What is in a name? A Journey of Fear, Disgust, and Dementia

“Hey Grandma, do you know what my middle name is?”
“No, what is it?”
“It’s Joan!”
“It is? Really?”
“Yeah, Grandma, I’m named after you!”
“Get outta here! You are pulling my leg.”
“No, its true Grandma, and I just went for a four day hiking trip in the Alps, cause I have to live up to my namesake, now don’t I?”
“Well, I guess you do, don’t you.”

My name is Martha Joan. An old lady name, I know. In the West, we don’t put much weight in names–in any power that they might hold. Naming a child after someone is a sign of respect and little more. I am named after my grandma, Joan. I didn’t give much thought to my middle name until recently. Not until my grandma got dementia.

—

Growing up, I always wanted a soft grandma. A sweet, sit-on-her-lap, tell- you-stories, and give-you-candy kind of grandma. That is not what I got in Grandma Joan. She was all angles and sharp edges– in personality and body. My earliest memories are spending holidays in her big old Victorian house in Syracuse. All the aunts, uncles, cousins, and great-grandparents all piled into the house. The adults huddled around the fireplace telling stories while the old clock tick-tocked the time away above the mantel. The kids running up and down the stairs, exploring all the nooks and crannies until Grandma Joan would bark out in impatience, “Can you all just quiet the hell down?!”

At that point we would meekly head off to the den to settle down and watch TV surrounded by faded but cozy 70’s décor.

That was Grandma. Sharp and harsh. Even her laugh was coarse from decades of chain smoking.

When I was still quite young, Grandma Joan nearly died of a heart attack and had to have a triple-bypass. The story goes that she was laying on the operating table shouting at the medical staff, “You idiots better get your shit together or I’m going to die!”

Grandma Joan was a force to be reckoned with.

She never smoked again and, shortly thereafter, sold her comfortable house in Syracuse and traveled the world. Honduras, Japan, Italy, Germany, Ireland, Canada, and all over the US. She bought a house out in Montana, near Yellowstone National Park. She worked housekeeping at beautiful Lake Hotel in the park. In her free time, she hiked. She climbed mountains, snowshoed, and and swam in the hot springs. She volunteered at the local food pantry and everyone in town knew her. Every year for her birthday, she would go white water rafting.

What I realize now, is Grandma Joan is strong. And sometimes that strength looked harsh and boney and even a little scary. But beneath it all, was deep, deep strength. And it is still there.

—

The rumors had been going around for a while– Grandma is forgetting things. Grandma got lost. Grandma didn’t seem to know who I was. But we all pushed those rumors aside. It was Grandma Joan. She is so strong. So independent. How could that change?

It was early spring when my mom told me that she was canceling her plans to come visit me in Germany. Grandma was having a hard time and Mom bought tickets to fly out to Montana that week. When she got there, it was worse than any of us had imagined. Mom didn’t buy a return ticket. Grandma couldn’t be left alone.

—

I remember seeing friends or acquaintances post about their family members with dementia. I remember the visceral feeling in my stomach– fear? disgust? It sounds horrible, but it made me feel queasy. The idea of having to continue trying to have a relationship with someone who doesn’t know who you are. Who doesn’t remember what happened five minutes ago. How could it be worth it? I would briefly wonder how they could do it. And then I would quickly scroll past and put the thought out of my mind.

When I heard that word–dementia–I felt that same pit in my stomach. But I was far away. Grandma was far away. I didn’t need to look dementia in the face. I didn’t have to look her in the face. So I scrolled past it in my mind. Moved on to what was in front of me.

—

My mom stayed in Montana with Grandma as long as she could, taking care of her in her own home–which Grandma did not always love. “When are you going home? Can I drive you to the airport?”

“Oh, I’m staying a few more days, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

This continued for months.

Much of their time was beautiful though. In the beginning, they went for walks in the park. Then, just drives. Walks around town. Bingo nights. Volunteering at the food pantry. Spending time with friends. There were a lot of good times. But slowly, the disease took more and more. And Grandma slowed.

Eventually, the horrible decision of taking her away from her beloved home had to be made. Back to New York. No more car. No more house. No more independence.

By the time I was able to fly home for a visit, Grandma and Mom were settled back in NY. And the disease had stolen even more from Grandma. She was having trouble walking now. Mom was trying to convince her to use a walker. But she would push it away and say, “I don’t need that thing. I can do it myself, dammit!”

I was nervous to see her. What would I say? Would she know who I am? I knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t even know that my mom, the woman taking care of her all day, every day, was her own daughter.

—

She was sitting there, on the couch, the cat curled up next to her, just watching the TV.

“Hi, Grandma.”
“Oh, hi there. How are you?”
“I’m good Grandma, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m alright I guess.”
“Ok…that’s good.”

I felt so awkward. So unsure. She was so quiet. So small. I never realized how small she was before. Growing up, she had always seemed so strong and fierce. I never realized she was actually a tiny little woman.

—

I am sitting at the kitchen table when I hear some shuffling coming from the hallway–I look up to see Grandma, her pajamas hanging loosely from her tiny frame, bracing herself against the door frame.

“Where’s Margaret?”
“Oh, she just ran out for a few minutes, she’ll be right back.”
“Oh. Ok.”

She just stands there. And we look at each other in silence.

“Can I get you something? Are you hungry?”
“Well, I guess I could eat.”

She shrugs and shuffles to the table. I get her a muffin Mom baked fresh this morning. She starts to break it apart and nibble at the pieces.

“Here, kitty-kitty.” She says in a sweet little voice to the cat by her chair as she feeds him a few crumbs. I smile, noting her softness and vulnerability with animals that she most certainly doesn’t let show for humans.

I decide I should try to make conversation.

“Hey Grandma, did you know I live in Germany?”
“What? No, I didn’t. You like it over there?”
“I do, I love it.”
“Well, that’s good. It is good to get out. You gotta travel.”

There is a light on her face I hadn’t seen before. Mom walks in during our conversation, 20 or 30 minutes later, we are still chatting away about Europe.

“Grandma, have you ever been to Europe?”
“Oh, well, I think so…I’m not sure.”
“Well, you’ve traveled all over. Its hard to keep track!”

I tell her about my adventures. Hiking. Exploring. My plans to go for free grad school over there. She tells me that is a great idea. She is happy for me. I finally run out of things to tell her. She listens, but she can’t remember much to tell me, so it is largely a one-sided conversation. As I get quiet, the light fades and she gets up and shuffles back to the couch. Mom says, “That was so good. She hasn’t talked like that in ages. She really liked talking to you.” The pit in my stomach has melted a bit. I’m still scared, but a warmth has softened it. Makes it more bearable.

—

The years passed. One, two, three. Almost four years. And little by little, the disease eats away at everything she has left.

I come home again. She is in a hospital bed now. She rarely gets up. My husband and I hoist her up and put her in a wheelchair. We are going to take her to the Yellow Deli, a rustic local café–her favorite place.

We all know this is probably the last time. We are pushing it, as it is.

“Don’t drop me!” She scolds good-naturedly, as she clings to my husband’s arm.

“I won’t, Grandma.”

Later, she lays in bed and Mom and I sit nearby looking at old pictures. Grandma peers at us from the bed. I can see she is curious. I move closer and hold the pictures so she can see. She is confused. She thinks her mother is herself, or her brother is her father. But still, she likes to look at them. They stir something, deep inside her. Something that doesn’t need words or names.

I notice a gorgeous old rocking chair in the corner. “Hey Mom, where did you get that rocking chair?”

“That belonged to my grandmother O’Mara.” The small, gruff voice states confidently from the bed before my mom can answer. I look at her in surprise. Some things, she has buried so deep in her heart, the disease can never take them away.

I’ve learned a lot about this disease in the last few years. It takes so much. And watching it strip my fierce grandma down to a frail and helpless old woman is heart wrenching. But in spite of that, so much is still there. So much that she holds onto in spite of the disease. Her sharp, sarcastic sense of humor, her fierce sense of independence, her strong will, and her tender heart beneath that prickly exterior.

—

Its evening, I’m in the kitchen with my sisters. We are talking and laughing. Getting a bit louder.

“Will you all just shut up so I can hear the damn TV??”

That gravelly, sharp voice snapping at us, it used to scare me. Now I smile and we giggle and talk in hushed tones.

She is so sweet and calm most of the time now. When that gruffness comes out, I can’t help but relish in it. That is the strong, independent woman who took hold of her life and lived it HER way. That is the Grandma Joan I am named after.

Does a name have power? I don’t know. But I know that I want to be like her. And every time I climb a mountain, I am going to remember Grandma Joan and know that nothing would make her happier or light up her face like knowing I am walking in her footsteps.

—

“I love you, Grandma.” I lean over her hospital bed and wrap her tiny boney shoulders in my arms.
“I love you, too.” The gruff little woman says.
“Goodbye, Grandma.”
“Goodbye.”

