to care for my recovering body.  This appointment made this all seem so real. More so than it had before.  But I was happy about that.  I was shocked by how excited I was by the idea of a bilateral mastectomy.  Of course, still very scared, but excited, which made the fear more palatable. 

I don’t like to say things that are overly flattering of myself, but I like to think through this whole process I have remained fairly calm, undeterred, and strangely positive.  Not in a Pollyanna positive kind of way (as my mother would say), just optimistic about the outcome of all of this.  Optimism is not my natural mode, so I have worked very hard to do this.  That is not to say it hasn’t been hard.  Or course it has.  This has been the hardest thing I have ever done.  I have cried more these last few months than probably the last few years combined.  But I have remained, for the most part, positive.  

This was how I felt walking into my plastics pre-op appointment.  My mother was with me for support.  She had been there with me for my first consult with plastics and oh boy, had I needed her.  When the sheer weight of everything had hit me once we started going over breast reconstruction, I had completely lost it.  She was there to support me and help lift up my voice when I could hardly speak.  I had not anticipated that would be necessary this time, but she was there as a precaution, and as an extra set of ears.  But it turned out I needed her more than ever.  When my plastic surgeon out of the blue suggested I consider having my mastectomy without reconstruction, take a few months to recover and lose 20 or so pounds, and then come back for my reconstruction later, I lost it completely.  We had already been over this two months prior.  We had addressed concerns about my weight and determined the surgery as is, mastectomy and reconstruction all in one, was doable, and the right procedure for me.  My weight had not changed since this conversation in March.  Nothing had.  So what the hell.  And when I say “lost it” I mean full, heaving, sobbing, hard to breathe tears.  I couldn’t think straight.  I wanted to vomit.  I wanted to throw something.  I wanted to scream.  We were two weeks out from surgery and here was this curveball that could change everything.  All my questions I had pre-prepared, all of my excitement went right out the window.   I remember my mother saying to the nurses, with a thinly veiled anger, “She has been very stoic through all of this, but I think today you guys broke her.”

The thing here I must make you all understand is that I am having a surgery I would never in a million years have elected to have if I did not have breast cancer and a genetic condition that gave me a 40% chance of getting breast cancer again.  I am having both my breasts removed, and reconstructed with tissue from my stomach.  Does the idea of that make you uncomfortable?  Yeah, me too.  I don’t want this.  I will never wanted this.  But I have accepted that this surgery is my best shot at having a normal life where I do not have to wake up every day in fear of my cancer returning.  And this particular surgery, a mastectomy and reconstruction all in one, with my own tissue, while much more intense in terms of both surgical time and recovery time, is the procedure that made this “choice” that wasn’t really a choice the most palatable.  I am not sugar coating to say I was excited. But when the option of doing the procedure the way I wanted was possibly being taken away from me it was all too much to handle.  My mother was right.  It broke me.

We left that appointment with more questions than answers.  Both of us dejected, angry, bordering on more tears to accompany the ones we had already shed.  After an emergency meeting with my social worker and much discussion (and more tears), and an analysis of the risks and benefits in front of me, I was done sacrificing my choices.  I had already sacrificed too much to this disease and I was done.  I was determined to stick with the procedure I had been planning for since March. 

So did this whole event take the wind a bit out of my sails? Yes.  It ruined everything just a little bit for me, and stands to make all of this a little bit harder.  All the same, after making my decision, I was determined to push forward,  I kept up the exercising, I had two more very productive days at the office and felt confident about my medical leave from my job.  Was I feeling as strong as before?  Not quite.  But I was feeling better.  And the weekend was approaching fast, which I was looking forward to.

I had plans for the weekend.  Nothing monumental.  Saturday, my partner and I had planned to go to the driving range at a local golf course.  This was a favorite activity of mine when I was younger. My uncle Billy, who died in 2019, used to take me to the driving range when I was a pre-teen/teen.  I was excited to give it a shot again and see if I still had it, or at least had my 14-year-old version of “it”.  Saturday also happened to be the two year anniversary of my Uncle Billy’s death, which I had forgotten, but I wonder if subconsciously I remembered, as the coincidence is a bit too odd to ignore.  Then Sunday, we planned to go to the beach.  We were going to get there early, 8am for low tide, because one of our favorite activities is to explore tide pools.  This may seem juvenile, but the beach, and the tide pools bring me immense joy.  Though I only had two weekends before my surgery and a month long recovery, I was determined to make the most of them. 

However, my weekend plans, like my pre-surgery excitement, were perhaps too good to be true.  Saturday morning, before my day had really even started, I was bending over to put something in the compost when my back gave out and a sharp pain hit me in the center of my lower back.  I was stuck there crouched down, wondering if I could even stand.  With much pain I did stand, and suddenly realized I was in trouble.  I called out to Caleb with a bit of urgency, and when he came over, I said “Something happened to my back, I don’t think I can walk.” And I truly didn’t think I could.  He slowly walked me over to the couch where I was able to lay down, but not without excruciating pain.  And when I say excruciating, I mean it.  On the pain scale- the one that doctors always have with the little frowny faces I would say it was a 7.  Maybe a 6.  Maybe an 8.  Whatever it was, I can way with utmost certainty, I have never, in my entire life, felt this much pain.  Whenever I sat up- pain.  Whenever I stood- pain.  Whenever I took a step- pain.  This was make-you-want-to-vomit pain.  This was need-help-going-to-the-bathroom pain.  This was I-am-afraid-to-move-even-a-little pain.  I have hurt my back before.  But never, ever like this.  

With my upcoming surgery I am restricted from taking blood thinning medication - so no ibuprofen, no aspirin.  I am also restricted from taking CBD, THC, and any marijuana products.  I tried acetaminophen.  I tried wet heat.  I tried dry heat.  I tried ice.  None of it seemed to really help.  We considered going to the emergency room but I wasn’t sure I could make it down our front stairs, let alone into a car.  Plus the idea of one single unnecessary second in a hospital, especially with a long hospital stay looming, was unpalatable. Finally, I called Dana Farber and spoke with the on-call physician, who, after confirming it was safe for me pre-surgery, prescribed me muscle relaxers.  

Of course, a driving range trip was out of the question.  I cancelled dinner plans with a friend as well.  I felt little to no relief until 11pm, which allowed me to make it up the stairs and into bed.  The relief gave me a false sense of hope, thinking perhaps, by tomorrow, I will be better.  Maybe even better enough to go to the beach.  My one beach trip of the summer.  That’s all I wanted.  I knew tidepools were out of the question.  But maybe I could at least put my feet in the sand, and smell the ocean water.  That seemed good enough.

As soon as I awoke on Sunday at 5:30am to take my next dose of pain meds and muscle relaxers  I knew it would never happen.  I had reverted back to my earlier pain levels.  I struggled to get out of bed, and required being literally held up to go to the bathroom. And I never went back to sleep after that.  I just sat there, taking in everything that was happening to me at that moment.  Taking stock of the ways my body felt like it was was failing me. Listing the things I had lost.  Obsessing on the disappointments.  

I can’t quite find the words to express how it feels to be sitting awake, propped up against your headboard like a ragdoll at 5:30 am on a Sunday, crying, but trying to be silent so as not to wake your partner, who, after tirelessly caring for you, helping you walk to the bathroom all night, has finally been able to fall asleep.  Looking outside at the beautiful, cloudless blue sky, feeling the warmth of a perfect beach day seep in through the window screens, knowing I likely won’t even make it out of the house let alone to the beach.  

Rage.  White-hot rage is what I felt.  Not at anyone or anything.  I don’t even have a god to be mad at. Just life.  I was mad at life.  I was furious that my one weekend to enjoy, relax, and take my mind off of everything, even if just for a moment, had been taken from me, not even by cancer, but by some freak occurrence. 

In this moment, sitting there, silent tears streaming down my face, chest heaving with the sheer weight of just everything I realized there was one thing I could do- my one sedentary, legless outlet.  I could write.  

So gingerly, I pushed myself out of bed and shuffled my way over to my work desk.  With the support of the desk I lowered myself onto the floor to reach for my personal laptop.  I opened it.  Dead.  I located the power cord under my desk, unplugged.  After several painful moments of reaching, I determined I wasn’t going to be able to reach the outlet.  No fear, I had a backup plan.  I reached up and grabbed my work laptop.  Power cord already plugged in- bingo.  I opened it, made my way into Google Docs and started typing.  I got five words in before a blue screen with a frowny face appeared.  Well, thank goodness I used Google Docs.  I rebooted and logged back in.  Another sentence.  Blue screen.  Frowny face.  I rebooted again.  And again.  And again.  At least six or seven times of this, all while that pit of rage stuck somewhere between my throat and my belly swirled painfully.  All I wanted in this one moment was an outlet- a chance to be able to write about my pain.  And I was even being denied that. 

As I rebooted, and rebooted, and rebooted, for the first time in a long time another word popped into my head which I had vowed to never use.

Unfair.

I hate the word unfair.  And I hate it in the context of my cancer diagnosis.  I was recently explaining this to a friend of mine.  It’s not that I so much hate other people using the word unfair to describe what is happening to me, or to describe something happening outside of my diagnosis, but I refuse to use it for myself.  I feel this way because I believe nothing about my life is unfair.  Yeah, I got cancer.  Yeah, I got cancer at 28.  But why not me?  So many people get cancer, what the hell makes me so special that it shouldn’t be me.  What about the little kids I see at Dana Farber any time I’m there, running around with their little chubby bald heads.  I got to be 28 before I had cancer- they didn’t.  That’s unfair to them.  But not to me.  The word unfair scares me- because I truly believe once I begin to think that about my situation, about myself, about my current circumstances, I won’t be able to come back from that.  I won’t be able to escape unfair. 

Finally, as if sensing I was about to throw it against the wall, my laptop came to life and stayed that way.  And I wrote all of this, starting with “unfair” and working backwards. Working through all of the things that have happened in the last two weeks to bring me to that word. 

I have concluded that, still, none of this is unfair.  Am I pissed off? Yeah.  Exhausted?  Absolutely.  Angry. Sad. Scared. Humiliated. Humbled. Overwhelmed. Still in pain, as I sit here?  Unfortunately, yes. But I feel oddly… better. Actually, I’m kind of smiling now as I write this and I truly have no idea why.  Maybe at the absurdity of it all?  Maybe because I am feeling so many things right now, why not add amused. 

I’ve mentioned this before but dark humor is in my blood.  It came with the DNA that gave me the BRCA1 mutation that gave me breast cancer- ironic, huh? Or full circle- I can’t tell which. I am too tired and delirious from pain and lack of sleep to know the difference. That DNA also gave me my beautiful hair- which is making it’s slow comeback.  My sense of humor. My taste in music.  My sense of travel and adventure.  My love for words.  It is half of who I am, and therefore a part of me I would never give up or change, because without it I would be someone else.  And most importantly, it gave me this gift, this outlet of writing, which has somehow, in the last two hours, healed quite a lot of pain.  

