The Struggles of Life Abroad

Torino, Italy
Spring, 2012

When you think of the difficulties you might encounter while traveling or living abroad you tend to think of the big things–not speaking or reading the language, different etiquette rules, etc. But in my experience it is often the small things–like doors being pushed instead of pulled, multiple buttons to flush a toilet instead of a simple handle, no toilet seat at all…these are the types of things that tend to catch me off guard and leave me flustered and confused. My first week studying abroad in Torino, Italy had many difficulties of this sort, including an incident with a train.

My college roommate, my now-husband, and I all spent a semester studying in Italy during our undergrad. None of us knew more than an handful of Italian words when we arrived, and of those our pronunciation was horrific. We had only been in Torino for a few days when we decided we needed to get out and explore. My roommate, Alyssa, had heard about a walled-medieval town on the outskirts of the city that Tyler and I agreed sounded worth visiting. So we headed to the train station, phrase books in-hand.

We were successful in finding the correct train and listened anxiously for the right stop. When we heard the name of our stop we all quickly headed for the door. When we got there we were surprised to find it closed. On any train or bus I’ve ever been on in the US the doors open automatically at a stop and shut when the vehicle is about to start again. We had no clue what to do–we just stood there staring at the closed door. There was a large handle on the door and we finally decided to try it–even though we were sure an alarm would go off or someone would come and yell at us. This is why these things are normally automated!

Alyssa tentatively tried the handle and to our great surprise the doors slid apart. We hesitated a moment longer–still feeling uncertain–and then Alyssa stepped forward to exit the train. At the exact moment she stepped through the doors they closed on her; sandwiching her between them. For a brief moment she was stuck there, her lower body half outside the train, her face a picture of complete shock. A moment’s struggle and she was through the doors, and outside the train.

Tyler grabbed the door handle and tried to open the door again, but this time it did not budge. There had been no warning signal, nothing to alert us that our chance to exit the train was over, but now we were stuck inside the train, and Alyssa outside on the platform. I ran back into the passenger car and spinning around frantically began shouting, “USCITA, USCITA, USCITA!” Which means, “EXIT, EXIT, EXIT!” Except I had the pronunciation completely wrong and wasn’t forming an actual sentence, so it really shouldn’t be surprising that the other passengers ignored me entirely and made no move to help us.

Even as I was shouting I felt the train shift under my feet, and I looked at Tyler in horror, and then we both turned to look out the window to where Alyssa still stood on the platform. Her face mirrored the looks of shock and confusion on our’s as the train slowly moved away, leaving her behind.

None of us had international phones, so there was no way of contacting her. There was nothing we could do now except sit down and wait for the next stop, and then get back on a train heading back to Alyssa. But the fears immediately began bombarding our minds–“What if she tries to come to us? What if she heads back to the apartments without us? What do we do if we get back to the stop and she isn’t there?” In retrospect none of these fears were really serious, but at the time we were overwhelmed–our first excursion and we were already lost and separated.

Even as we fretting over our fears the image of Alyssa’s face as she was squashed in the doors (just like the warning stickers posted on them!)  came to my mind and I suddenly burst out laughing. Tyler looked at me in confusion. Through my laughter I managed to say, “Alysssa. The doors. Her face!” At this Tyler cracked up too and we laughed the whole way to the next stop. When we exited the train–this time successfully–our fears returned. It was about 15 minutes until the next train and I couldn’t help but worry about Alyssa waiting for us, wondering if we were coming for her, when we would get there, or whether she should just go back to the apartment.

Finally the train pulled up and we were once again headed back the direction we had come. When we arrived at our stop we ran out onto the platform looking frantically for Alyssa. She was no where in sight. Then we saw her–getting onto the very train we had just gotten off of a little ways down the platform. We ran after her yelling for her to wait. She saw us, and climbed down, just before the door latched and the train started moving.