Thinking of Visiting Munich? 9 Reasons You Should go to Nuremberg Instead

If you are planning a trip to Germany, then chances are you are considering visiting Munich. If you Google “top cities to visit in Germany”, Munich will definitely be on the list and most likely in the top five recommended cities. Nearby Nuremberg, meanwhile, rarely makes the top of the list.

What most people are looking for in a trip to Munich is CULTURE and TRADITION. Bavaria, the state that Munich and Nuremberg are both located in, is known for its thriving, old-world culture, medieval towns, and romantic castles. As the largest city in Bavaria, Munich tends to draw the most attention while Nuremberg, less than two hours to the north by car (or about an hour by high-speed train), is largely overlooked.

Here are just a few of the many reasons why you should skip your trip to Munich and head to Nuremberg instead.

1. It has a Medieval Castle

A portion of the Kaiserburg as viewed from within the dry moat.

Ok, Munich does have the Nymphenburg Palace, which was built in 1675 (and is beautiful). But Nuremberg has a true medieval CASTLE! It was built and expanded over the course of many centuries, but the earliest parts date back to 1138. The Kaiserburg (Imperial Castle) was most notably the seat of the Holy Roman Empire. The castle holds a commanding location on top of a hill on the northernmost edge of the old city (Altstadt). This lends the city unique dimension, as you can see the castle looming over the city from many vantage points. I highly recommend visiting the castle overlook for a gorgeous view out over the cityscape.

Admission to the castle interior is inexpensive and well worth the cost but, for the budget-conscious traveler, the castle courtyards, overlook, and glorious castle gardens are all free and open to the public.

Did I mention you can STAY in the castle? The city Youth Hostel is located in the portion of the castle pictured above.

2. It is a Walled City

Looking out from the city wall on the Neutor gate.

Nuremberg’s city wall runs almost continuously around the 5 kilometer circumference of the old city. A paved pathway and parks run through the dry moat beside the wall, making for a lovely stroll with gorgeous views, especially behind the Kaiserburg. There are several places where you can walk around on top of the walls, including several restaurants with seating or biergartens built onto them. My favorite way to explore the walls and ramparts (and feel like Cersei Lannister while doing so) is through the castle gardens. You can stroll around the manicured gardens on top of castle ramparts and then follow the gardens along the wall for about a kilometer.

3. More Meandering Cobblestoned Streets and Charming Half-timbered Houses

Weissgerbergasse (the street with the city’s most beautiful half-timbers)

 The old city of Munich is quite limited; the architectural style is predominantly Baroque– streets like this one above are nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Nuremberg sports far more beautiful half-timber houses and numerous winding cobblestoned streets.  You can visit the Albrecht Durer House (the home of Germany’s most famous Renaissance artist) to explore a medieval half-timber house and gain a glimpse of what life looked like during the time period.

4. More Pedestrian Streets and Better Walkability

The old city of Nuremberg is largely car-free and no major roads cut through the center–making it extremely pedestrian friendly. The city has a population of over 500,000, but within the walled old city you could easily think you were in a small town. You can wander the streets staring up at all the sights and rarely have to worry about passing cars.

Pretty much everything you might want to see is within the city walls, making walking the ideal form of transportation.

5. More Beer and Better Bratwurst

Enjoying a delicious Dunkel beer at a riverside biergarten.

Okay, all of Germany has a lot of beer–and most of it is excellent. But Franconia, the region of northern Bavaria that Nuremberg is located in, has the highest density of microbreweries in the world. If you happen to be in the city for a beer festival, then you are in for an extra special treat. But even if you are not, high-quality beer is in abundance.

And what is the perfect pairing for a good beer? Bratwurst! The city’s famous Nuremberger sausages, while admittedly smaller than Munich’s boiled weisswurst, are widely recognized as Germany’s tastiest bratwurst. These little numbers, made exclusively with grade-A meats and herbs, are boiled in vats of red wine and onions and smoked over beechwood. Snag a Drei-im-weckla (three sausages in a fresh baked roll) to-go to enjoy while exploring the city, or sit down at a restaurant for a whole plate served with sauerkraut and potato salad.

6. TWO Gorgeous Gothic Churches

St. Lorenz, the largest church in the city. Photo cred Devan Johnson Photography

Munich has some stunning churches, but none that can compare with Nuremberg’s dual gothic architectural gems: St. Lorenz and St. Sebald. St. Sebald, the older of the two, dates back to 1225.

The interiors of both of these churches will instantly transport you back to the middle ages. Dimly lit, with iron-studded doors, faded frescos, and lots of medieval art, the atmosphere is laden with the ghosts of ages past.

7. The Largest Christmas Market

The Christmas Market in the Hauptmarkt (central market square).

The Christmas Market is one of the few things that Nuremberg gets fair recognition for, as it is the largest in Germany. If you happen to be visiting Germany in December, then a visit to Nuremberg’s Christmas Market is a must. It is as if all of the beauty and joy of Christmas is made manifest in one place. A magical mixture of Bavarian nuts, bratwurst smoke, and the warm spices of Glühwein (mulled wine) fill the air. The streets glow with Christmas lights and people shuffle up and down the rows of stalls looking at glimmering, handmade ornaments while sipping hot beverages from keepsake Nuremberg mugs.

8. Medieval Dungeons and Beer Cellars Under the City

Underneath this medieval city is a labyrinth of tunnels, cellars, and dungeons. You can do a tour of both the beer cellars (ending with a beer tasting at one of the cities oldest breweries) and of the medieval dungeons.

9.  Better Accessibility to Day-Trips

 

Regensburg on the Danube.

If you want a home base to explore the many cultural gems of Bavaria, then Nuremberg is the place to be located. Most of the region’s best day trips are as close or closer to Nuremberg than they are to Munich. Set up camp in Nuremberg and utilize Germany’s amazing rail service to access smaller cities like Würzburg, Regensburg, Bamberg, Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, Dinkelsbühl, and more!
I hope that by now I have convinced you to visit Nuremberg. To be fair, Munich is a nice city and worth a short visit if you have the time. But if you are looking for an authentic German cultural experience steeped in history, then Nuremberg is where you want to be.

Solo in le Montagne: Don’t Trust Your Travel Book

Before our semester in Italy began, someone gave us a Rick Steves travel book of Italy. It turned out to be a great gift and we became big fans of Rick Steves, whose travel advice led us on many wonderful adventures. There were, however a few times when his guidance was lacking in some way or another–our trip to Rome being a prime example.

Our first few days in Rome were an absolute success with each of Steves’ recommendations turning out better than the last. In addition to the obvious destinations, (the Colosseum or the Roman Forum) his book led us to an off-the-beaten-path crypt of the capuchin monks lined with skulls of deceased monks (a momento mori– reminder of death). It took us to a spectacular cafe where we received free glasses of wine just for placing our book on the table. And, finally, on his recommendation, we planned to get dinner at a small pizzeria where he claimed the best pizza in Rome was produced.

He did mention that the service could be a little rude, but we thought the great pizza would be worth a little neglect in hospitality. 

 

Pizzeria Baffetto, Rome

We headed down a narrow, cobblestoned side street from the Pantheon. As Pizzaria Baffetto wasn’t due to open for another 15 minutes, we were surprised to see a line already forming in front of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Waiting in line, we noticed a strange sign on the door. Two stick figures, one wearing a backpack and one holding a backpack in front of it. A big red “X” over the one wearing the backpack and a big “OK” was next to the one holding the backpacks.

Okay, a little strange, but Italians never fail to raise the bar on strangeness. When the doors opened, we took off our backpacks and carried them inside.

This little joint could have been straight out of Jersey. A cramped room jammed full of tables, tiled walls you could barely see for the jumble of pictures and memorabilia that covered them, and a wood-fired oven in the back corner.

Two Italian men were shaping and throwing pizzas in the oven and pulling them out again minutes later, crisp, golden, cheesy.

We ordered our pizzas, one with eggplant and another with zucchini flowers (an Italian delicacy). While we waited for them to arrive we scanned the pictures covering the walls. A short, squat, old man with suspenders, glasses and a cane made so many appearances we could only assume he was the owner.

Even as we were taking all of this in, that same squat figure appeared in the doorway; complete with suspenders, glasses, and cane. He stared intently around the room with a slightly crazed glare and then began shouting at the staff in Italian.

We sort of chuckled to ourselves about this, remembering Rick Steves’ warning about the rude service.

A moment later, another flux of visitors came through the door and the owner stared at them, unwelcomingly, with those beady eyes. The last to come through the door were two young people–a guy and girl–clearly tourists, wearing backpacks.

As soon as he laid eyes on them, the owner began yelling in Italian and the two kids turned to stare in surprise and confusion. “NO! NO! Solo in le montagne! No zaini! NO!”

The kids were stunned and tried to ask what was the matter. These tourists clearly didn’t speak a word of Italian; they were completely lost.

We tried to help, calling across the room “Take off your backpacks! It’s your backpacks! Take them off!”