That seems quite fair, does it not?

I don’t know when my back pain will subside.  I don’t know if it will have any effect on my surgery in a week and a half.  I don’t even know if I will make it to the beach before then.  But I do know that even with all of these uncertainties I feel compelled to write it down and share it with whoever feels compelled to read it.  Because it's important to me that I remember what this moment feels like.  

Because you know what they say about rock bottom. Nowhere to go but up, baby. 

[theroyalmile]

Body by Chemo

Last weekend I went for a 9-mile bike ride to downtown Boston and back.  I was admittedly nervous and skeptical about this ride beforehand for a couple of reasons.  First, it has been years since I rode a bike, and I know there’s that whole expression “It’s like riding a bike” but I’m not sure that expression is all that accurate.  Second, I have never ridden a bike in Boston.  Third, I get winded these days going up and down my stairs, so I was not sure I quite “had it in me.”  But, my whole household was going, it was a beautiful day, and I had been promising myself I would make an effort to be more active.  So off we went.  Oh, and there was a promise of breakfast sandwiches and coffee and donuts once we made it downtown- nobody could say no to that.

The beginning of the ride was rocky.  The original bike I borrowed was just a little too tall for me, and because of that I felt incredibly unsteady.  I traded bikes with one of my roommates and that bike ended up being a better fit for me- a few loops around a parking lot and I thought, “Hey, it really is like riding a bike.” With my confidence reasserted, we hit the bike path.  

The bike ride was, overall, beautiful.  I did find myself getting winded and had to stop a couple of times.  My roommates had been prepared to take it easy with me, and were very supportive.  Eventually we made it the 4.5 miles downtown and I felt so incredibly proud for conquering my first time back on a bike and first time biking downtown, all while dealing with the fatigue, shortness of breath and other goodies that come with my chemo treatment.  I felt empowered and heartened, which made me feel optimistic about the ride back home.

That optimism was short lived; almost immediately after we took off it became apparent that my body simply could not handle it.  I told myself we just had to get out of downtown and back on the bike trail and then I would ask to stop.  We made it and I signaled everyone for a quick break.  I thought maybe if I caught my breath and had some water it would be okay.  One of our bike squad members offered for me to try their bike to see if that made a difference.  I hopped on bikes a block or so, and then hopped off almost immediately- it just wasn’t going to work.  As I hopped off, right after we had crossed an intersection, I heard two men yelling from a car about some girl having a fat ass, or something to that effect.  Regardless of whether they were talking about me or someone else who had crossed the street with us, that was the final kick for me.  Any experienced fat girl understands that you will always think those comments are about you, even when they are not.  (Disclaimer: I do not mean “fat” as something negative, and I am definitely not looking for people to tell me I’m not fat, I’m simply stating a fact about my body).  Anyways, it was at this point I felt the tears of frustration welling up and knew my ride was done.  I told the crew I couldn’t go any further and would walk while they biked on.

There is a certain trauma that comes with being fat and exercising.  It’s almost like you never want someone to see you fail at any kind of physical activity because it feels like you're reinforcing the stereotype, like, oh of course the fat girl can’t finish the bike ride.  My roommate had offered, very kindly, to come back and pick me up in the car.  That was an indignancy I couldn’t bear- it was one thing to fail to finish the ride; it was another to have to be driven home.  No, I said stubbornly, I would walk my bike home.  Caleb of course insisted on walking his bike with me.  

As we walked our bikes I became more and more upset.  Part of it was the embarrassment of being a fat girl walking a bike home.  I almost want to scream at passers by “It’s not because I’m fat- I have cancer!” But another, bigger part of it was the reality of admitting to myself that chemo had changed my body, and it simply wasn’t up to the tasks it might normally have been.  Eventually I became upset enough that I had to stop and let myself have a small breakdown.  Caleb hugged me while I cried and tried to keep me in perspective. “You’re going through chemo” he reminded me, and tried to help me realize that having made it as far as I had was a feat in itself.  He walked across the street to grab me tissues and a gatorade so I could cry, rehydrate, cry, and rehydrate some more. 

****

Here’s the thing about chemo- it has made me feel incredibly betrayed by my body.  I have always been overweight, since my teenage years or even earlier.  Different versions of overweight, but overweight.  That was just the way it was, and I had reached a certain level of acceptance of that.  But I had always prided myself on how active I could be.  Pre-pandemic I could run 4-5 miles no problem.  I would hit the gym three times a week, I would get the steps in.  I was still fat, I was active, and I felt good about myself.  

Because of chemo, I am now fat, inactive, and feel terrible all the time.  I get winded walking up stairs, I am exhausted by my five minute walk from the T to my office downtown, and I find a short walk will tire me out for an afternoon.  And it’s not just my stamina.  It is absolutely everything.

The skin around my mouth had begun peeling and reddening.  My cuticles are dry and peeling and hurt.  My hands and feet are dry and cracked.  My arms are bruised up and down from frequent IVs. I oftentimes cannot open my medicine bottles or jars without help.  My hair, of course, is completely gone, not just on my head, but my nostrils too, leaving me with an almost constant runny nose.  My eyebrows are thinning, along with my eyelashes, and I pray to whoever is listening to please not take those away from me too.  My hands shake, and have turned dark brown from the cytoxan (which thankfully I am done with).  My memory is terrible.  I am breaking out like I’m back and middle school. My joints hurt, my muscles ache, despite me doing nothing all day. AND I get hot flashes now! Oh and I am hungry all the time.  Honestly ALL THE TIME.  

Here’s the thing- my body and I have been in a constant battle since I was 12 years old.  It took me 10-15 years to learn to love my body for what it was, with the understanding I was never going to have the same body as my friends, was never going to fit their clothes, and was never going to be the traditional idea of “in shape.”  But we had come to truce, my body and I.  I had found acceptance, and even joy in my body.  I had even got to a point where I wore a bikini for the first time since I was a child the summer before the pandemic and it felt amazing, liberating.  I followed plus size models like Ashley Graham and Tess Holiday on Instagram and thought heck yeah, if they can do it so can I.  

My cancer treatment has taken the pride I had in my body and the control I had over my activity levels and appearance and destroyed every last piece of it.  When I was having my worst struggles with my body in college, therapists used to ask me to list my favorite things about my appearance.  My top two on that list were always the same: 1) My hair and 2) My boobs.  Well, cancer has taken one of those things from me already and will have taken the other by the end of this summer.  Like I said, my body has betrayed me now in more ways that I can count.  And that betrayal is likely not going to end for a long time.  Honestly not until there is no cancer in my body any more.  Because let’s be real- that’s the biggest betrayal of all.

Whenever I catch myself in the mirror these days it has the potential to ruin my whole day.  There are few outfits that make me feel comfortable and attractive.  My face feels round, rounder without hair to frame it. I try not to look too long, lest I find more things to hate.  I am terrified of upcoming social gatherings, and wonder how on earth will I be able to feel remotely happy about my appearance for them.  

Chemo has reshaped my body in so many ways, some that I am only starting to realize.  It is hard, fitting into this new body and becoming accustomed to it.  It is even harder learning to love it.  Indescribably hard.  I think I can get there but sometimes it’s difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Moments like the complete few minutes of despair I felt during our bike ride sometimes make that light seem even further.  But it’s important to remember those moments are often fleeting, and can change with a little perspective.  

****

After I cried it out on the bike path, I checked the time and realized we really needed to start heading home.  Caleb had a vaccine appointment to make and I was an hour away from committing murder of some poor bystander out of sheer frustration.  I looked on Google maps and found the walk home would be 48 minutes, probably more pushing a bike and with my sad little chemo lungs.  The bike ride home? 12 minutes.  So back on the bike I went, and it took every muscle in my body to pedal that 12 minutes home.  Fueled by my anger and embarrassment, and the residual tears, we eventually made it all the way home.  

I originally found little pride and satisfaction in our trip.  All I could think about was how I couldn’t bike the whole thing, and about how those guys in the car had yelled, and how much I hated my biking outfit, and how defeated and mortified I was feeling.  

Sometimes perspective takes time, but eventually I found some.  I owe a lot of the perspective to Caleb’s support and encouragement both during and after the bike ride, and to my parents pride and excitement as I was telling them about my biking adventure.  I also owe a lot of it to a nap, a much needed shower, and a new day.  With perspective I rediscovered some of that pride I had lost.  Nine miles there and back?  I did that shit.  And yeah, maybe I didn’t bike the whole thing, but I sure as hell did the whole thing, and did the whole thing while in the midst of chemotherapy treatment.  While in the midst of poisoning my body beyond recognition.  I am a freaking badass. 

And what did I do that evening?  Ate my body weight in sushi because I wanted to.  

I know there are going to be a lot more ups and downs like this.  That bike ride was filled with some very high highs and some very low lows.  This is going to happen.  And while I don’t know exactly what to expect from my body in the months to come, I do know that whatever happens I’ll see y’all at the beach in July- I’ll be the fat girl with the bald head in a bikini eating an ice cream cone.

[theroyalmile]

No Returns, No Exchanges

Disclaimer: I have debated for quite a while whether or not I should post this blog.  Social media is such a curated space for joy and happiness, it can feel oppressive at times.  There is so much life-changing positivity, from engagements to new jobs; and don’t get me wrong, that happiness is great to see.  But on the other hand, all of that positivity makes me feel like sharing any kind of negative information is attention-seeking and an immense overshare.  So let’s ask ourselves why I feel that way.  Why is happiness celebrated while the sad, sometimes harsh realities of life are thought to be oversharing?  More specifically, why do we feel like life-changing news can only be shared when it doesn’t make other people uncomfortable?  Our expressions of pain should not be regulated by the comfort levels of the people who surround us.  There comes a time when not sharing something begins to feel like hiding something, and hiding something turns to shame.  That is a feeling that I refuse to welcome into my life right now.  So here we go. 

It has been a while since I posted anything… a really long while.  It has been rare, these past few years, that I have even felt I had anything much to say let alone write anything, mostly because my life has been fairly normal, fairly unextraordinary, and I am rather blessed to be saying that during such a difficult time for so many. The few moments where I have felt like I had something to say have been fleeting, and after a good 2am word vomit on paper, I have filed these musings under “not to be seen by the light of day” which is probably for the best.

 Sometimes in the past I would find myself wishing I had something interesting going on in my life, something worthy of commentary… I don’t know, I was thinking like a cool hobby, an interesting skill, a kick-ass career, or a run in with Tom Hardy like I’d always dreamed of… something.  

 Well, to whoever is in charge, this is not what I meant, and I would like to request a refund. 

 Because as its final parting kick in the ass 2020 decided to gift me with breast cancer.  This isn’t a bad punch line, it’s just the truth.Let me give you a second to process that one.  I certainly needed a few.