We spent a few moments spilling out our separate adventures and expressing our relief. Then we decided to continue on our venture. A few minutes later we were approaching a magnificent medieval town, rising up on a hill over the surrounding suburbs. We entered through an arch in the wall around the city, climbed through winding streets, past beautiful churches, and finally to a castle at the top of it all with beautiful views looking out over the city and the Alps beyond.

It was a successful trip after all and well worth the hecticness and confusion. And most importantly, the adventure gave me one of my most hilarious memories. I’ll never forget the look on Alyssa’s face while trapped in the door, or the image of me running around yelling, or our pathetic naive faces as the train pulled away. Who would have thought a train door could have presented such difficulties?

The Rose Man in Rome

Rome, Italy
Spring, 2012

It was our last night in Rome. It was one of those lovely spring evenings when the air is the perfect mixture of warm and cool which feels like a perpetual kiss to the cheek. We were sad to end our time in such a beautiful place and we had spent the evening stalling our goodbye. We wandered the quiet streets from the Trevi Fountain, to the Spanish Stairs, and through winding back streets until we finally found ourselves at the Colosseum.

The ancient structure was at full aesthetic advantage in the soft glow of the street lights; the crowds of the afternoon vanished–leaving open space to amplify its majestic stance. We made our way to a secluded bench where we could sit and bask in the beauty around us. As I sat there, under the walls of the Colosseum, with the arm of the man I loved around me, in one of the most beautiful, romantic cities in the world, I had one of those moments of utter surreality that sometimes overwhelm me. At these times I am simply in awe of the present beauty of my life and feel almost distant from myself–marveling at my own experiences as an outsider.

As I was processing all of this I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked and saw a man carrying a bundle of roses walking in our general direction. He caught my eye. I looked away quickly; but it was too late–we had made eye contact. His trajectory changed from generally in our direction to straight for us. If you have ever been to Rome than you know why I was horrified with my mistake.

Most cities, especially tourist cities, have plenty of street vendors and peddlers continually trying to sell you their wares. But in Rome, more so than most cities I’ve been to, some of these peddlers can be particularly persistent and aggressive in their attempts to make a sale. And of all of these, the rose men are the worst. They prey on the unsuspecting tourist, offering a rose as if as a gift, when the victim accepts the rose the peddler then demands money, but refuses to take back the rose and, unless you throw the rose on the ground, the only way to get rid of the salesman is to give him the money.

Even those who are wise to this trick have a hard time escaping the rose man. Once you make eye contact you are doomed. He swoops in like a hawk, with a rose held out in your face, and when you dismiss it he follows with continuous cajoling and flattery–insisting you take the rose. I’m not exaggerating to say you either have to run away or curse him out to escape. It is a miserable interaction every time.

And now, in the middle of this perfect, romantic moment, I had drawn one toward us. I turned to Tyler, and thinking quickly, said, “Make-out with me, now!” We immediately embraced, eyes closed, pretending to be oblivious to the man’s approach–surely he wouldn’t want to harass a gross, sappy, couple. But with dread we heard the continued sound of footsteps on cobble stone approaching us. But we persisted–we were committed now. The footsteps grew closer, and closer, and then they stopped–right in front of us. I’m sure I blushed, feeling his eyes on us, even though mine were closed. But we clung to each other–determined to make him so uncomfortable that he would leave. Surely he would leave.

The silence continued for what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a moment’s pause before we heard, “Ah, romantico.” In complete surprise and indignation we broke apart and looked up at the man standing over us. He was looking down at us with a grin on his face, rose extended toward us.

Our mouths hung open for a moment in shock before we began the usual chastising dismissal. Finally, Tyler said, “GO AWAY.” The rose man shrugged, still grinning, and  walked away. Tyler and I looked at each other in utter amazement and horror and I said, “I was sure he would go away!”  Then we burst into uncontrolled laughter–the sheer ridiculousness of the situation overwhelming us.