At this point, the owner began beating their backpacks with his cane, still shouting “NO! Solo in le montagne!” In case you didn’t catch that, it translates, “No backpacks! Only in the mountains!”

In desperation, the bewildered kids pleaded, “We don’t speak Italian!”
The owner, still delivering blows with his cane: “No Italinano? OUT! OUT!

At this point we were standing up, cupping our hands, and shouting, “TAKE YOUR BACKPACKS OFF!”

Finally, they got the message and pulled their backpacks off. Immediately, the shouting and beating stopped, and they were allowed to take their seats (in light of their first impression, it still amazes me that they chose to do so…).

The owner resumed his beady-eyed stance, neck forward, staring around the room.

Just then, our pizzas were unceremoniously deposited in front of us on tin plates. And, I have to say, Rick Steves was right: this was the best pizza I have ever eaten. Paper thin crust, burnt around the edges, sauce so hot it would scald you. The most incredible stringy, bubbling cheese.

 

Pizza with zucchini flowers.

 

But really, Rick Steves? Slightly rude service? A bit of an understatement.

That said, would I go back? Absolutely. Any authentic Italian experience should include a hefty helping of the absurd.

15 Things About Germans that Will Strike Americans as Strange

When you visit another country there are things that you expect to feel different. Maybe the clothing, the architecture, the language, etc. But after having lived in Germany for about 9 months, these aren’t the things that continue to take me off-guard and manage to continually make me feel like I have two left feet. Except for the occasional pair of lederhosen, people pretty much dress the same, the houses have four walls and a roof, and even the language, while different, sounds remarkably familiar. But there are many other things, often very small that continue to feel very odd. Here are just a few of them.

[My experience is primarily within Bavaria, particularly Franconia; things vary a great deal throughout the rest of the country.]

1. The Post Office Owns Everything

In the US we go to the post office to…send mail–and that’s about it, right? Not so in Germany! The Post here has its own bank–Post Bank. It has its own bus line–Postbus. It offers horse drawn carriage rides at Christmas time. Recently we got a new prepaid phone plan and discovered that our plan needs to be reloaded manually–by the post office.

 

2. Doors With Handles…That You Push

This one still gets me every time. You go to a business, walk up to a door with a handle and pull…and nothing happens. And then you realize the door says “drucken” or “push”. Why?? It is odd to have business doors open inward to begin with; why add a handle to the confusion?

3. The Most Un-Doggy Dogs

In Germany, dogs tend to be extremely well-behaved. So well-behaved, in fact, that most of them walk themselves. Walking through the city, it is a common sight to see a dog completely leashless trotting ahead of its person. In the parks, the dogs romp free–and occasionally circle back to their owners. Many times I’ve tried to hold a hand out to get the dog’s attention for a quick pat, and the dog blatantly ignores me and keeps going. Not once have I been approached or jumped on by a dog here. Another common sight is a dog patiently waiting outside a business for its person–sometimes tied up, sometimes not. 

4. Dogs in Restaurants

You don’t see this all the time, but to an American it can be quite shocking. You are sitting in a nice cafe or restaurant, and, all of a sudden, you notice a furry friend under a neighboring table! But, once again, dogs tend to be strangely un-doggy and incredibly well-behaved here, so they simply lay there quietly without disrupting the meal.

5. Grocery Stores are Madness

When you go to a grocery store in the US, there is normally a long chute at the checkout line where your groceries accumulate so you have plenty of time and space to pack them away. Often the cashier packs them for you, or another employee assists you with the bagging.

Not so in Germany! When its your turn at the cash register you had better be ready to throw all those groceries in bags or shovel them back in your cart (unbagged) as fast as the cashier pushes them through, AND be ready with payment when he or she is finished. No nice chute exists here. You are lucky if there is a foot of counter space. And if you don’t have all those groceries away before the transaction is finished? The cashier will usually start pushing the next customer’s groceries through right on top of yours!

My husband and I usually grocery shop together just so we can appropriately handle this stressful experience. When we are the next customers in line we brace ourselves as if for a race; “Are you ready? You get the money, I’ll bag, okay?”

6.  Toilets

Toilets in Europe are generally a little confusing. In the US every toilet is more or less the same. In Europe there might be a handle to flush, or a button. Or there might be a button on the wall, or TWO BUTTONS, and, occasionally, there is no toilet seat. But the most perturbing thing of all is the German poop-shelf toilet.

As you can see, where there should be a basin of water there is instead a shelf. An above-water shelf. I won’t go into too much detail, but I’m sure you can imagine the complications a toilet like this might pose. I’ll just give you three words for the sake of illustration: ODOR, RESIDUE, LODGED.

In every public bathroom, in every stall, there is a toilet brush. And each person is expected to use that toilet brush (on a public toilet!) because, with a design like this, residue is inevitable. 

7. Sitting Outside in the Winter

This is one of the odd things about Germany that I really love. Walking through a city on a cold fall, or even winter day, you are likely to see Germans sitting outside drinking a cappuccino while wrapped in a blanket. As soon as the weather starts to get just a little bit cold, fleece blankets and sometimes sheepskins appear on every chair outside of restaurants. It is definitely a little odd to see people wrapped up in blankets while at a public restaurant, but also wonderful! 

8. Everyone is Always Eating a Pretzel

This is actually pretty much just relegated to Bavaria, but in Bavaria everyone is obsessed with pretzels. And rightly so–they are amazing. But they seem completely unaware of the oddness of their behavior. You see children snacking on them like candy, businessmen eating them on the way to work; pretzels are served alongside rolls at restaurants for dinner, in train stations you will find them in the form of sandwiches, and the list goes on. Probably the oddest pretzel sighting we’ve witnessed was at the opera during intermission. The opera in Nuremberg is a very formal affair–more formal than most weddings. During the intermission everyone gathers in gorgeous room with gilded decor and massive chandeliers, sipping champagne…and munching on big soft pretzels alongside their bubbly. 

Their love of pretzels goes to such lengths that they even apparently find it to be an appropriate form of advertisement for bedding.

9. Beer is Cheaper than Water

When you go to a German restaurant you are not automatically served a glass of water–you pay for it. Germans are not a big fan of tap water (in some restaurants, even if you request it, you will not be given it) and vastly prefer bottled water. In restaurants a bottle of water can easily cost 3-4 euros. Meanwhile, a beer usually ranges from 2.50-4 euros. It is hard to bring yourself to buy that water when you could get a beer instead for the same price or lower…

10. No Open Container Laws

On that same note, you can drink alcohol pretty much whenever and wherever you want. You will see people walking down the street with a bottle of beer, on the subway, settling in for a long bus or train ride, in parks–pretty much anywhere you can imagine. On holidays, such as New Year, everyone takes to the streets with bottles of champagne and plastic flutes to drink and celebrate. 

11. Butter on Sandwiches

I was going hiking with some Germans recently and they prepared some sandwiches to bring along. I was confused to see them buttering bread, but decided that they must be making grilled cheese sandwiches. Mid-hike we stopped and they brought out ham and cheese sandwiches. When I took a bite I was confused and then realized they had put butter on them! When I asked about it they replied, “Yes, it is butter. Why, what would you put on a sandwich?” When I said “mayo” they were horrified and said, “typical American.” 

12. They Don’t Put Mayo on Sandwiches, but They DO Put it on Fries

So instead of using mayo for its intended purpose, they put it on their french fries! (this is actually done in a number of European countries).

13. They Knock

My husband is attending graduate school in Germany. After his first lecture, the professor wrapped things up and he prepared to grab his stuff and head out. But to his complete surprise, all of the students began knocking on their desks. He looked around in confusion as all of the straight-faced German students knocked on their desks, then abruptly stopped and proceeded to pack up and leave. This occurred in the next class and the next. 

14. Waiting at Crosswalks

Germans always wait till the crosswalk light turns green before crossing. It doesn’t matter if there is not a car in sight, or if the oncoming traffic has already stopped for their red light–the Germans wait. I cannot express how painful this is–to be in a rush and get to a crosswalk where it is clearly safe to cross, but everyone continues to stand there motionless. It is very difficult to bring yourself to cross with all of those dutifully law-abiding Germans patiently waiting! (My husband got yelled at once by a fellow pedestrian for crossing before the light changed; “the light is still red, Mensch!”).

15. They Intentionally Deliver Your Mail to Your Neighbors

When we first arrived in Germany I was very confused when one evening I heard my doorbell ring and opened the door to a man in plain clothes standing at my door with a package. He handed me the package and walked away. I shrugged and didn’t think much of it. I received a number of other packages, sometimes from an official post man, and sometimes from apparently random people.

One day I opened my mailbox to find a slip indicating I had received a package. My German was not good enough to understand everything on the slip, but I gathered that I needed to go to the post office to pick it up. So I did.

I handed the slip over the counter and requested my packett. They looked at the slip and informed me they did not have it, but that my nachbar had it. “Who the heck is my nachbar??”I asked. The postal worker looked perplexed, turned to a co-worker, and then said tentatively to me, “neighbor?”