 The thing is, a little itty bitty 3-centimeter tumor- that’s not something I can give back, as much as I might want to.  It’s not a too-large sweater you can return with a gift receipt, and it’s not a bad haircut you can complain about and get your money back (though it certainly will include one in a week or so!)

 A lot of you already know this story and frankly it’s not one I can tell with much finesse or humor, so I will keep it brief.  It was a dark and stormy 6pm when I found a lump in my breast in the shower back in November.  My initial thought was “you’re a crazy lady and a hypochondriac, let’s give it a few weeks since this is probably nothing.”   A few weeks, when my imaginary lump seemed to not actually be imaginary, I figured okay, it’s time to see my doctor, it’s probably nothing but we need to make sure.  I was in fact so unconcerned about it that I didn’t even see my regular doctor. I figured I just needed a medical professional to feel me up and let me know what to do next.  I didn’t even bother mentioning it to my parents. (For context of my laissez-faire, when I was 14 I found a lump in my breast that turned out, after little fanfare, to be a cyst which was unceremoniously drained on a cold metal table by a male doctor in a somewhat traumatizing but ultimately benign event.  That’s a longer story for later). 

 Cue a physical exam, confirming I was not crazy and there was a lump, but it was probably nothing; an utltrasound, confirming the lump was a shape that they did not like, but it was probably nothing; and an ultrasound guided biopsy, in which the probably nothing was sampled.  The week between Christmas and New Year’s was spent impatiently waiting for the news, increasingly feeling that my probably nothing was maybe, actually something.

 On December 28 around lunch time I received a phone call in the middle of the work day from the radiologist, who while very nice, was someone I had only met once while she shot a needle in and out of my boob.  She asked me how I was doing and then told me my test results were in.  “I’m sorry to say it’s not good news,” she said.

 And believe it or fucking not my immediate thought was “It’s not good news… it’s great news!” My brain supplied this as if on autopilot like some kind of 90s game show host, knowing fully well that I would not be so lucky because we are not living in a Brooklyn 99 episode.  It’s weird where your brain goes under duress.

 It was one of the most uncomfortable phone calls I have ever had, wherein I found myself trying to reassure a complete stranger that I was okay and I’m pretty sure I even said, “it is what it is.”  I was told a breast surgeon and oncologist from my provider network would be in contact and the call ended. Ultimately, I was diagnosed with Stage 1B Triple Negative Invasive Ductal and Lobular Carcinoma.  No returns, no exchanges.

 I am two months into my diagnosis, and 1/8 of my way through chemotherapy, the first part of a three series treatment (to be followed by surgery and then likely radiation.)  This Friday, after my second chemotherapy treatment, I will begin to lose my hair.  Anyone who knows me at all knows that the hair loss will be a pill likely far harder for me to swallow than the chemo itself.  And while the look may have worked for Demi Moore in GI Jane, I do not have her bone structure, nor her body.  I anticipate I will look more like the yellow peanut M&M, which while obviously the best M&M of the bunch, I think we can all agree is not a cute look for me.

 I do not say this to be melodramatic, I just say this because I am cynical and pragmatic by nature: I am not particularly surprised that I have cancer.  And this is for several reasons, some of which probably deserve a longer blog later.  To put it simply, I have been surrounded by cancer, both by choice and by cruel fate and happenstance, my entire life. 

 Cruel Fate and Happenstance: Having several relatives who have gone through cancer, and a mother with a BRCA 1 genetic mutation (which I had a 50% chance of inheriting, and in fact did) I always figured it would eventually happen to me.  The odds this condition dealt me? “About 13% of women in the general population will develop breast cancer sometime during their lives. By contrast, 55%–72% of women who inherit a harmful BRCA1 variant… will develop breast cancer by 70–80 years of age.”  That 55-72% is the kind of percentage you want winning the lottery, but the lottery this most certainly is not, and that much I understood. So, I always figured something like this would probably happen.  Did I think I would be 28? No. But I figure that just makes me an overachiever. 

 Choice: I volunteered at a cancer support non-profit from the time I was 12 to the time I was 22, and I wrote my college senior thesis in anthropology on women with ovarian cancer, the cancer that killed my aunt Lizzy when I was 4 years old.  I have likely read more books on cancer than your average newly diagnosed person, which I find to be both a blessing and a curse.  On one hand, I know some of what’s coming.  On the other hand, I know some of what’s coming.  Of course I don’t think any of these things gave me cancer but you might say I have been training for this my whole life.  I think this joke is far funnier than pretty much everyone I say it to except my immediate family, because the Tenney/Koss folk are very big on gallows humor, in which case this is hilarious.  Comedy is our family coping mechanism, and I am guilty of occasionally forgetting not everyone is wired like that.   

 So where are we right now? Taking it day by day.  Do I frequently find myself wallowing in self-pity these days? Sure.  But all the same I feel truly lucky.  This is a feeling I am trying to hold on to, because I think the other options might be truly unbearable.  Why? Well, I found this tumor.  I’m 28-years-old, which means I am hardly old enough for a regular mammogram and MRI.  My last yearly physical was a TeleHealth appointment (hence no actual physical) and I will be honest, I never made a habit of regularly checking myself like I should have.  But this tumor just presented itself casually during a shower.  Breast cancer, when caught early, is highly treatable and curable, and I am fairly confident, knock on wood, that is where this particular nightmare is headed.  The fact that it was caught early: pure luck. 

Another reason I feel lucky is for the most part, I feel like I actually have the stability to handle the oncoming struggle.  I have a large and wonderful support system, an incredible and supportive partner, a savings account with actual savings in it, and a job where I am cared about as a human.  If this had happened to me three years ago, almost none of these things would be true.  There will never be a good time to have cancer, but some times are apparently better than others.  Of course, the ongoing pandemic means I can’t have people go with me to chemo, or my wig fitting, or my surgery consultations, and alone a lot of this seems much more daunting and difficult than it might otherwise have been, but I am trying to make a habit of counting my blessings, and despite this terrible thing I’ve been given, my blessings are many.

 There isn’t a “right way” to have cancer, but I think there might be a “right way” for me.  I am a private person and I find sharing some of these details difficult and more than a little uncomfortable, but I am also intimately familiar with the healing nature of writing and comedy, so I am going to give it a shot.  

 And now that I think of it… the peanut M&M is going to make a really great Halloween costume. 

[theroyalmile]

Us Too (A Treadmill Soliloquy)

TW: sexual harassment, sexual assault

I apologize ahead of time because this isn’t going to be a fun post.  So I won’t be telling you how taking my air conditioner out went (not well), how many mental breakdowns I’ve had since turning 25 (roughly 6), and how much pumpkin beer I have consumed (too much).  

A few disclaimers, mostly because I’m nervous about this post, about it being too much, or not being enough.

This post is not a raving support, critique, or analysis of the “me too” hashtag that circulated around the Internet last month. If you don’t know what I’m taking about, read this.

This post is not a history of every damn time I’ve experienced something similar, because women should not be required to present a resume of hurt in order to speak whatever truths they choose to share.

Lastly this post is not an answer to any of the questions it poses. There are no Band-Aids for anything it implies.  It’s not my job to do that and it’s not the job of any victim or survivor.   This post is about something most women find all too familiar.  It’s one of those things where I knew if I waited too long I might never write it. I spent my run at the gym two nights ago thinking about what happened, over and over, and the more I thought about it the angrier I got. And the angrier I got, the harder I ran, until I turned the treadmill down to a walk and began to write, furiously, on my phone in that stupid little notepad app.  I wrote about this:

Last Wednesday night I drove myself to the ugly green laundromat down the street, frankly, because I was out of underwear and that is a situation that waits for no one. After spending an annoyingly long amount of time there, I loaded up my laundry into a basket, which has both handles broken to the point where I have to bear-hug the basket in order to get it anywhere.  I drove the two minutes back to my apartment and praised the parking gods when I found an empty space on my street about six or seven houses down from my own. Tired, ready to be home, I threw my car in park and walked over to the passenger side to unload my bundle of now-clean underthings.

As I was standing by my car door, finagling my belongings into the perfect position for carrying, a tall man, roughly in his 40s, walked by me on the sidewalk and said, “Hey, how are you tonight?”   I responded politely, “I’m good, thank you.”  And that’s where the story should have ended; but then of course, it wouldn’t really be a story.

The man continued walking past me, about the length of one car, and I’ll admit I breathed a small sigh of relief to see him continue on.  Having a strange man talk to you alone at night can often be nerve-wracking.  Weighing the options between making a polite reply and straight-up ignoring can be difficult.  I made the choice to be polite, because I thought he would move on.  I thought it was the safer bet.  It’s what my 25 years as a woman in this society has taught me to think about; but I shouldn’t have to think about it at all.  

My sigh of relief was premature.  The man stopped abruptly, turned, and said in a voice so casual, and yet with so much intent behind each word, “You know, you should be careful who you talk to.  You never know who’s going to say, ‘me too.’”  

And then he laughed.

“You should be careful who you talk to.  You never know who’s going to say, ‘me too.’” Me too. Me too. Me too.  

In one sentence, he took this phrase, this multi-faceted, complicated, and yes, imperfect movement; something that is supposed to be this declaration of solidarity, of shared pain, and strength, and he turned it into something else.  He turned it into a sinister, disgusting euphemism. You should be careful who you talk to. You never know when someone might harass you, hurt you. And when spoken by a grown man, while I was standing by my car, unsteadily holding my laundry in the dark, it became a threat: You should be careful who you talk to.  You’re talking to me.  I could hurt you right now.  

I could be another reason for you to say me too.

I stood there, confused, shocked, so many other things, my hands clutching my laundry, calculating how fast I could get into my car and lock the doors if I needed to.  But then he turned and continued walking down the street, like nothing had happened.  And I just stood there frozen,  refusing to take my eyes off his back, because I was so certain he wasn’t going to just walk away.  Every couple of houses he would turn around, look back at me, and then continue walking.  So I waited, holding my breath, for him to turn the corner.  I didn’t want to leave the comfort of my nearby car.  I didn’t want him to see where I lived.  Another man walked by, said nothing to me, and I briefly considered asking him to stand with me until this man was gone.  But I didn’t.  Instead I watched as he finally ~breathe in~ turned the corner ~breathe out~ and walked out of sight.  

I moved, mountainous laundry in hand, towards my apartment, eyes trained on the corner he had just rounded, just in case he came back.  I shoved my key into the second door and heaved out a sigh of relief as soon as it shut behind me.    I’ll be honest, after everything was over, the implications of what this man had said and done did not immediately sink in.  That night I sat down, ate a burrito, watched Stranger Things, and went to bed.  I later shared the story with my roommate, and then another friend.  We discussed, commiserated, but were not surprised.  Now, the more I think about it, the more disgusted, nauseated, and frankly exhausted I become.  To some, this thinly veiled intimidation and threat is just the “locker room talk” people won’t stop talking about. I can think of a certain leader of the free world who would probably agree, but I won’t get into that.  But I just keep thinking, here was an adult, 40-something man, bigger and stronger than me, choosing to say something meant to intimidate and frighten just because he could. I can’t begin to think about why.  I don’t even know if there is a why.  