Lela, the Beggar Woman

Torino, Italy
Spring, 2012

The spring semester of my junior year of college Tyler and I (we were just dating then) studied abroad in Torino, Italy. During our four months there we fell hard for the under-appreciated city and northern Italy in general. The casual, unassuming beauty of the city entranced us–the rambling cobblestone streets and accordion men playing on the street corners stole our hearts. When we had to leave I cried over all of these beautiful things, but what broke my heart the most was saying good-bye to a tiny, hunched-over, beggar woman named Lela.

Something that took me off-guard in northern Italy was the homeless. In my experience with the homeless in the US the people on the streets are most often middle-aged men. All of them have sad stories as to how they ended up there–some are drug or alcohol addicts, veterans, or victims of depression and mental illness. It is always heart-breaking to see, but there is some amount of hope that with the right help these people could re-enter society, obtain jobs, make friends, perhaps even be reunited with family.

But here, amidst all the beauty of these ancient streets the beggars are themselves the ancient. Their lives have already been spent and what is left to them they will spend alone, on the streets. I do not know the reason for this difference in demographic, nor do I make claims or judgments about this society–all I know is that it was one of the most heart-rendering things I ever experienced.

We met Lela on one of our first days there–walking back from the train station after classes. The walk back from the train station was one of my favorite parts of the city. The wide boulevard plunged through the heart of the old city. Beautiful, sophisticated shops and restaurants lined the street under grand, arching arcades. The sidewalks under the arcades  were always crowded and bustling and, though my eyes lingered on the ornate cakes or expensive clothing in the windows in passing, I was continually pulled onward by the bustling crowd.

We were just passing Piazza San Carlo, a wide space in the center of the busy city where the sun shone brightly down and reflected off of white paving stones, when my eyes caught something ahead, amidst the throng of shuffling black coats. Un-moving in the center of current was a tiny, black-clad figure. As we approached I saw that it was woman’s figure–but small as a child–bundled against the cold, and hunched over a cane, one hand extended, holding a plastic cup. A glimpse of her bowed head showed us a faded and withered cheek. The shock of seeing such a frail, old woman out on the streets in the cold was like a punch in the stomach. I scrounged in my pocket for some change, but not finding anything I looked desperately at Tyler, who immediately produced some from his own. When the coins hit the bottom of the cup a small, scratchy voice came from the bowed, bundled head, “Grazie.” She didn’t even look up.

We walked back to our student apartments in silence–the image of the little figure in black burned into my mind.

The next morning we had classes early and the world was harsh and frost bitten as we shuffled hurriedly towards the train station. We were empty-handed when we found ourselves passing by the tiny figure again–we had not expected to see her again so early in the day. I wanted to cry imagining how cold she must be.

On our walk back from classes I proudly showed Tyler the clementine I had saved from my lunch to give to the beggar woman. He smiled and pulled one from his pocket as well. This time, when we reached her we stopped and held out the fruit to her. She slowly raised her head to look up at us. We saw her whole face for the first time. Her face was composed of a thousand lines, but set in them were two bright, black eyes. She was something from a fairy tale–the shriveled old crone who when shown kindness turns into a fairy and grants wishes. Her look was one of surprise and curiosity at our attention. In our broken Italian we attempted to introduce ourselves and ask her name. We were never sure whether our Italian was just too poor or if she simply wasn’t Italian, but she did not seem to understand anything we said. But we did eventually communicate to her our names and she told us her’s was Lela. Our words failed us, but through awkward shrugs, smiles and laughs we connected. As we waved and backed away she called after us, Grazie, mami, Grazie.

We continued in this way for the next few weeks–saving a pastry or a piece of fruit here or there to offer Lela on our way to or from school. One day I had an idea that thrilled me. I told Tyler that on our way home I wanted to ask Lela to go to tea with me at one of the shops near where she spent her days. When I asked her that afternoon (using our usual broken Italian and hand gestures) she smiled, but shook her head. “No, mami, no.” She said. She said some things that I didn’t understand, but eventually I gathered that she was saying that she would not be allowed in the shops. My American sensibilities were shocked as in the US we are almost always happy to take money from anyone who will give it to us.