Now, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence where a friendly neighbor who knew me and the postman stepped up and said, “Oh, she isn’t home? I’ll take it for her.” No, this is an official practice commonly utilized, and you are officially notified of it by your postal slip.

From Germany to Vermont: The Pain of Calling Too Many Places Home

My hands are four inches deep in rich, freshly tilled earth. I dig a small hole and nestle a lettuce seedling into it, pressing the soil around the tender roots. The sun shines bright and the smell of warm soil fills the air. I raise my eyes to rolling mountains against a vivid blue sky. I view all of this as if observing someone else’s life. The disjointedness of my existence makes me feel a bit dizzy, even nauseous at times. As if I had just stepped off of a rapidly spinning ride. The beauty all around me pushes futilely against a deep aching emptiness inside me.

The past few weeks have been a tumultuous blur. When my visa application was rejected we had only a few weeks to leave Germany, to pack up our lives there, fly back to the US, visit our families, find jobs, housing, a new life all over again. And here we are, in the Green Mountains of Vermont, on an organic hippie commune farm. Living in a tree house. I spend my days working in the greenhouse, planting in the fields, or baking artisan bread in a wood burning oven. It is all like a dream–one we would have wished for not long ago.

Now I feel numb and hollow.

---

As a kid I always loved spending time with friends–parties, sleepovers, road trips. But there would always reach a point where the fun would still be going on around me, while I would become withdrawn from it, wearied of the excitement, and all I would wish for was to go home, curl up in my own bed, sleep in late and wake up to the sounds of my mom bustling around the kitchen.

I feel that now. That weariness. That ache. A homesickness. The pain is familiar, but now it is different. Why? Because when I feel that ache, the desire is undefined. I’m homesick, but for what?

I have always been someone who loves slowly, but deeply. Once that love is established, it is there to stay. My first love was a little crooked house on top of a hill in the foothills of the Catskills. For 19 years that was my only home. My family, my friends, my world was that place. When I ached for home, the direction of that longing was clear.

Now, when I long for home I see that little house on a hill, I see familiar faces of my childhood, the deeply forged friendships of college, winding cobblestone streets, castles, the Alps, a warm blue ocean crashing on a sunny beach, and over it all the never ending throbbing of the bells–from cathedrals, ancient and grand.

But this home does not exist as a whole. It is fragmented and scattered across, states, countries, and continents. And my heart aches and throbs like the ringing of the bells, but it does not know which direction to turn, to head home, to rest.

Can you love too many people? Too many places? Can the heart endure it?

The party and the excitement, new people and adventures go on around me, but I am weary and I long to rest.

I wonder if I have loved too much.

Will I ever be content to call one place home? Or am I doomed to forever seek what does not exist?

Deportation: The Experience of a Privileged White American

Ever wondered what a deportation letter looks like? Now you know.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be deported from a country you are living in? If you are an average, privileged, native, white American like myself, then probably not. Perhaps you have imagined what it is like to be a Mexican immigrant sent home to drug cartels or a Syrian refugee sent back to war and terrorism. But while the issue of immigration is a major social and political issue in the US today, for many of us the concept of deportation is foreign and abstract. As US citizens we have wide freedom to travel the world with minimal hassle. And most of us don’t have plans of moving out of the country.

But what if you did? What if you wanted or needed to move out of the US, but couldn’t?

This isn’t a political statement (though I do have my own thoughts on immigration policy), it is the story of of a unique and unexpected experience which has changed the way I look at personal freedom of mobility forever.

———

As I turned the key in my mailbox I felt the usual clenching of my stomach. I opened the door and a fat, orange envelope was waiting inside. It was heavy and thick in my hands and I couldn’t breathe as I opened it there in the public hallway–too anxious to wait until I reached my own apartment. I hurriedly scanned the twelve pages of dense , formal German; searching for words I recognized. For something that would clue me in to the nature of this document.

I hadn’t made sense of a single sentence before the rock settled in my stomach. This was wrong. The orange envelope, the thickness of the packet, too many pages. I didn’t know anything yet.

But I knew.

———

When my husband got the acceptance letter for a prestigious graduate program in Germany, we were ecstatic. It had been our dream to live in Europe for a while, and he needed to get a master’s degree–which we could not afford. The discovery of free programs in Germany seemed to be the perfect solution. We only had a few months to get everything together–visas, flights, find an apartment, etc. It was overwhelming.

I had been working at Starbucks for over a year with the hopes that this would happen and I could transfer internationally–making the international job and visa process much easier. Unfortunately, Starbucks would not “sponsor” a visa. AKA, they would not give the necessary documentation I needed to obtain a work visa, saying that they would hire me once I was overseas.

The most viable solution then seemed to be to move to Germany with the automatic three month tourist visa available to US citizens traveling in the EU and apply for a work permit while there. My husband was granted temporary legal residency as a graduate student and I had an employer that wanted to hire me and I am American. It should have been easy, right?

———

I stood in a long line of people of various nationalities–old, young, children fidgeting. The place smelled of body odor. And anxiety.

I recited my carefully practiced sentences under my breath. But I prayed the person in the booth would speak English. The game of trying to speak a foreign language while ordering my morning “Kaffee” or “Brot und Kase” at the market lost all its enjoyment when it came to trying to explain the finer points of my legal requests. 

I had learned that it was hit or miss. Some of the immigration officials spoke okay English, some none, and some simply refused to speak anything but German whether they could or not. I looked around at the foreign faces surrounding me and wondered how they did it. Did they speak German? Or English, the current lingua franca? Did they have any hope of someone speaking their language? Did they have friends to help them?

The Asian family ahead of me was moving on. It was my turn. I walked up to the booth to see a blank, disinterested face looking back at me. “Sprechen Sie English?” I ask, tentatively. The man thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “Nein.”

I summon my rehearsed lines. I know I only have a few minutes to convey what I need before the restlessness of the line behind me transfers to the man before me.

I leave the building moments later in tears. Less sure than ever of my situation or what is expected of me. I always leave more hopeless than when I arrive.

———

So much of our new life was wonderful. An adorable little apartment, winding cobblestone streets, immersion in a beautiful old culture. We were full of hope and anticipation. But we were anxious to get my job and residency settled so we could feel stable and at rest.

The weeks passed and I had not heard anything about my work permit. We watched our savings dwindle. But it would be okay. It would come through and everything would be fine if I could just work.

———

My husband attended classes in another town several days a week. At first I tried to keep busy during the day. But as time passed I did less. I stayed in bed till the mail came. Then I would check it for news. Nothing. Another day until my life could begin again.

Back to bed.

I would hear his footsteps on the stairs and hurriedly put on pants and wait on the couch so he wouldn’t know I had been in bed all day. 

Two or three times every week we went to the Auslandebehorde to ask for updates. Next week, they said. And then the next week. And on and on. 

Every day was a cycle of fear, anticipation, and disappointment. 

We did our best to enjoy life anyway. And we did, while looking out from the castle ramparts, or sitting outside a tiny cafe eating gelato. But with a perpetual cloud hanging over us.

One day we went to the Auslandebehorde, determined to get answers. In broken English they informed me that my application for a work permit had been rejected. I was not a “priority” they said. 

The shock of the statement took me so off guard I could not absorb it. Could this happen to us? Could we be rejected? Denied permission to remain in a country despite having solid work and school opportunities?

I stared in disbelief. Our savings were nearly gone. We were screwed. 

———

In the face of this harsh blow we mustered all the strength we had left, determined to find a solution. Starbucks requested that the application be reassessed–stating that they wanted me and that I would be a valuable asset. No avail.

I was running out of time, but at the last minute I obtained an online job writing for an American Web design company and submitted an application for spousal reunification.

We had to downsize our apartment to get by. I couldn’t leave the country while my paperwork was being processed. I looked on the Polizei with nervousness–afraid I would make some small infraction and be promptly removed.

But overall, things got better. We were hopeful. I had a paycheck, small though it was.

———

I had just begun to relax, to really enjoy this amazing opportunity of living in another country when a letter arrived. All in German, as usual. A friend translated for us–they needed more documents to determine whether I was eligible to stay.

I waited in line again. Anxiously. At the cubicle a woman took my papers. She looked at them and informed me that they would be filed and I would receive “eine brief von die Post.” 

I tried not to let fear get to me. I embraced our life here. I loved the city. We went running. Explored castles, cathedrals, and forests. We collected keepsakes, pretty dishes, a painting to hang on the wall. We planned and dreamed of the places we would travel once I received my permit. I prayed for a letter so I could be approved. I hoped the mailbox would be empty so I wouldn’t be rejected. 

———

It had never occurred to me prior to this experience that I couldn’t  leave the US if I wanted to. I’m a privileged white American. Of course I can go where I want and do what I want.

If I had the money, that might be true. But countries don’t want to take on new residents that they aren’t confident will benefit their national community. I thought I would obviously meet these requirements.

I didn’t.