All I know is because of this one small (to him) thing that he did, I’ve started locking my doors immediately once I get in my car in the early morning.  I walk a little bit faster and hold my keys a little bit tighter at night.  I look at the face of every man who walks by me in this neighborhood, just to make sure it isn’t him again.  My neighborhood is still mine, but it’s different now.  These are little things, small changes, and likely, because I am very lucky and privileged to live the life that I do, not permanent ones. But changes nonetheless.  All because of the words and actions of one man, who probably has not thought once about what he has done.

This was one time.  One man on the street. One terrible, terrible sentence.  Now multiply that man into many all over the country and the world, in bars, on college campuses, yelling from their cars, using their positions of power to coerce and manipulate.  The Harvey Weinsteins, Bill Cosbys, Brock Turners, and thousands of unnamed cat-callers, harassers, and abusers.    Multiply that sentence into countless vulgar comments, abusive statements, coercive words, and violent actions.  Look at the scope of all of these things, and you’ll see an inexcusable truth about the society we live in.

Because that’s what this one moment in time was a part of, and I am just so, so tired.  We’re all tired, all of us.  And right now, that’s all I know.

[theroyalmile]

When We Write about Nothing

Sometimes when I sit down to write a new blog post, I really have to think how much I want my post to be like a diary entry.   I think the right answer here should probably be “not very much.”

Right after the New Year, I started a “bullet journal.”  Ugh, yes, it was a New Years resolution, you caught me.  A bullet journal is like an adult diary, where you write about your feelings but make it feel more grown up by adding calendars and shopping lists.  I bought a new colorful set of pens, which seemed obligatory, and was 90% of the reason I wanted to start a bullet journal anyways.  I was going to write in it every day, and for a while I actually did a pretty good job. Up until I realized I was mostly writing about the things I had done that day and about boys (naturally).  It was like I had nothing had even changed since 2006, when I had a purple diary that came with a key, to hide all my 13-year-old secrets.  

I instantly wanted to burn the whole bullet journal, lest my literary mark on this world become detailing my purchase of four different kinds of hot sauce from the supermarket and calling a boy a butthead in pink pen. Safe to say, three months in, the bullet journal experiment failed and I went back to cataloging my daily idiosyncrasies in my mind or via heavily punctuated texts to friends.  That seemed like the adult thing to do, and I am an adult, after all.

But I still have this blog.  So what hell do I put on here.  

I swear I have a life.  I’m very social.  In fact, if you’re reading this we’re probably Facebook friends.  And if we’re Facebook friends, I’m sure you’re acutely aware that I have recently attended several weddings, because I am tagged in approximately one million photos.  And guess what?  The weddings were great!   I cried a lot.  I laughed a lot.  I wore really beautiful dresses.  And ate an obscene amount of food. I danced my butt off (well almost, that’s a tall order).  Most importantly, I spent time with some of the most wonderful people I know and celebrated the happiness of two of my dearest friends.  

I did other things too. Fun things, summer things, mundane-boring-everyday-life things. I spent a weekend at Old Orchard Beach realizing that I never noticed all the drunk people out clubbing there when I was younger.  I spent the fourth of July with my college friends playing Wiffle Ball and getting sunburnt.  I went to the gym, but not as often as I should.  I ate ice cream, probably more than is advised.  I binge-watched The Handmaid’s Tale; walked over 10 miles around the city in one day; went for a run outside and forgot to take my inhaler; successfully poached an egg; tried my first Bloody Mary; walked to the laundromat for the 40th time this year; broke the latch on the hood of my car; and finally fucking finished a book.  

The question really comes down to: what is the point of writing about all of this?  Is it really any more sophisticated than doodling my initials next to my future husband’s (Julian Edelman, I’m looking at you) with little hearts around the edges? Do I actually have something substantive to write about and am I thinking, like really seriously thinking, when I write about it?  Sometimes I worry that I’m not thinking enough, or when I’m thinking too much, I’m not actually thinking about the things that matter.  Is this a problem people are supposed to have?  I have no idea.  I’m not sure it makes for very compelling copy.  But if you’re still reading at this point, then you’re basically at the end.  Haha, you suckers.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you (because I totally did three posts ago).  

And fine, here are some wedding photos.

[theroyalmile]

Guys, I’m Hot

Today when I came home from work I immediately changed into shorts, popped two Benadryl and went on Amazon to order an air conditioner.  Actually I skipped the part where I texted my dad one million questions about what kind of air conditioner to get and he very nicely responded without even sending one eye-roll emoji, which I would have deserved.  If it’s not obvious, my resolve since my last post has completely crumbled and I will not be toughing out another Allston summer sans window unit.  Call me weak, spineless, whatever; it’s supposed to be 90 degrees this week and it’s only May.  Besides, the open-window + fan combination is not going to be an options because this allergy season is turning out to be no joke.  I’ve got the whole deal going on right now: runny nose, itchy eyes, throaty voice (more verging on Donald Duck than Scarlett Johansson, unfortunately).  It is a very sexy look, let me tell you.  

Based on the current trajectory of things this summer is shaping up to be dry and long, but I am vowing not to fall into that classic trap of immediately developing short-term memory loss when the weather changes and bemoaning the heat while conveniently forgetting how miserable we all were during the winter.  Uh-uh, I refuse to be that person.  i’m gonna suck it up, buttercup and enjoy this warmer weather if it goddamn kills me.  I plan on making the most of this summer by appreciating the following:

1.  I get to stay in one place for more than a year, finally. And that means...no moving!  Tasha and I resigned our lease in Allston so we’ll be living it up out here in Rat City until August 2018.  You jelly?  You should be.  Why? One, we have excellent taste in Netflix television shows.  Two, we just bought a veryyyy fancy new microwave. Three, we just caught our first mouse, aka public enemy number one, and only screamed a little.  Four, we have a very excellent art wall.  We’re also both single.  Tell your friends.  

2.   I have not one, but TWO weddings to attend for TWO wonderful friends in the upcoming months.  Look for me, I’ll be the drunk girl in the blue chiffon dress, holding my heels and requesting  “Let Me Clear My Throat.”

3.  It’s ice cream season and if you are not excited about this then there’s something wrong with you.  If you can’t find me, please refer to the nearest JP Licks.  

4.  I celebrated my one-year at work this month.  When I first started at this job, people would usually ask “Uhhh you do what?” to which I would respond “Uhhhh I’m not really sure, actually.”  I’ve come along way since then, thankfully.  

Simultaneously while appreciating all of these things and with summer fast-approaching, I will also be ignoring every advertisement that uses the phrase “beach body ready.”  Because I’ll tell you what: this body’s been beach ready since February and nothing short of nuclear war with North Korea (or is it Russia now?, I can’t keep up) is keeping my fat ass out of the water.  

Look at me, being so open and optimistic about the coming months.   Maybe it’s the fact that the sun is out and summer is in the air…

…Or maybe it’s because I just took a wholeeee bunch of Benadryl.

[theroyalmile]

A story in which I do not act like an adult at all because doing normal things is sometimes hard

I told myself I was going to write a blog once a month.  That seems like a minor commitment, right?  But, like, I didn’t even make a new years resolution about it, so how serious can I really be?

I’m currently working on another blog post, that I’ve been writing and re-writing since last summer.  Fun fact, it’s about one time when a stranger told me I was fat.  Actually he said “too fat,” and he also said it in Chinese, which is somehow worse, but also better?  But because I can’t seem to pull it together on that particular thematic riff, the post is going to have to wait.  It’s one of those things where you think about something so much that it becomes far easier not to do, than to do.  Note to future employers: this is not a good example of my work ethic.  Note to almost every guy I’ve ever met on Tinder:  this is a good example of why I’m not texting you back.

So, instead, I’m going to talk about something else that’s been on my mind a lot recently: my window.  Let me backtrack by saying, first, that my roommate and I are renewing our lease in Allston (!), which means we’re committing ourselves to this apartment (the previously described art-deco nightmare), until August 2018.  That looked weird just writing it.  And while there are many things I will be happy to have until August 2018, including Tash as a roommate, the 5 minute walk to the green line, the very fancy exposed brick in our stairwell, and my generously sized bedroom, to name a few, my current window situation is not one of them.

I’ll admit, off the bat, that this is mostly (read: all) my fault.  In the summer, because I am cheap asshole, I decided I was not going to get an air conditioner.  So instead, I took the glass panel out of my window and replaced it with a screen, to let the air in, at least in theory.  This only kind of helped me not die from heatstroke.    When December rolled around, I figured I should maybe put the glass panel back in because it was kind of cold and I didn’t like that.  If you are thinking that this is an easy thing that a normal person should be able to do with no problems, you are absolutely right.  

My first hint that I was not successful in Operation Do This Yourself You’re A Goddamn Adult (ODTYYAGA) was the faint cross-breeze wafting through my room at all hours.  But I figured, hey, that’s what electric blankets are for! My second hint was when, on a particularly windy night I was awakened by a very loud, very close bang-bang-bang.  This was not another shooting on the corner (which happened the first weekend we moved in), but it was, in fact, the glass window panel being moved around by the wind, because some dumbass (me) put it in the wrong way.

Fast forward another three months, and I have not come up with a solution to this problem.  Duct tape was briefly considered.  I have been informed that this is not a great idea.  I am a light sleeper, so this is not a problem that can be easily ignored, and the banging is very loud.  However, I find hope in the fact that May is around the corner, and soon I can take the glass panel out and put the screen back in, since I will likely be not buying an air conditioner, because learning from your mistakes is for squares.

Between now and May, if anyone feels they can rectify the window situation for me, I can’t pay you, but I will buy you a pizza.  It has occurred to me that I could get my landlord to do this, but doing things the easy way is also for squares.  Also I would have nothing to blog about, and then where would we be?

Exhibit A: I dug this out by myself.  I am not a total disaster.

[theroyalmile]

Ugh, guys, I’m sorry about this one.

Once upon a time I had a blog that I wrote in fairly regularly and some people actually liked it. Weird.  

The last time I posted was exactly one year ago, in January 2016.  I mean, I wrote that post so long ago that I actually made a joke about Donald Trump. Wow, that didn’t age well.  

So, how do we summarize a year? I guess we can start with the basics.  

I quit my job waitressing, which my feet and my head are infinitely grateful for.  I got a new job with a cubicle and an impossible-to-figure-out desk phone.  They make me double space between periods.  That’s all I’m going to say about that for the time being, but please imagine that I do something very top-secret and cool.

My parents sold my childhood home (strange!) without purchasing a new home (stranger!) and I spent the summer living a vagabond existence in (briefly) a wedding tent, and later in Salisbury, Massachusetts, shuffling in between rental homes.  For the better part of three months, I rented my own storage unit and my whole life lived there, boxed up while I did my best to acclimate to a new job and cook in a kitchen where I couldn’t find anything.  At the same time, I was frantically searching for a longer-term living situation, ideally consisting of my own bedroom, air-conditioning, and a social life.

Salisbury is one of the strangest places I have ever lived, and I would like to remind you that I once lived on a 2 kilometer-wide island surrounded by under-water spikes.  It is one-third cutesy beach town, one-third Live Free or Die, and one-third the music from Deliverance.  I cannot explain it any other way. Upside: I have zero complaints about waking up near the beach every day, and coming home to a gorgeous sunset after a long day at work.  That was goddamn magical, and likely saved me from inevitable insanity.

In September, I moved into an apartment in Allston with my high school friend, Tasha.  This is 100% because Tash is on top of her shit and I take zero credit for any of it.  Our apartment is what we like to call “eclectic,” which really means it is filled with lots of confusing design choices and makes odd noises, as if parts of the building may or may not be falling off.   My favorite part of our apartment is that our bathroom door doesn’t fit the doorframe, so there’s this big lopsided gap that has kind of just been an enigma since we moved in.  But as much as we like to make fun of our easter-egg colored, art deco, two-bedroom, we’ve grown to love it.  We live in the heart of Allston, surrounded by BU students who make me feel old, and fully embrace the weekly 90’s night at the bar around the corner, which makes me feel young.  

While I was settling into my apartment and new, more permanent life, my sister Laura left for her freshman year of college in Maryland, and my parents, after an additional month of transiency, made their way down to a permanent home in Pennsylvania.  Just like that, I was the final frontier, the last Bostonian Tenney. How did that even happen?  I guess (because I’m an English major, and we need themes, goddammit) that, right there, is the crux.  This blog, from the very beginning, started out as a travel blog, dedicated to a self-proclaimed wanderlust.  It’s in the damn title.  But now, suddenly, or rather un-suddenly that function no longer fits.  Here I am: desk job, apartment, bills, mediocre cooking skills, gym membership, steady boyfriend (JOKES on that last one- Tom Hardy, get at me) and the question is how did I get here?  More importantly, what now?  

That’s right ladies and gentlemen; the travel blog has just become a quarter-life crisis blog.  So, hold on tight.

Oh, and one more thing.  Thanks, Obama <3

[theroyalmile]

Old Americana

This is me saying hello after a record-breaking 6 month bout of writer’s block and self-pity. The part of me most inclined to melodrama would say that being back in America sapped the creativity and inspiration right out of my brain. But this, to tell the truth, would be a gross oversimplification, and more importantly, not really true at all.

In fact, my immediate return to this country was filled with one month of extraordinary cross-country adventuring with both my family, and some close friends. This one month gave me a new perspective on just how beautiful America could be when it (she?) wanted. It is this perspective that I try to draw on each time Donald Trump speaks or right-wing gun nut takes over a federal building in the name of freedom. Full disclosure: it’s not working very well. But more on that another time.

I touched down in Boston in early July. On my flight home from Taipei, during which I had hours upon hours to do absolutely nothing, I tallied up how many airplanes I had been on in the past year. The grand total came to be around 30.  Now, for your average jet-setter this is probably not that big of a deal. But for someone who had previously barely been one a flight per year, this was definitely a change.

Keeping up with my faux jet-setting lifestyle, no less than a week after I arrived home, my family and I found ourselves back at Logan Airport boarding a plane to Boca Raton, Florida (I hear if you’re cool, you just call it Boca). Now, my family are not people who vacation in Florida. But, as it would happen, my sister had a big talent competition there, and so we decided to turn it into a vacation. I will admit, despite the very nice hotel, and the fact that my sister kicked some serious B-U-T-T in the competition, Boca was a rather gaudy and unimpressive place that reminded me of the houses where my Polly Pockets lived. Though, there were beaches and that is something I will never complain about, and a very cool craft beer store with some inspired bottle cap artwork.

After the competition, my family and I decided that rather than flying back to Boston, we would turn our return journey into a mini road trip up the east coast.

 First, in one simple act making all of my wildest dreams come true, we went to Universal Orlando and I got to see The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. This is, perhaps, one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me. I got to visit Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and all of the little shops from the book. I walked through Hogwarts Castle, Gringotts Bank, tried Butterbeer, ate at the Leaky Cauldron, visited Olivanders, sat on the steps of No. 12 Grimmauld Place and basically cried from happiness. I was an embarrassment. It was fine.

From Orlando, we drove to Savannah, Georgia where I have, surprisingly, never been. The first question people ask when they meet me is usually if I was born in Savannah, or if I’ve ever been to Savannah. Finally I can say yes to one of these questions. Fittingly, Savannah and I got along very well, despite it being hotter than I could have imagined. Savannah is a city with so much old-town charm, interesting history, and gorgeous architecture. I could have walked around there forever. We spent only about 24 hours there, but we still managed to see a lot, from one of the the oldest Reform Jewish Temples in the US, to the park bench from Forrest Gump. We even went on a fantastic ghost tour of the town at night. The hotel we stayed in was an old cotton building and was in itself fascinating (and maybe haunted!)

From Savannah, we drove all the way to Buckhannon, West Virginia where I visited with my relatives. Though I don’t find myself there as much as I would like, it was wonderful, after being away for so long, to see my family. Buckhannon, too, has its moments of charm, though it might take a little bit longer to see them. Going with my father and baby cousin to help out in my Grandma’s garden was one of those moments. Not to mention there’s really nothing like my Grandma’s cooking, and I probably gained 10 pounds during our visit.

After our brief stop in West Virginia, we found ourselves outside of Baltimore to do some college touring with my sister, and from Baltimore we drove straight back to Boston, arriving home weary and well-traveled. Not long after we returned home, I was boarding another plane, this time to Denver, Colorado for a West Coast-ish road trip.

In Denver, I met up with two wonderful friends Kate and Sophia, who I had met while I was living in Taiwan. They had begun road tripping across the country almost a week earlier from Tennessee. After picking me up from the airport in Denver, we explored the city, meeting up with another Taiwan friend, Christian, along the way. We camped out that evening outside the city in a town called Frisco.

The next morning we started driving towards Arizona and stopped at Mesa Verde National Park to camp. Though I had never heard of Mesa Verde before, it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever been. After settling in, we hiked our way up the Mesa and were met with an astounding view.

From Mesa Verde, we made our way to the Grand Canyon. We spent the night before going to the canyon camping just outside in the national forest. This was my third night camping and my second night dispersed camping. The pros of dispersed camping are you don’t have to pay a campground fee. The cons, as we later found out, are that you are alone in the middle of no where and sometimes you might hear something that sounds like a bear and that might just scare you to death.

Somehow, bear or no bear, we survived the night and made our way to the Grand Canyon. I had never seen it before and had no idea what to really expect. The sheer size of it was astounding to me. Since we didn’t have much time, my friends and I made the most of it and hiked a part of the way down the canyon. The hike was grueling, but entirely worth it.

Exhausted, we piled back into the car and headed to Las Vegas for some much-needed R&R at none other than the Bellagio Hotel. We tried our best to take advantage of the Las Vegas night life (and the showers, and pillows, and beds) but by 1am we were beat by the long day of driving. Vegas was all the things I imagined it being: big, bright, loud and extravagant. I hope to maybe make it back one day so I can appreciate it while I’m a bit more awake.

After waking up in Vegas, we drove to Yosemite National Park. We spent the night dispersed camping for the last time a few miles outside of the part in the National Forests by Mono Lake. The lake was stunning to look at, entirely placid with a calming icy blue color. It was surrounded by Tufa, or limestone deposits that created neat, bone-like sculptures around the edge. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a lake that looked quite like that one.

From the lake, we entered Yosimite, driving through and stopping to see all of the different lakes, mountains, and the famous half dome rock. We stopped to hike near the John Muir trail where we were met with a beautiful, impossibly tall waterfall.

For the final leg of our journey, we drove from Yosimite to San Francisco where we met up with another good Taiwan friend, Matt. We stayed with Matt for three nights while exploring San Francisco by day. Obviously, we hit all the important spots like the Golden Gate Bridge, the Fisherman’s Wharf, and the colorful seaside town of Sausalito. After a few days of great friends, awesome food, and some hilarious final memories, we parted ways. Sophia went to stay with her family nearby, Kate remained in the city before continuing on to Texas, and I hopped a flight back to Boston.

Though one might think I’d had enough of traveling, there was still one more adventure in store for me. With two good friends from my hometown, I flew out to visit my friend Rachel in Minneapolis, Minnesota. We came out to see her just in time for the State Fair (this was no accident). For one wonderful long weekend, I got to spend time with some of my closest friends, getting to know one of their hometowns while trying some amazing and wacky foods and seeing some unique crafts from the different vendors. Had we just stayed in a hotel all weekend and talked the nights away I would have been just as happy, but this was even better.

When it was all over, for the last time in 2015 I hopped my 36th and final flight back to Boston, where I’ve finally managed to stay put for a few months (minus a short weekend dalliance with New York City and some other fabulous friends where I got to see Jimmy Fallon).

All of this was perhaps not as hippie-glamorous and typical as a big cross-country road trip, but I think it was something even better. With my extended summer adventures, I got to see so many different parts of America with entirely different groups of friends and family. I saw parts of America that absolutely took my breath away and experienced moments with the people who joined me that I will never forget. I was reminded that America might be a bit of a hot mess most of the time, but sometimes it can be quirky, unique, mesmerizing, and just as capable of capturing my imagination as Taiwan was, as long as I’m looking hard enough. If my first few months back are any indication, there’s a whole lot more out there waiting for me: the beautiful, the ugly, and everything in between. After I find a new job, that is.

So, it’s not all bad, really.  

[theroyalmile]

What’s past is prologue

I find myself at yet another end of something significant and I feel pressure to complete the annoying, impossible task of somehow summarizing it all into one neat package. I have a little over a week left in Taiwan, and then it’s back to reality.

Except, not actually.

My initial inclination when I started writing this was to say that Kinmen is this magical, somehow fictional place where nothing is happening the way it does in the cold, tough world of adulthood. And when I’m standing on Hohou Beach looking at the glowing blue algae twinkling like constellations through the water or I’m watching firecrackers bursting into wispy clouds of smoke in the middle of intersections during a parade, Kinmen really does seem like some distant fairy land that cannot possibly be a conduit for real life.