———

I could not read the tedious pages in the yellow envelope. I caught words here and there, but we needed to translate it. We laboriously typed page after page into a translator. It only took the first page to know I had been rejected. Another to know there was no use trying to appeal it.

They had decided they didn’t want me and, for someone without means, that was the end of it. No one had sat down with us, heard our story, explained what was needed. Just letters in German demanding this or that by a certain date. We never anticipated failure. So sudden. So final.

I’ll admit we had thought about just staying anyways, but the formidable threats of “forcible removal” and never being able to re-enter solidified our decision to give up. 

I was given less than a month to depart.

———

We are canceling our lease, our internet, buying last minute flights, emptying our nearly empty bank accounts. But my husband already has job opportunities lined up and my work is increasing by the day. We have no house or car to return to, but comfortable and loving family and friends will be waiting to embrace us and support us.

I can’t help but think of what it would be like if that weren’t the case. If we had risked everything, for nothing. If our goal in moving had been survival, not simply taking advantage of an exciting life opportunity.

The Romantic Life: What You Expect, And What You Don’t.

I am fully aware that the life we lead is a romantic one. It is partially intentional and partially necessity and happenstance. We love raw experience, we love adventure, but also in order to achieve our dreams we have had to make choices that have pushed our lives even further in the direction of the surreal.

For example, the decision to live two consecutive summers in a van was largely of necessity if we wanted to pursue our goals for the those time periods. Many would have found another way around it, but to us it seemed like the best way to fully accomplish our dreams in spite of our monetary restrictions.

This romantic life has taken us across the vast mid-west, to the mountains of Colorado, to the warm beaches of the Outer Banks, to Central America, up and down the East Coast, and currently landed us in Germany.

These past few years have been filled with once-in-a-lifetime moments. I’ve summited mountains, slept under the stars with waves crashing beneath me, climbed a volcano, drank tea on a roof-top in Nicaragua, run on an abandoned beach alongside a pod of dolphins, walked through courtyards and castles. And I could go on and on. Sometimes I look at my own life and can’t believe it is real.

People always talk about how hard it is to capture these moments–the vibrant sunsets, the towering mountain. But what I find hardest to convey is the other side of this life–what makes it truly romantic and what makes it so different from ordinary life. What makes a moment truly romantic is what sets it apart from the ordinary, from the mundane. It is being alone in the wilderness, walking along a precipice, lost in the vast ocean. It is seclusion, emptiness, fear, suspense, uncertainty, pain, irony–all mixed together with unthinkable beauty.

But as an observer we tend to see all of those as simply a backdrop for the beauty. When you live this life, the backdrop is every bit as real as the foreground.

I was particularly hit by this experience a few months after our move to Germany. Many of our plans had fallen apart since our arrival. Our living expenses were more than we had anticipated, the process of becoming legalized for short-term residency was dragging on, and my job prospects had fallen through. We had an endearing little loft apartment in the city (which we could not afford to heat), but our savings were being rapidly depleted and everything in the future was utterly uncertain.

One night, shortly before Christmas, we found ourselves sitting on some stone stairs beneath the Kaiserberg (the city castle), looking down upon the brightly lit, medieval streets of Nurnberg. It was bitterly cold, but we sat here for hours while Tyler played Christmas carols on his melodica (a small, mouth-blown, keyboard instrument) for spare change. This was our only way of earning money since neither of us could legally work.

Sitting there with Christmas shoppers bustling past, the castle towers glowing overhead, and the music drifting out over the city–as Tyler literally played to earn our Christmas dinner–I knew this was truly one of the most romantic moments of my life. And one of the hardest.

The beauty of it all was overwhelming, and it stood out all the more vividly against our cold, hunger, fears, and uncertainties. I felt like we were living a chapter out of a novel.

This type of experience can’t be recreated.

You can’t recreate desperation.

Experiences like this feel surreal and unattainable for a reason–for most people they are. Most people aren’t really willing to pay this type of price for these kinds of raw, harsh, breath-taking experiences.

It is raw because it is hurts.

And it is beautiful because it is difficult.

Those who choose to live the romantic life know that for every beautiful sunset there is a storm as well–and you are going to find yourself out in the storm with only the memory of the sunset to keep you warm.

And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

————————————-

This post inspired by a post on Outside about the reality of the #VanLife.

 

 

 

Three Greek Men: A Modern Greek Comedy

August, 2013
Island of Crete, Greece

When the taxi dropped us at our villa it was already nearly 10pm–we had left Athens on a ferry at 7am that morning. We were exhausted, but also restless. We could hear waves crashing in the near distance and the softly glowing lights from the waterfront restaurants beckoned to us. Travel weary though we were, we could not go to sleep without first getting a glimpse of our surroundings.

We dropped our bags in our rooms and then headed for the beach front–we just planned to walk along the water and then head to bed. But, as we passed a building on the outskirts of the town, we heard raucousy live music pouring from an upper floor. It was a roof-top restaurant. We took one look at each other, nodded in unison, and headed up the stairs, where we emerged upon a crowded scene. The roof-top seating area was small, with one corner occupied by the band and the rest filled with guests. We were still absorbing the situation when we were ushered to the one empty table–in the center of the room.

In the next 15 minutes every Greek stereotype we had ever heard would be lived out. Over the clamor we ordered some food. As we waited we observed the restaurant staff run from cooking in the kitchen, to serving food, to drinking with the musicians, and back to the kitchen again. After a few moments our fairly inebriated waiter brought our food and we were served complimentary drinks. They demanded our names and then began singing them in some sort of drinking song. Our waiter headed to the kitchen and promptly dropped some dishes with a crash. Instantly everyone shouted “Opa!” over the music.

We had barely begun eating our food when the guests formed a circle around the room with us sitting in the center) and began a traditional Greek dance (if you are thinking of My Big Fat Greek Wedding , you have the right image).

Needless to say, our first night in Greece was a surreal experience.

——–

A few nights later we decided to visit that same restaurant again–we hoped to get another hefty dose of the local culture. When we arrived on the roof, however, the place was empty except for three men in their fifties at a table in the corner. Despite the change in atmosphere we decided it would be well worth it to share a drink looking out over the moon-lit ocean.

We perused our menus while making lovers conversation in soft tones. We were jarred from our sappy world by a loud voice with a thick accent saying, “Hello! Where do you come from?” We looked in surprise at the table with the three men who were now all looking at us intently.

Tyler replied, “We are from America.” “Well, what are you doing here?” The man demanded. “We are on our honeymoon” I replied. “AH! Honeymoon, eh?” The man turned to his companions with a grin. “What are you drinking? Do you drink wine? Come drink with us!” We had barely begun to decline the offer when we were shouted down, “No, no, you must come drink with us!”

Next thing we knew they had pulled up two extra chairs and we were sitting down at their table. We had, in the few days we had been on the island, discovered the unique approach the Greeks had towards eating out–when they go to a restaurant they don’t simply order a dish apiece; they order a massive variety of dishes and share–and then continue to order more, eating and talking for hours. This group of men were no exception. The table was spread with a dozen dishes–octopus salad, fried sardines, cheese pies, fruit salad, Greek salad, and many other local staples.

The moment we sat down we were handed glasses of white wine mixed with Sprite–we never saw the bottom of those glasses the rest of the night. We were presented with plates which each of the men promptly began to spoon a selection of the various dishes on to. This was a curious group of men–all pretty washed up looking with large, protruding guts. There was one man who spoke no English and was silent most of the time, a particularly large man who interjected occasionally, and the loud one who had first called us over and did most of the talking.

The wine had barely hit our lips when they began to interrogate us (mostly Tyler–they didn’t pay me much attention and I was happy to sit back and drink the wine)– Loud Greek Man–“So, you just got married, ah?”
Tyler–“Yes, 5 days ago.”
“Five days ago! How old are you?”
“I’m 22 and Martha is 23.”
“WHAT? That is too young! Why would you get married? Now you are stuck with each other for the rest of your lives! You can’t go off and do whatever you want, you have to be together! No one wants that. You are crazy.”
“Well…that is why we got married. We like to be together. That is what we wanted.”

“No, no, you say that now, but you will not say that for long. We know, yes?” Loud Greek Man nods to his companions. “I have been married and divorced 3 times. And they have each been married and divorced 2 times. We know.” Silent Greek Man nodded, grinned.

Fat Greek Man pushed the plate of sardines at Tyler with a knowing look, saying, “Here, these are an aphrodisiac. Eat them!” Tyler attempted to decline the offer, but Fat Greek Man continued to hold out the plate of fish–heads, tails, and all–saying, “Yes, aphrodisiac! You must eat them!” Tyler shrugged and picked one up by the tail, then dropped it in his mouth, chewed , swallowed the whole thing. They loved that–and so the plate was passed to me–“Eat one!”

Not terribly excited about the prospect of crunching on skin and bones, but these men were not to be put off. So I picked up a fish–to their great delight–and proceeded to cut off the head, tail and pull out the tiny ribs. I closed my eyes and quickly chewed and swallowed. It was actually pretty delicious if you could get past the idea that you were chewing on skin and bones.