But then I need to think about the rest of it- the daily, uninteresting, forgettable moments in time. There have been countless 6am mornings where I have dragged myself out of bed because it was raining and I forgot to buy breakfast, and I have 4 morning classes back-to-back. There have been nights when I have 5 classes to plan for and no energy to do so. The monotony of real person problems like flat tires, shady landlords, utility bills, college loans, hair-in-the-drain, spring allergies, ketchup on my shirt, paying my goddamn taxes, too much time, not enough time: I get that all here too, with some extra fairy dust sprinkled on top.

Some of these regular people problems are much easier in Kinmen than they might be back in America. For example, an average trip to the doctor here costs me under $2.00 with my insurance and I usually don’t have to wait for an appointment. It takes me less than 20 minutes to get anywhere I might need to go on this island, in traffic. I rarely have to cook dinner because it’s so cheap to eat out. The bus system goes everywhere, the scooter repair shop is open until 9pm, and they give you free water bottles at the gas station when you fill up your tank.

And yet, some of these regular, real life responsibilities are made much more complex. Problems that might be simple elsewhere are exacerbated by circumstances both within and outside of my control. I can’t bake a decent batch of cookies because all I own is a toaster oven. I have to make sure I’m home when the musical garbage truck goes by, or else the recycling doesn’t get out. Foreign income on taxes is complicated. The walk to the laundromat is uphill. It’s too hot to go for a run.  I can’t read anything. I know I know, someone call the waaambulance.

What I’m trying to say is that yes, Kinmen has been this magical place that I have completely and irrevocably fallen in love with, and much of the time it has also been challenging, mudane, frustrating, confusing and lonely all the same. For every perfect-weather scooter ride is a day where you’re really hungry and the school is serving pregnant fish for lunch. For every beautiful parade is a 4am firework. For every breathtaking sunset is an old man trying to be helpful by telling you you’re too fat (yes, this has happened).

But you just have to choose which of these things means more. I think that’s what real life is, kind of. Taking the bad with the good, the mundane with the extraordinary and then you just keep on going, knowing there is going to be more of both, and hoping for much, much more of the latter options.

This is why I feel it is important to clarify: my time in Kinmen wasn’t a study abroad (though there were times when it felt like it) and this wasn’t a massive procrastination to my entering the “real world” (as much as I had been hoping it would be). This was the first, most different year of my adult life, devoid of dorm rooms and meal plans and lecture halls, and it just so  happened to be on this tiny Taiwanese island less than 10km from China with undetonated landmines and a fake Costco.

It’s strange to think that I ended up in Kinmen by random happenstance. An incorrect e-mail address and a resulting late placement survey are what put me here, rather than somewhere else in Taiwan. But this weird little place had taught me so much that I would not have learned elsewhere.

From my students and solo-classes I have practiced communication that moves beyond words. I have learned to be serious and be silly (not always at the right time). I now see in myself an independence and self-assurance that I could not have gained without standing at the head of a classroom over 20 times a week acting out How the Grinch Stole Christmas or over-enunciating the letter “p” or singing “A- is for apple, ah, ah, apple” more times than I can count. I have learned to let go of the small things and to be unafraid to make a fool of myself, because I don’t think it is possible to be any other way with children. I have become comfortable bonding with my students over my terrible Chinese tones and limited vocabulary, and tried to show them that it’s okay to make mistakes, as long as you’re learning. I have discovered the power of a hug, as both a reward and a punishment (cooties are alive and well, it would seem). I have grown to love my students have become invested and interested in their lives.

I wish I could stay here longer and see them grow. I know I should not. My time here has helped me learn that though I love my students… I never want to be a teacher. So, that’s one path crossed off, on a list of many, though I still believe teaching is one of the most admirable paths a person can choose.

From Michelle, my co-teacher, I have learned the power of finding someone who you can work with effortlessly, who you can both teach and learn from. I have experienced the success of a great workplace partnership, and have been both empowered and humbled by these experiences. I have finally admitted to myself that is is okay to not know how to do things, and it is always better to ask for help than to do something wrong. Most importantly, I’ve made a very good friend who has put up with my many incompetencies, helped develop my strengths, and who will protect me from the unwanted offerings of Gaoliang at school dinners.

From my friends here, I have grown so much, (both emotionally and physically, because damn, we eat a lot of food). With them I have found laughter, comfort, happiness and understanding.  I have learned to let go of the small things, embrace life’s complications, and find beauty (or at least humor) of many situations. We have watched each other grow as teachers, struggle with living so far from home, and navigate the culture of Kinmen life. Together, we have traveled around Taiwan and Southeast Asia, and  seen each other at our best and our worst. We have become a support system of incredibly different people. Having spent all of my life in Massachusetts, I’m happy to say I’ve found friends in places across America and in Taiwan and I hope to have them for a very long time.

From this place, I have learned to appreciate beauty where it might not be readily apparent. I have come to revel moments of calm as much as moments of being busy. I have discovered that Chinese is hard, but also something that I’m passionately interested in pursuing. I have found that sometimes I can communicate without the right words or even the right language, and sometimes I can’t. Kinmen has taught me to ask for help and to trust those who give it, but to also trust my instincts when I am hesitant to do so. I know the corners of this island better than I know my own hometown, because Kinmen is the kind of place that inspires you to explore. It is impossible to be here and not be drawn to each cave and crevasse like it is a new country. My sense of direction has not improved much- but I have learned the joy and excitement of a small adventure, a sunken military tank, a muddied salt field, even if it is not my intended destination.

Soon, I am returning home from this indescribable place without a job, with college loans, GRE studying looming around the corner, and a directionlessness that was just as strong as when I left, just a bit more nuanced and interesting to talk about at parties.  But, at the same time, I have a home waiting for me on the other side of the ocean with people who I have not seen in a long time, and who I miss so much sometimes that I physically ache. I have a sister who has bravely faced a year as an only child with my two parents and who is becoming more grown-up and independent as the days pass, without me there to see it. I have a grandmother who can not remember many things, but who is constantly counting down the days until I come home. I have two parents who have spent the year Facetiming at odd hours, sending Christmas packages and grossly feeding my ego. I have family who have endured hardships that I should have been there to support them through. I have friends who have lovingly sent letters and kept me updated on their lives despite my inability to always return the favor. I have two adorable dogs, one that will likely pee from excitement upon my arrival. And so apart from the inherent uncertainty, there is a lot that waits for me at home with open arms (and bladders). Despite the sadness that comes with leaving here and the fear that I might never come back, my destination is just as filled with love, complications, happiness, and challenges as the place I am leaving. I think that’s the way travel is supposed to be. And maybe real life.

So here’s to going home, and the adventure that awaits there, too.

[theroyalmile]

A teaser

In anticipation of my final Kinmen blog post, here’s a not remotely serious, though entirely true teaser, in honor of the Alphabet.

26 Things I will miss about Kinmen:

Being able to go to the beach whenever I want in less than 10 minutes

My students laughing when I say “beach” because they think it’s “bitch”.

Random fireworks from the restaurant across the street (when I’m awake.)

Dan bing

Riding my scooter

Super cheap, super cute clothing

La jiang

Seeing my students every day

LINE

Being a teacher in a country where teachers are respected

7-11 coffee

Eating with chopsticks

Getting better at Chinese

Family style dinners with my school

Taro

Taiwan Beer

Having people think I’m cool

Nap time at work

All those good-looking army men

Being super conscious about recycling

The amazing friends I have made here

The ridiculous amount of seafood

$2 co-pays at the doctors office

Bubble tea

The surprisingly extensive bus system

Cute stationary

26 Things I will NOT miss about Kinmen

The barking dogs that live across the street

Frank the spider and his spawn

Random fireworks from the restaurant across the street (when I’m asleep.)

Sugar in ALL the drinks

Riding my scooter in the rain

Super cheap, super cute clothing that only comes in small and xs

Not being able to wear sandals to work

Being illiterate most of the time

Gaoliang

The sinking fear that someone is breaking into our apartment

7-11 everything else

The faint boom of battleships testing their equipment over the horizon

The unpredictable weather

Unhelpful police officers

Unnecessary roundabouts

Taiwan Beer

Whenever I can smell chou doufu

No heat in the winter

Having to take the dinky plane to Taiwan

My dumb, dumb toaster oven

The garbage man who hates me

Sweeping my floor twice a week

Bad driving (though I’m going back to Boston, so it’s not going to get much better).

Surprise pigs blood in soup (it’s less bad when you know that it’s there).

Smoggy days

Squat toilets

[theroyalmile]

Getting away

Island fever is a very real thing here in Kinmen. I know what you’re thinking- why on earth would I complain about living in an island? But the truth is, one year on 150 square kilometers of land is sometimes simply too confined, especially when the nearest land mass is an hour’s flight or ferry ride away. 

It had been over three months since I had been to main island Taiwan, and only once that I went any where else in between (to Xiamen- and I don’t exactly called that relaxing). I was itching to get back to the main island and do some adventuring, go to a night market, maybe eat some non-Chinese food? About a month ago, Hanley and I had bought tickets to go to Kenting, the southernmost point in Taiwan, for a music festival called Spring Scream. Unfortunately, the morning of our flight, the airport closed down due to fog. Though we waited on standby for 4 hours to see if we could still get there, we eventually gave up and went home.

We rebooked our tickets for last weekend, and it couldn’t have come at a more needed time. I’ve been to Kenting once before, on my trip around Taiwan over the winter break. I fell in love with it almost immediately, but we were barely there 24 hours, so I was really looking forward to having a chance to go back.  Additionally, with lots of stressful goings-on within our group on Kinmen and the ever-growing humidity, an escape was necessary. Granted, we booked our flights with Trans Asia (hey, money’s money) which made for a somewhat terrifying flight. I think we were more sensitive just out of fear, but there were a couple of bumps during that landing that were too close for comfort. We eected to tell our mothers about our tickets after we made it back to Kinmen in one piece, of course.

Following our somewhat harrowing flight into Kaohsiung, we hopped a 3-hour bus to Kenting, distracting ourselves with X-men: Days of Futures Past. We arrived in the evening, and after checking into our super cute hostel, we grabbed some great Thai-food, adventured around the night market (fried Oreos, hello) and walked along the beach.

The next morning, we woke up early, planning to do as much as  we possible could in the time we had. After a quick breakfast, we drove a rented scooter to the exact southernmost tip of Taiwan. In Taiwanese fashion, they’ve marked the spot with an oddly shaped sculpture. 

From there, we scootered back up to the famous Eulanbi Lighthouse which has a bunch of great walking paths behind it. The ocean-side boardwalk was closed but we did get to explore some interesting caves and visit the Kissing Rock which is two large boulders that look as though they are two faces kissing. 

We stopped at Chaunfan Rock, which is always a neat thing to look at and checked out several of the beaches along the main stretch of road. The cool thing about Kenting is that it’s all basically on one main street, all the way through. All of the hotels, hostels, beaches and restaurants are somewhere along that road, so it’s all easy-access.

After a hearty lunch, we went to the Kenting National Forest and took a 2-hour hike up and around all of the different areas. Thanks to some expired sunscreen, we both got majorly sunburnt, but the sights were worth it. We walked through a couple different caves, through some beautiful greenery, and up a 5-story building that had an incredible view of the whole area. There was a lot more to see in the park, but we were so sunburnt that we decided it was necessary to go to the beach and cool down.

Luckily, the clouds from an incoming typhoon had started rolling in, and we were able to enjoy the beach with a little bit more protection from the sun. We both found it pretty amusing that the most popular beach in Kenting is the one right next to the nuclear power plant. If you look closely in the picture below, you can see it pretty well. That didn’t stop us from spending a good couple of hours in the water, which was wonderfully warm, if not a little rocky on the bottom (ouch!)

After a quick nap, we walked out to the night market for dinner. The Kenting night market is on the main road through town, and the whole street basically turns into a night market at night. It’s small, to be sure, especially compared to the night markets in Kaohsiung, but it’s still one of my favorite night markets. It’s mostly food with a few clothing and novelty shops in between.  I had a wonderful assortment of street food, ranging from grilled squid to deep-fried mushrooms to ice cream spring rolls and the best mojito I have ever had. Tanned and full, we made our way down to the various car bars (yes- they are bars built on the backs of trucks and cars) and had some drinks before walking down to the beach to look at the stars. 

Kinmen has a lot of great things, but car bars is not one of them. 

[theroyalmile]

The art of the school dinner

The most nerve-wracking social moment during my first few months in Taiwan was my very first school dinner. Numerous thoughts ran through my head, ranging from concerns about not being able to speak Chinese to heavily doubting my chopstick skills. I remember that first dinner vividly from the moment we drove together to a famous family-style seafood restaurant out by Xibian beach. I sat next to Michelle, my LET (Local English Teacher), trying in vain to make myself as small as possible, which was pretty much impossible being the only non-Taiwanese person there. There were three huge family style tables in the room, each with at least 10 place settings. I squeezed myself in between my new co-teacher and the couple that had offered to drive me to the dinner, conversing politely in English. Throughout the night, there was toast, after toast, as the different parents and friends would walk over to the teacher’s table. Many of the older men tried to get me to toast with Gaoliang, the famous sorghum liquor, and I knew if I said yes to one of them, I would have to say yes to all of them. As the night wore on, the men drank more and became more persistent. At one point, one plopped down a large shot of Gaoliang in front of my plate. Michelle promptly picked up the glass, poured it into an empty bowl, and replaced my drink with water, stealthily unseen. That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

That first dinner was hectic, intimidating and exhausting. There was an insane amount of delicious seafood, at least 10 Gaoliang bottles, a lot of leftovers, and I didn’t entirely know what to make of it. Since then, I’ve had seven more school dinners, 3 of which were at that very same restaurant. Each dinner since that first time has made me appreciate my school and the people I work with in new ways. These dinners are no longer sources of anxiety, but moments of community and friendship. They are especially enjoyable now that we have formally established that the foreign teacher doesn’t drink Gaoliang (well, not a lot of it).

School dinners mark many things. We generally have one to mark the beginning and end of each semester. There was one to honor the local village clan, the Lu Family, a family name that probably 40 percent of my students share. There was one dinner to celebrate the end of the Reader’s Theater competition, and another for the National Holiday 10/10. Most recently, was the god Matsu’s Birthday. The village of Liaoluo is where a lot of my students live, and the large statue of Matsu on Kinmen is located in that town, so this holiday is particularly important to my school. We did not have school off, but it was made up for with three big dinners and a parade all around town.

One of the dinners took place outside of the beautiful temple in Liaoluo. Many of the parents, grandparents and siblings of my students were present. The meal was fully catered by a restaurant that I live across from in Shanwai called The Red Dragon. We had toast after toast with the family members and important people from the community, only this time, it all felt natural. The standing, the toasting, the picking out of fish bones with chopsticks, the polite refusal of Gaoliang; it was something I had felt I had done a thousand times over, and all that was left for me to do was enjoy the company of my co-workers and appreciate the summer night air.

After the weekend was over, Matsu’s actual birthday came around. During the afternoon, most of my students left school to help participate in the parade or to help their families prepare the big celebratory meal. I took the few students who were left in my classes, along with the other teachers, down to watch the parade. I saw my other students walk by waving flags and pushing their cart. We watched the incredible amount of firecrackers being set off and various members of the community walk by. The parade was small and contained to the village, but it was still so incredibly vibrant and memorable.

That very evening we had another school dinner in honor of Matsu’s birthday. Little did I know, however, that instead of the usual school dinner, we were to walk from house to house, eating with our students’ families and the families of the people we worked with. We spent the evening being introduced to new people, seeing our students running about, and being treated to hordes of delicious food. The doors of each home in the village were thrown open, each house packed to the brim with people but still trying desperately to welcome more in. It would be as if every house on Thanksgiving in America opened their doors to the entire neighborhood.

The evening was filled with laughter, with jokes in both English and Chinese. I watched as some of my co-workers got increasingly drunk, gleefully yelling stories from across the table. Chopsticks were dropped, and people walked in and out of each home with abandon, greeting each other with palpable joy. I felt, almost, as if I was surrounded by family, at home in a strangers house, squeezed at a table of 15, eating frog heads and squid, and shrimp with pineapple and mayonnaise. I watched the events unfolding in front of my.  The security guard got drunk. The 6th grade homeroom teacher poured his glass and yelled in perfect English “I cant stop it!” My 3rd grade student looked embarrassed, someone asked me the English word for fish, people took selfies, the school principal yelled at the television and thought to myself about how it wasn’t strange at all. It was family. 

[theroyalmile]

Five Days in Bangkok (Part 2)

Continued from Part 1.

Though still upset about my ring, we moved on with our day. I figured, there are some things that are just our of our hands, and having lost my ring in a city with millions of people was one of them. After walking around some, we went back to the Escape Hunt, and did it again (this time with a different puzzle, and me feeling well enough to participate). The puzzle was based around a theft at an art museum. We had to use letters, keys and number puzzles to open suitcases and locked doors and determine the culprit. It was a very quirky game, but a lot of fun. At the end, we all dressed up as detectives for a photo shoot.

In the evening, we went to the Bangkok Sheraton for Dining in the Dark, where you eat a three-course meal in complete darkness. Before entering, we sat in the lobby drinking champagne. Katie had booked our dinner on a wine tasting night (which we were very excited about). Dining in the Dark employs all blind wait staff who lead you through the restaurant to your seat and walk you through your meals. We were introduced to our waiter and she brought us in. Inside, it was so dark you could not se anything. We were lead down a set of stairs and wound through a maze of seats and tables to our own table. We felt our way across the table to find our silverware, water glass and wine class. With each meal that came, we laughed our way through fumbling with our utensils, and discussed what we thought we were eating, unable to see any of it. Each of the three courses came with a glass of wine. We all had a ridiculously fun time and at the end were brought out for a dessert cheese plate, three more glasses of wine, and to see for ourselves what the food we ate looked like. We got to meet with the wine maker and talked to the manager who let us know that even though we were the first group in to the dining room, we were the last group out, which only showed how caught up we were in talking and enjoying the experience. We went back to our apartment full of good food and wine, talking about how interesting Dining in the Dark had been.

Day 5:

For our last full day, we took a ferry across the river to the Grand Palace. I found it really interesting that it was easier to get across the river by ferry than to take the bridge. On our way into the palace, we were stopped by a man in uniform who told us the palace was closed to most tourists and only open for Chinese tourists because of the New Year. Having read though that oftentimes people outside the palace will try and scam you, we continued towards the palace and found out it was in fact open. There were even loud speakers telling tourists not to believe people outside telling them it was closed.

We spent the morning walking around the Grand Palace. There were so many different wats, temples and gardens to explore. The whole thing was stunning to look at. We took about a billion pictures, and as the day got hotter, the pictures got sillier.

Start of the day:

End of the day:

Once we were done, we grabbed lunch in the area and then went to see one of the famous wats, Wat Arun. Climbing up to the top was an ordeal and gave me some serious vertigo, which I never actually believed was a real thing. In a much safer place, at the bottom of the wat, we got to see some of the restoration work they were doing on the wat and some a dragon dance for the Chinese New Year.

Tired from the sun, we went back to our apartment for a nap and to pack for our trip home. We had our last meal (Pad Thai, duh) and went back to the sky bar to try and see fireworks for the New Year. We spend the evening chatting about anything and everything. We got home close to 2am and Katie and I knew we had to be awake for our taxi to the airport at 4am. But the 2 hours of sleep was worth being able to spend more time enjoying Bangkok.

Even better, as Katie and I napped in the airport, waiting for our plane back to Taipei, I got a message from Emma saying the school had called- they had found my ring, and they were going to mail it to me! In a true act of kindness, they sent my ring, expedited, and when I asked them how they wanted my to pay them back for the postage, they told me to bring it the next time I was in Thailand.

I guess, I now have two reasons to go back.

[theroyalmile]

5 Days in Bangkok (Part 1)

When planning our trip, Katie and I struggled with what to do when we got to Thailand. We anticipated being weary from our third long bus ride, and our second border crossing, so we went back and forth about whether or not to stay and relax in Bangkok. Our other option was to try and make it to the coast to see some of the famous beaches. As an avid beach goer and ocean lover, this was a tempting course of action. But ultimately, and I think wisely, we chose to stay in Bangkok. Not to mention, I have an excuse to go back.

Day 1:

After another 6-hour bus ride, paired with a 2-hour border crossing, in the rain, and a 2-hour wait at the bus station for a metered taxi, and a 45 minute taxi ride, Katie and I made it to the apartment we were renting through airbnb with two other friends, Rachel and Emma. The apartment was a ways out of the city, but right near a BTS station (Bangkok has some very manageable, efficient public transportation). We arrived around dinner time and ready for food. Rachel and Emma had already been in Bangkok for 2 days, and they had a better sense of where things were. We walked around the corner from our apartment and had our first meal. Of course, I had Pad Thai (one of many to come).

After dinner we walked around the area where we were staying for a bit and then enjoyed a few beers at a nearby bar. We celebrated Valentines Day by taking about love (the mundane and the bizarre; the heartbreaking and the wonderful) and recounting our travels so far.

Day 2:

Our first morning in Bangkok, we woke up early to head the the Weekend Market. While this market was packed with tourists, it has a lot of really interesting food and clothing items to check out. It was ungodly hot, which lead to my purchasing a less than great dress in order to rid myself of my jeans. We spent quite a while walking around the various winding aisles of the market (or which there were many). I walked away with some cool jewelry and a couple of tapestries.