The Greek men’s delight grew and they continued to heap more of everything on our plates–heralding each item as a powerful aphrodisiac. Some times they would simply put a piece of something on a fork and wave it in front of our faces until we would allow them to hand feed us. I was a bit perturbed by this until I realized that they did it to each other as well. When in Greece…

After the sardine success they attacked the topic of our marriage with renewed vigor. Loud Greek Man turned once again to Tyler and said, “So, why do you think it is a good idea to get married so young? Don’t you want to be free to do what you want? Go where you want?” (Apparently they weren’t overly concerned with my need for freedom or experience.)

Tyler–“But Martha and I like to do things together–we want the same things.”
“Ahahaha!” The Greek men all laughed–“But what about other women? Don’t you want other women?” (Mind you that I am sitting  right there this whole time.) “Here, eat another sardine. It is an aphrodisiac! You will be up all night! Ha-HA!”
Tyler, choking back laughter and a mouthful of sardine, valiantly defends our relationship, saying, “No, Martha is the best! I don’t need any other women because Martha is the best!”

“Ahh! Martha is the best!” They seemed to love this and immediately set about the business of confirming or denying its validity:
“Stand up Martha! Ahh, yes!! Turn around! Yes, turn around!”

…

“AHHH-HAAHH!!! Yes! Martha is the best! Yes! Ah-HAH! Yes, she IS the best!” They raised their glasses, toasted, and went on shouting incoherently for several minutes while force-feeding us more “aphrodisiac” foods. “Here! Eat this octopus! It is an aphrodisiac. Ahahaha! Yes, it is! And this, too! Here, more wine. Drink, we must all drink to Martha! Martha is the best!”

“Yes, Martha is the best, so I don’t need other women.” Tyler lit his pipe, laughed, and leaned over to kiss me. They began shouting and waving their arms: “No! It is forbidden! No!” We laughed and leaned apart–we were both greatly amused by these strange, kinda dirty old men, and even if they were making fun of us for being married young (and being highly inappropriate)  we were getting a great meal out of it–and some serious entertainment.

Loud Greek Man regained his composure, “Ah, yes, Martha is the best, but so is lobster. Lobster is the best! And if you have lobster every niiiiiiiight…you will be sick of lobster!! Ahahaha! Here, drink more wine! Have you ever had Greek woman?”
“Nope…can’t say I’ve ever ‘had Greek woman’.”
Fat Greek Man–“What??! Never had Greek woman!” They were horrified at the very notion of someone in the world going without this experience.

“No, Martha is the only woman for me.”
Loud Greek Man–“This is terrible! We must find you Greek woman!”

Keep in mind that we are five days newly married and these men are trying to find my husband another woman in front of me. At this moment the waitress walks by to replenish our wine pitcher and Loud Greek Man turns to her saying, “Here, this boy needs Greek woman.” The waitress looks from them to Tyler and I and back again, raises an eyebrow and says, “I think he is with her.” She nods in my direction and walks away.

This option of hooking Tyler up with the waitress being shot down Loud Greek Man suddenly proclaims, “Then we must go to Irepatra [neighboring town]! We go to strip club, we find you Greek woman!”
“No, no.” Tyler shakes his head, laughing and spilling wine. “I’m on my honeymoon, dude!”

At this point I get up to go to the bathroom. In my absence the men see their chance, “Ok! It is time. She is gone, and we will leave. We go to Irepatra, we go to strip club! We go!”
Tyler–“That is a terrible, terrible idea, amigo.”
“No, no, it is ok. She will come back and see you are gone. She will go home. When you come to bed she will be there waiting for you. We go to strip club! Here, eat another sardine!”
“No, no, no, you’re all forgetting…Martha is the best!”

I walked back at this moment to the Greek men chiming in and raising their glasses to me. “Yes, Martha is the best! We drink to Martha!”

By  now it was at least 1am and the time, the Sprite-wine, and the weird, weird situation was beginning to catch up with us. Feeling the wine, Tyler turned to the men and started demanding ice cream. “I want ice cream! Buy me some ice cream.” Like Greek magic, a moment later a huge dish of ice cream materialized on the table.

By the time we had consumed half the ice cream we decided it was about time to head to bed–but the Greeks would have none of that. “No! You must stay! Drink more wine! Eat more ice cream!” Resistance was useless.

At some point in the next hour we found ourselves in a tikki bar where the Greeks once more attempted to score Tyler a “Greek woman.” And somehow after that we managed to escape to our bed. We awoke there in a daze the next morning after some seriously bizarre dreams–but none so strange as the night we spent on that roof-top.

Essential Tips for Traveling on a Budget

It always amazes me how many people think that traveling, especially international traveling, simply isn’t affordable. I mean, come on people- I’m a broke college graduate, with thousands in debt and I manage to fit it into my budget. You just need to start thinking outside the box of traditional travel expectations.

There are basically two reasons to budget travel:

1. You are broke and can’t afford to travel any other way.
2. You are semi-broke and want to be able to afford to get more out of your travelling (do and see more things).

If you are one of those lucky people who has plenty of money to travel however, whenever, and wherever you want then I’m not sure why you are reading this blog. Maybe you are a yuppie who wants the raw experience of budget traveling…

Tips for Budget Traveling

Find Affordable Housing–

Abandoning ideas about fancy resorts and hotels is the first step to traveling economically. Hostels are a budget traveler’s best friend. Hostel Bookers and Hostel World are my two primary resources for finding a good hostel.

A lot of people find the idea of a hostel really sketchy. But most of these people know little or nothing about hostels. Hostels are designed to provide the most basic needs for a night’s stay while cutting costs for customers as much as possible.

Let’s be honest, if what you care about on vacation is a big comfy bed, a big screen TV with cable, and a pool, then hostels aren’t for you. But if you plan to spend your time roaming the streets of Paris, visiting the Louvre, making day trips to medieval French villages, and then coming back and crashing–do you really need all of those luxuries? Or do you really just need a shower and some clean sheets?

Like I said before, if you can afford both, great, but a lot of us can’t- and we have to choose.

Hostels come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them actually end up being more like a hotel, some have pools, some don’t. Most hostels offer several room options:

• private rooms–these are the most expensive, but generally still cheaper than a normal hotel (remember, no big screen).
• gender segregated dorms– either all male or all female rooms.
• mixed gender dorms– mixed gender dorms are the cheapest because they are the easiest to fill–they can stick anyone in them.

These “dorms” are rooms of varying sizes with varying numbers of bunk beds and access to a bathroom. Sometimes it is just a set of bunk beds and you could fill the room if you had a group. As a female, I probably wouldn’t feel comfortable staying in a “mixed” dorm traveling solo, but since I normally travel with my husband I am fine with it to save a few bucks.

If you are concerned about ending up in a super sketchy, dirty hostel, have no fears–the sites I listed above are invaluable tools in finding the right hostel. They give detailed ratings and reviews from friendliness to cleanliness.

Most of the hostels I’ve stayed in (and I’ve been to quite a few) have greatly superseded my expectations and, in some ways, have offered more than a hotel could have. For example–I once stayed in a beautiful, old, half-timbered house in Austria which had been converted into a hostel. It was 12 USD for a night.

Hostel in Feldkirch, Austria

 

Another awesome experience was a “tent village” in Interlaken, Switzerland. These semi-permanent tents (with real bunk beds) were nestled in a field surrounded by the towering Alps. The village was complete with a hot-tub. 20 USD per night.

 

 

Tent Village–Interlaken, Switzerland

Hostels offer unique locations and experiences, the opportunity to meet interesting people, a comfortable stay, and all at an excellent price.

There are two other important things that hostels often have to offer: free breakfast, and a community kitchen. And those lead into the next key element of budget travel.

Eat Cheap–

Food probably isn’t the first place you think to cut spending–but it is one of the easiest ways to blow money while traveling. Even if you don’t go out to eat at a fancy restaurant every night, eating on the go adds up. And even worse, buying mediocre food on the go might hurt your budget to the point that you really can’t afford that nice, romantic, meal you were planning to share in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. So plan ahead and save up for something special.

Breakfast–
This is another huge way that hostels can save you money. Look for hostels that list having breakfast included. A lot do and often times a little looking can get you that free meal for little or no extra cost. These breakfasts usually aren’t anything fancy and some are better than others. Occasionally, they are awesome. I’ve had anything from toast and cereal, to artisan breads and marmalades (Paris), to a full breakfast buffet of hot and cold foods (Athens).

Athens: breakfast buffet.

Not only does this save you the cost of the first meal of the day and allow you to jump straight to sight-seeing, but you can usually pocket a croissant, or a little cheese sandwich for a snack later on.

Meat and cheese sandwich for later.