From the market, we headed to a different part of the city. Katie, Rachel and I all got Thai body massages. I’d actually never had a massage before and this was probably a pretty weird way to start. My masseuse was male which, because I am an awkward person, made me feel even more awkward than I was to begin with. I kept laughing (because I am ticklish and because I am awkward) much to the masseuse’s amusement. Though the overall experience was a bit weird, and hurt a bit too, my body felt amazing after. Having spend over 24 hours traveling on buses and taxis over the past month, I think it ultimately was just what I needed.

From the massage, we walked around a night market and ate a ridiculous amount of street food. We then went to a very fancy sky bar and had drinks while looking at the Bangkok skyline.

Day 3:

I woke up the next morning ready to go, but also, unfortunately, with some kind of food poisoning. We left the apartment late and grabbed lunch before heading to the Great Escape Hunt, an escape the room mystery game. Though I had been excited about doing this, I decided it was not the best idea for me to be locked in a room with an upset stomach, so I hung back in the lobby.

From there, we made our way across the city to go to a Thai cooking class at Silom Cooking School. Though my stomach was still unhappy, I decided this was worth powering through- and I was right! The class was a ridiculous amount of fun! We learned to make Tom Yum soup, Green curry, Pad Thai, Thai chicken salad, and Mango Sticky rice. Our instructor was really great and very funny. She walked us through the ingredients required for each dish as well as how to prepare them all. There are so many different spices that go into these dishes.

Day 4:

The next day we went on a private day tour out of Bangkok to the Damnoen Saduak floating market. We took a boat through the market canals and looked at the different shops. We made it just before the tourist rush began, and it was a really incredible thing to see. We bought some spices, enjoyed some Mango Sticky Rice and walked around a bit before moving on.

 Next on the tour, we went on an Elephant ride. Emma and I were together for the Elephant ride, and while it was a cool experience, we couldn’t help but wonder about whether the elephants were well cared for. These concerns were only furthered when at the end of the elephant ride, the man steering the elephant pulled out a box of (fake?) ivory jewelry. Though riding an elephant was definitely a neat experience, it was a weird way to go about it.

When the tour was over, we asked to be dropped off in the Chinatown area. It was pretty packed with the Chinese New Year being a day away. We walked to a large flower market and got lunch in the area, which is where I realized I had lost my ring at the cooking school. I had taken the ring off when we were cooking, and forgotten to put it back on. I was devastated; the ring was one my Mom had gotten as a teenager when she was traveling in Ireland, and she had it resized it specially for me. I wear it every day, and almost never take it off. I looked through every bag I had, trying to make sure I had really lost it. We contacted the school, but they couldn’t find it. I was upset, but essentially resigned that it was gone, lost in a city of millions (Continue to Part 2).

[theroyalmile]

The Expected, and Unexpected in Siem Reap

We left Phnom Penh on a happy breakfast note before heading off for Super Long Bus Ride #2 to Siem Reap.

Once again, Katie and I lost almost a full day of traveling, watching a silent version of American Sniper and a (sadly) not soundless version of a very strange Chinese movie. When we arrived in the evening, we took some time to rest at our very pretty hostel and bask in the excitement of being in another new place. 

In the evening, Katie was still not feeling well, so I walked the short distance to from our hostel to a more populated area and enjoyed a “me date” with some Pad Thai, beer and Malcolm Gladwell (and no, I promise this post is not only pictures of food).

The following day, Katie and I were ready to explore, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of Sophia, who we had not seen since Singapore. We started our morning late, allowing for some much needed R&R before heading off to the Angkor National Museum. There, we learned a lot about the famous Angkor Wat, and the different gods and deities that can be seen there. It was a good preamble to actually going to Angkor Wat, helping us become familiar with what exactly we might be seeing there and learning there was much more to these amazing structures we had heard so much about.

In the afternoon, we headed down to Old Market Street, and explored the different shops (and yes, food) before heading back to our hostel.

Before the evening set in, Katie and I took a tuk tuk to Phnom Bakkheng, one of the temples at Angkor Wat, to watch the sun set. The place was crowded by 4pm, and it was impossible to get to the top of the structure to watch the sun set. Katie and I compromised by sitting at the base and listening to the pleasant hum of dozens of different languages wash over us as tourists from all different parts of the world gathered in one place to watch one sunset. 

Once we had returned, Sophia had made it to the hostel, and we were able to go get dinner and catch up on each other’s travels (Sophia’s in Thailand, and ours in Vietnam). In the evening, Sophia and I walked around the Night Market back in the tourist area where we made some questionable purchases including two hammocks and two pairs of tourist pants.

On our way back to the hostel, we stopped at a road side stand and ended up making friends with two young men who were eating there. Through some confusion, we eventually learned that they worked at the local circus, and they invited us to come the next evening to the performance. 

The entire next day was spent at Angkor Wat and the other temple complexes. I am not sure that anything I can write will do justice to the incredible buildings. Suffice to say that if we saw one side of Cambodia’s history in Phnom Penh, we saw a completely different one in Siem Reap. In place of a history of pain, and suffering was a rich history of beauty, tradition, respect and worship. It reminded me, as I had perhaps forgotten, that every country on this earth has a history, one that is multidimensional, capable of inspiring both terror, and awe, including our own.

I’ll let the photos here speak for themselves.

Angkor Wat:

Angkor Thom:

Chao Say:

Ta Phrom:

Countless hours wandering through the different temple complexes, climbing the stairs of towering wats, and baking in the mid-day sun, we were sweaty and in awe. I think my favorite thing about touring Angkor Wat was the feeling that it gave me. I felt some inexplicable child-like excitement, like I was fulfilling my greatest Indiana Jones-esque fantasies, exploring the ruins of something 900 years old and far grander than my imagination. It is a feeling that I don’t think I’ll ever forget, and a feeling that I believe will draw me back to this place one day. It is truly magical, in the most earthly sense of the word.

We returned to the city exhausted, dirty, and hungry. To recharge, we grabbed dinner back by the Old Market and took a brief swim in the hostel pool to cool off. In the evening, we ventured off to the circus to meet with our friends. I’ll admit I was initially skeptical, having never heard anything about the circus in Siem Reap. But I was astounded by the performance. The group is called Phare and they are a non-profit organization that takes in teenagers from troubled homes and teaches some kind of artistic trade, whether it be dancing or acrobatics. They have several different set shows, each with their own story. The one we saw was called “Chills” and was about a group of students who believe their classroom is haunted and the antics they get up to in the process. The show was hauntingly beautiful, strangely creepy and fantastically hilarious all at once. And to think, had Sophia and I not met those two guys and stopped to share an oyster cake with them, we might never have known about it. 

That final adventure almost epitomizes what I love so much about traveling, and what I loved so much about this trip. You never know who you will meet and what you will find, and all the things you might learn along the way. 

[theroyalmile]

An Education in Phnom Penh

The timing of our journey from Vietnam and Cambodia was less than ideal with a slightly sick Katie forced to endure a 7-hour bus ride across construction-riddled highway. Part of this journey included a moment where our bus got on a ferry that was not much bigger than the bus to cross the Mekong (they’re building a bridge, apparently). That combined with my (ir)rational fear of Katie getting quarantined at the border made for a not-so-relaxing adventure.  Thankfully, with Katie’s fortitude and a few episodes of Serial, we made it across the border and to Phnom Penh. 

We also sat in front of what might be one of the most awful people I’ve ever had the chance to overhear/eavesdrop on. He started off the journey by making the original man behind us switch seats with him so he could sit next to the small, very pretty missionary from the Philippines. He told the woman it was “safer” for her. Then, over the next 5 or 6 hours, he told the most misogynistic, pompous, degrading stories, so awful that even his Irish brogue couldn’t make them seem remotely charming.  I didn’t want to be hearing any of what he was saying, but at the same time couldn’t quite stop listening. 

We were saved from the creepy Irishman by the end of our bus ride. Hesitantly, but without another option, I found us a tuk tuk driver to take us to our hotel. Hyper-aware of being scammed, I asked him for a price probably three times, just to be sure. It all seems quite ridiculous in hindsight, but what’s the Internet good for, if not for scaring people into being overly-cautious?

When we arrived at the hotel, Katie took a well-deserved nap at our rather luxurious hotel, generously funded by Katie’s sister. I took a walk around the neighborhood on my own. Though, again, nervous about walking around on my own, I found myself oddly at ease in Phnom Penh. It was strangely beautiful, and far less congested than Ho Chi Minh. We weren’t really even in the backpacking district, so I think I stood out slightly. But the only disturbance I experienced was constant stream of tuk tuk drivers asking if I wanted a ride. That night, I returned to our hotel room, sat on the balcony and breathed in the excitement of a new place. 

Then I watched the Grammys.

Our only full day in Phnom Penh was one we intended to make the most of. Katie and I woke up bright and early, and booked a day tour with our tuk tuk driver to take us around Phnom Penh. He charged us $15 for the day which to me seemed insane, and too good to be true. But happily, albiet surprisingly,  it wasn’t.

We began our morning at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, which left me rather speechless for most of our time inside, and quite a while afterwards. This museum is the site of a school turned into a war prisoner camp. This particular execution center is only one of 150 that existed during the  Khmer Rouge regime and there are only 12 known survivors of 20,000 people believed to be imprisoned there. 

The signs at each entrance called for respect. No laughing, no noise, only silent reflection to honor the dead. It was unsettling to walk through somewhere that was a source of so much evil, and yet for it to be so quiet, empty and unassuming. Having never been to Auschwitz, I imagine this is much like what that would have felt like.

I did not take many pictures here. It felt wrong to do so. Katie and I talked to one of the men who worked at our hotel and he said had never been, despite living and working in Phnom Penh, because the sadness was still too close. It is easy to forget that there are many countries with painful pasts that they are unable to escape, countries that we may never learn about in school. This was a solemn reminder of that.

From the museum, we took our tuk tuk a bit out of the city to the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek. This is one of many killing fields throughout Cambodia where over a million people were murdered and buried during the Khmer Rouge. From a strictly educational point, the audio tour here is probably the best audio tour I have ever listened to, providing historical background in addition to moving testimonials. Listening to the audio tour allows each person to move through the fields at their own pace, so Katie and I lost each other fairly early on. The killing fields had a similar effect on to the genocide museum only compounded. I was reminded of the pile of shoes at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC as we walked past piles of clothes, bones, and mass graves. Before we left, I lit an incense at the memorial structure at the center of the fields and stood in silence, at a loss for anything else to do.

Having spent close to the entire day at these two places, Katie and I had little time left to explore the Royal Palace back in the heart of the city. What time we had to spend there was well spent looking at the beautiful architecture. We were weary from an entire day of being outside, but anxious to see as much as possible during our one day in the city.

We went to bed that evening with a lot to think about and a greater understanding of the country we had come to, but with a lot left to learn.