Lunch–
Depending where you are traveling, it may be reasonable and affordable to grab some street food for lunch. But even that $4-6 (or euro, or whatever) sandwich will add up over time (but also remember food is part of the experience–its all about balance). The worst situation to be in, however, is to be cold (or hot), tired, and really hungry, in a tourist destination without cheap food options available. This is when you will give in and buy something way too expensive and not nearly good enough. It is great to spend money on food when you decide to, but not when you have to.

 

One of my worst experiences of this type was in the tourist city of Rothenburg. We didn’t bring anything with us and everything was super expensive because it is a tourist town. Broke and starving, we gave in and bought a “kebab box” which seemed like a decent deal–6 euros. It ended up being a pile of crusty, greasy meat in a box. The meal ended with me sitting on a curb crying.  PLAN AHEAD.

My go-to lunch preparation is to buy a loaf of local bread (in Europe you can usually get something delicious for pretty cheap), a wedge of cheese, and maybe a tomato. Be sure to carry a knife with you for this purpose.

These items are all relatively easy to transport and not super perishable. And while this is very frugal, it is substantial, delicious, and gives you taste of some local essentials. I have many memories (and pictures) of us enjoying a picnic lunch of brie and a baguette under the Eiffel Tower, or substitute a Swiss cheese and an Alp for the tower.

Classic tomato, cheese, and bread for lunch in Switzerland.

Dinner–
Another important hostel feature is the community kitchen. This is a very high priority for me when looking for a hostel. I’m willing to spend an extra buck or two for a decent kitchen. Why? Again, going out for dinner while traveling is great, but doing it every night drains the bank account. Instead, cook most of your meals at the hostel and save a ton of money.

This may seem like too much of a hassle–buying all the ingredients, preparation, etc. But if you do it right it is easy. I always keep a few non-perishable staples in my bag while I’m traveling. Pasta, rice, a handful of potatoes, corn meal, some bouillon cubes, and butter (if it is summer or a hot climate, go with a little oil).

Having these essentials always on hand prevents me from making a last minute decision to go out to eat because I’m too tired and hungry to go shopping.

When you first get to your hostel scout out the kitchen. Why? Because hostel kitchens can be a gold mine for food. People come, cook a meal, and then leave and don’t feel like taking along that half a stick of butter or that half a box of pasta. Sometimes there isn’t much, but always check–and then you can plan the evening’s meal while you travel and pick up any other ingredients on your way back in the evening.

I’ve found some crazy things in hostel kitchens–potatoes, pasta, rice (lots of rice), sauces and condiments, cheese, cold cuts, salamis, crackers, and even a half a box of wine! Half the time I didn’t even need to buy food, and I could almost always refill my staples stock from these leftovers. Simple easy recipes that you know by heart are essential. My basic list:

• Risotto– basic ingredients–rice, onion, bouillon. Dress it up with whatever else is on hand–wine, garlic, butter, cheese, veggies.
• Polenta–corn meal, water, butter, bouillon. Good on its own, but add some sauteed veggies and cheese and you have a gourmet meal. (I once made “polenta” in an airport using a free cup of hot water from a coffee shop.)
• Rice and beans–rice, beans, seasonings.
• Pasta– Pasta, butter or oil, seasonings. Add a tomato and you have a great meal.

Creativity is the key. Look at the resources available and use them. If I ever come upon a lot of leftover potatoes at a hostel, I rub them with butter or oil, salt and pepper, and then bake them. Let cool and then save for the next day’s breakfast of lunch on the go.

Find a Good Location and Walk Everywhere–

Another important thing to look for is a good central location to travel from. You may find a super cheap/nice hostel on the outskirts of the city, but always consider how that is going to impact your traveling in terms of cost and time. Sometimes it is worth it, but sometimes the hassle and cost of transportation isn’t. Again, a few bucks for the metro or a train might not seem like much once, but it adds up.
Be sure you have good walking shoes so that you can stay moving all day and see as much as possible without having to catch public transit. You see more and enjoy more this way anyways than if you just hop trains or buses from one popular location to the next. But, if you don’t prepare for a lot of walking, your feet will regret it.

The most important rule to go by when traveling on a budget is to spend money on what you want to spend money on and don’t get trapped into the mainstream mentality of what you should or need to spend money on. Be creative. And no matter what, don’t be pretentious–being pretentious is expensive.

 

Ascending Longs Peak

Longs Peak, Rocky Mnt. National Park, CO
August, 2014

Our first day in Estes Park, Colorado, my husband and I parked our converted van home in our campsite on national park property and set out to explore our new backyard. Behind our campsite was a steep hill (or perhaps it would be considered a mountain–perspective is strange in the Rockies) called Eagle Peak. We started off our day scrambling up through the aromatic Ponderosa Pines and onto the rocky peak. When we crested the ridge we felt like we had stepped into a photograph–below us was a lush valley with a sparkling stream winding through its grasses, and surrounding this on three sides was the most spectacular panorama of massive snow-laden peaks I had ever seen.

After a few moments of silent admiration I pointed to the largest, snowy peak–the one with the steepest, craggiest point of rock for a summit–and said, “We are going to climb that.” Tyler looked at my skeptically, but I was determined–that mountain was calling my name.

It was a busy summer of hard work, but every break we had we took the opportunity to climb one of the endless peaks which surrounded us in every direction. But that first peak whose challenge I had accepted we continued to push off till later in the summer. We found out its name–Long’s Peak–and that it is the highest peak in the Park. Every year hundreds of people make the ascent and this year already there had been several rescues and several deaths. We wanted to be prepared, we told ourselves. But all summer that looming face watched over us–visible from nearly every corner of the park–taunting us.

It was nearing the end of August when the cool mountain summer suddenly turned to fall and we knew we could wait no longer. The window of time when the snow and ice was likely to be clear from the treacherous summit ledges was nearing its end–perhaps already passed.

The night before our ascent we drove to the trail head and parked our van. I slept fitfully–dreaming of all that might go wrong on the morrow. I was awake when our 3 am alarm went off and we fumbled in the darkness for a light. It was cold and we bundled into layers of wool socks, leggings, sweaters, and jackets–though it was not quite that cold it would be much colder at 14,259 ft. We climbed out of our van and headed for the dark trail head–tired and anxious as we went.

We began trudging up the path under a thick canopy of pines. Our head lamps illuminated our immediate path, but made the darkness around us all the more intense. Within minutes Tyler began chattering away excitedly about goodness-knows-what. He was nervous and excited and needed an outlet. But I was still wrapped in a heavy layer of sleepless-exhaustion and did not like to be pulled out of it. For ten or fifteen minutes I gave barely audible grunts in response to him–hoping desperately that he would take the hint–he didn’t. Finally, I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry, but you are really going to have to stop talking now.” Wonderful man that he is, he gave me a sheepish grin and fell silent.

I sighed in relief and my tired senses gradually began to absorb and appreciate the cool, darkness of the forest, the soft earth underfoot, the silent sounds of the night all around us. We climbed steadily and quietly upward and the time passed quickly. Before we knew it we were breaking out of the woods onto a little rock outcropping and we could see out over the trees and knew we had made good progress. Above us the the stars peeked in through the trees and we were enveloped in the beauty of the night. The last of our exhaustion and nervousness dissipated and was fully replaced by a thrill for the adventure we were embarking upon.

As we re-entered the forest I picked up the chattering where Tyler had left off. I jumped from topic to topic–anything to let out the anticipation building inside. It was still completely dark when we broke out above the tree-line. Spread out before us was open tundra and spread out above us and reaching down far below to the horizon was a brilliant canopy of stars. In front of us the mountain rose in invisible blackness, but its blackness cut a shape out of the stars and we could sense its vague and menacing form. In the trees below us we could now see an occasional point of light bobbing along–a fellow traveler far below us. Looking up ahead, these same points of light were scattered up the slope.They were all distant enough to allow us to feel solitary in our venture, but at the same time gave us a faint sense of comradeship on this journey.

Climbing up through the dark tundra, under the stars, heading towards dangerous precipices while the rest of the world slept below us was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. As we climbed and talked the air got sharper and colder, even as the world began to grow slightly light. There is nothing quite like that magical time before sunrise when the world grows brighter but the light seems to come from no particular place. Its almost as if the world itself is producing a soft glow. Then, gradually, a faint bit of color appears on the eastern horizon and the sunrise begins.

We watched as one by one the lesser lights of the heavens went out in anticipation of the appearance of sun on the edge of the earth. What had before been formless shapes and shadows began to solidify into rocks, boulders, and outcroppings. Towards the rising sun the earth fell away and we could now make out the steep ascent we had made in the darkness and already far below were other mountains we had conquered on previous ventures.  Meanwhile, towering over our heads we began to make out the looming shape of the mountain peak–our destination–which had been hidden from us in the darkness.

We were nearing the end of the first portion of our journey now. To successfully (and safely) summit this mountain it is necessary to complete the long, gradual ascent to the base of the peak by sunrise. There are two reasons for this. The first is purely the length of the hike and to complete it in one day you must reach the summit before noon. But the other, more menacing reason is that dangerous and sudden storms are common at the peak and it is imperative that climbers be off the summit before they roll in, usually around noon or after. Though the first portion of the hike is the longest in distance (6 of  the 7.5 miles to the summit), it is also the easiest. As the sun finally shone its rays upon us and we neared the level field at the base of the peak we knew we our journey was really just beginning.

The mountains and valleys below were now bathed in light and the blue and white lines of the mountain ridges on every side stood out sharp, and vivid, and the sight was breathtaking. Our path was no longer skirting the outer edge of the mountain, but had turned inward, directly towards the peak which was still not entirely in view. The wind was biting now and found our layers insufficient to stop it. Our bare hands grew stiff and red. Underfoot we now saw occasional puddles frozen solid. Somewhere miles below it was still the end of summer, but here winter had already descended–perhaps it had never left.

We meandered through some boulders and over a ridge and suddenly found ourselves at the base of the peak–a massive pinnacle of solid rock. In the shadows and crevices of the rock face hid heavy layers of snow. Between us and the path we had to take up to the peak was a vast field of boulders of every size up to as big as an SUV. The icy wind blasted at us across this open field and stole away the last of our warmth. We found shelter among the boulders and tried to regain some warmth while eating a huge turkey sub we had brought along. Though we were hungry we did not make much progress on the sandwich as our hands were too cold to even hold it. And though we had some protection from the wind we did not grow any warmer and soon gave up and proceeded across the boulders. The best way to traverse the expanse was to climb onto the larger boulders and leap from one to another–at any other time we would have made a game of it.

When we finally reached the other side we found a handful of other hikers lingering around the opening in the rock face that led to the back side of the mountain and marked the beginning of the real ascent. The opening in the rock is called the Keyhole. It is like a picture frame through which you can look to world beyond. Through this opening gale force winds rushed through. We climbed to the frame and peered through–carefully bracing ourselves to keep from being tumbled back down the rocks. The far side of the mountain was still in shadows of various shades of blues and grays. Just through the opening the mountainside dropped away to nothingness for thousands of feet. To the left of the a narrow ledge of jumbled rocks formed the path which led across the top of this abyss and up the back side of the peak.

We stepped back from the opening and pondered whether it was wise to go forward. Snow and ice would make the narrow path treacherous and combined with the intensity of the wind we were concerned that to proceed might be foolish. But as we rested and pondered a group of hikers emerged through the opening. We questioned them and they had already been to the summit and back! They assured us that the going was better and the wind less strong as soon as you got through the opening.

We looked at each other questioningly and both knew the other wanted to proceed–and so we did. Climbing through the opening with the wind tearing at us was terrifying. But it was true, once we were through and reached the narrow ledge the wind subsided. This portion of the trail is called the Narrows. We proceeded cautiously, but found secure footing and felt fairly confident in spite of the ledge to our right. The drop was not quite 90 degrees, but though the solid rock slope had an angle to it, it was just enough that should you fall you were guaranteed to bounce along the rock the whole way to the rock floor thousands of feet below without the slightest hope of ledge or handhold to save you.

This stretch went smoothly enough and was mostly a horizontal trek and therefore not very tiring. We took this restful opportunity to admire the surrounding landscape–blue and white capped mountains in the distance and the nearer, sharp spears of rock surrounding us. It was awe-inspiring to say the least.

At the end of the Narrows we came to the Trough, a chute of tumbled boulders covered in powdery snow. Here we stopped to put metal ice grips on the bottom of our shoes. This portion of the climb was much more arduous as the ascent was fairly vertical, with the boulders we had to scramble up covered in slippery snow. Here there was much less danger of an instant death fall, but the prospect of tumbling down the slippery boulders was not an appealing one and we climbed cautiously.

At the top of the Trough there were several, enormous boulders that could only be climbed by shimmying up the space between two, chimmney-style–with back braced against one and feet against another. Tyler helped me to my feet on top of the highest boulder and we found ourselves looking out through a gap in the rocks, down another side of the mountain. We scrambled over a ridge and down onto another narrow ledge–this time the drop was a sheer free-fall of thousands of feet.

The ledge here was even narrower and covered with ice. It was more apparent than ever that one wrong step could lead to a swift death. I was grateful for the grips on my shoes which I could feel biting into the smooth ice with every step. We tested every step before putting weight on it–before trusting our footing. I’ll admit, there were a few times here where I was scared. But for the most part as long as I tested each step I felt confident in my footing. This continued for some time before we rounded an outcropping and saw the final stretch before us. Here the narrows began to widen out a bit, but even as they did the smooth rock slab began to increase its angle until it was nearly vertical with a clean-cut drop on the outer edge.

To make matters worse the smooth rock had rivulets of frozen water running down it–covering and obscuring many of the already too-few handholds. We began to climb on the inner edge closest to the comforting rock wall, but as we navigated the ice patches and attempted to find satisfactory hand and foot-holds we often found ourselves closer to the outer edge and the sheer drop than was comfortable. At this point there were also a number of other climbers on this portion of the slope and I was very aware that should one of them slip (or should I) it was likely they would take others behind them down on the way. But we were so close now, there could be no going back.

My frozen fingers fumbled stiffly along the rock, searching for a grip. I found myself in a position where there were no hand-holds. None within reach, that was. I saw what I had to do–I had good footing and I would have to push off and attempt to spring to new grips for both hands and feet. I had to be confident in myself. To falter here would certainly mean to fall. And to miscalculate would also certainly mean to fall. But it was the only way. I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked down at Tyler who was looking up at me–studying me.  It was now or never. I held my breath and jumped, praying I would reach my aim. I used the momentum to propel me, and scrambled up a few feet, grasping as I did onto some good holds. I was safe. I had done it. It was just a short scramble now over the edge and onto the summit. Exhausted I pulled myself up, and then reached a hand back to Tyler. Together we crawled onto the peak–onto the top of the world.

In every direction we could see endlessly–nothing could obscure our vision at this height, we were above it all. Clouds hung below us and a few sailed towards us, directly on our level. We rested for a while, soaking in the beauty around us and the triumph of our ascent. Now that we were on top, however, I began to feel the adrenaline that had been propelling me on begin to dissipate. I felt exhaustion begin to creep over me.

It was growing late in the morning and though the sunlight was piercing at the moment, there were clouds in the distance that could pose a threat and we knew we must begin our descent. I had heard before that descending a serious mountain can be more dangerous than the ascent and I instantly realized the truth of this. The mountain was conquered and the adrenaline gone and with it the extended strength it had provided. As I braced my body against the pull of gravity and began to slowly lower myself down the steep, icy, slope I felt the weakness and the exhaustion of my arms. I realized the toll that had been taken on them in the ascent that I had barely noticed before.

As I braced and lowered, braced and lowered, my tired arms threatened to fail me at any moment. I mostly slid down on my butt, trying to do most of the hard work with my feet. Finally, we reached the bottom of the wall and were faced with the long, treacherous narrows. The sharp awareness given by adrenaline which had aided us in our careful steps in the ascent was gone, and it took great effort to pay such close attention to each step–to put each foot forward delicately and gingerly, prepared for anything. By the time we reached the bottom of the Trough I was stumbling–and we still had the longest stretch of the Narrows ahead of us. A little ways into the Narrows I stumbled, and fell forward, catching myself with my hands. Tyler rushed to me and looking up at him I saw the fear in his eyes.

I summoned what little strength and energy I had left for his sake. I’ve never felt that exhausted in my life. My bones felt empty, hollowed of all life. I felt so tired it was almost like pain–and I don’t mean muscle pain–the pain of pure exhaustion. I told Tyler I didn’t think I could go on and again saw the fear and something like desperation in his eyes. I had to keep trying. I could have curled up on that rock face and gone to sleep. But I kept going. I stumbled again, and again. Tyler was nearly on top of me now, trying to keep me from falling. The Keyhole came into sight. We were almost there. Almost.

The final climb up through the Keyhole was treacherous and my broken body raged against me for forcing it forward. But then we were through, and the sun shone bright, and weakly warm on our faces. I found a large, flat rock and stretched out and didn’t move for a long time.

Finally, Tyler woke me from my petrified state of exhaustion and said we had to move on. The boulder field stretched out like an ocean before us. I looked from the boulder I was standing on to the one a few feet away, knowing I would have to jump to it. But all the spring was gone from my body. What nearly as natural as walking on the way up now felt like jumping the Grand Canyon. I forced my body to make the leap and I landed awkwardly, the impact jolting through my whole body. I had to rest between each stumbling-jump and our progress was slow and tedious. When we finally reached the end of the boulder field and and were able to walk on the packed dirt trail again I could have cried for joy. We had six miles left to go, but I could stumble my way down from here on.

We turned back and looked at that menacing, black peak which had taunted us for months. We had been on top of that. We had conquered it, experienced it, and now that we were safe from it it could be a friend–it could threaten us no more. We stood arm-in-arm marvelling at the power of the mountain and at our own ability in having successfully reached its summit.