I was sad and disappointed, but Lela’s smiles and reassuring gestures comforted me and I left with a new resolve to help her any way I could–though I had little to offer.

One particularly bitterly cold night Tyler and I were coming back from grocery shopping when we saw the familiar form illuminated under the lights of the shop windows. The wind was biting and a few flakes of snow were beginning to swirl down from the dark sky. I felt my stomach clench. She had been there all day, and now it was dark, and cold and the streets were nearly empty and yet here she stood silent and still as stone.

When we came to her we were both fretful and agitated. We tried to ask her where she lived, where she would stay that night, why she was still outside–but once again our words failed us. She looked at our anxious faces and with a tired smile patted my arm and said things in a tone that I knew meant she wanted us to know she was ok. Tears were welling in my eyes when Tyler asked if there were anything we could do for her or get for her. She hesitated and then held out her bare, gnarled hands–she wanted gloves. We smiled, and nodded our heads, eternally grateful that she had given us this gift of allowing us to help.

We hurried back to our housing and Tyler began digging in drawers for gloves while I put water on to boil. A minute later he appeared at my side with the gloves. “What are you doing?” He asked, looking at the pot of water. “Making her tea.” I said as my voice cracked. I found a jar to hold the tea and wrapped some pastries in a napkin.

We found her in the same place, but she looked up as we drew near–she had learned to recognize our approach and greeted us with a smile. She gladly accepted our meager gifts. We lingered for a few minutes, hating to leave her there in the cold, but we knew our presence made her less likely to receive the charity she was there to humbly accept. And so we left her there.

The weeks and months slipped by and the days grew longer and warmer. One day Tyler asked me to marry him and I accepted. The next day we stopped to excitedly communicate our news to Lela. Our happy faces and the ring on my hand easily communicated our story and she was delighted for us. Though I don’t know the meaning of her words, I know she gave us many blessings that day as she squeezed our hands and her whole wrinkled face beamed back at us.

Finally, the day I had dreaded since we first arrived was upon us–the day of our departure. When I decide to love, I love deeply. And Torino–its streets, its surrounding hills and mountains, its people–had captured my love. I cried over saying goodbye to my apartment, my street, the market, Piazza San Carlo, my favorite gelato shop. I cried softly as we walked through the streets, but when we came in sight of Lela I lost all control and began sobbing.

Lela looked at us in bewilderment–back and forth from Tyler’s sad face to my tear-soaked one. We handed her our bag of fare-well gifts and the laboriously translated card with our explanation of our departure. She looked at the gifts and the card and I don’t know whether she could read it or understand anything we were saying, or whether she simply deduced the truth from the gifts and the tears, but suddenly she understood. She looked sad at least, for our sakes, and took my hands to console me. After a few painful moments we said our tearful goodbyes and continued on our way.

I turned around one last time to look at the tiny figure–the same as ever–and in my memory so she will always be. It is rare that I dwell on my time in Torino without that image appearing before my eyes. We never learned her story–who she was or where she came from or how she came to live her days on the streets. But I often wonder if I were to return if she would still be there. Is she still alive? Would she remember us? Did we make a fraction of the impact on her that she left on us or were we just two of the hundreds of figures that swirl past her unnoticingly on a daily basis? Would those bright black eyes look up and see friends or strangers?

Pefki–A Journey Through Mountains, Desert, and Time

Island of Crete, Greece
August, 2013

We had spent the first few days of our honeymoon laying in the sun, playing like giddy children in the gentle, clear water, and trying all of the quaint, family-owned, water-front restaurants near our villa–the obvious activities for a vacation in a beautiful Mediterranean village. But the dry, rocky mountains at our backs had been beckoning to my husband since we had first arrived. He would never be satisfied until we had explored and conquered at least one of them. To me they looked rather dull and uninviting at, but as the days passed the barren landscape began to have a draw on me as well. Finally, one morning, when Tyler again raised the idea of venturing into the mountains, I agreed to (to his great surprise) to make an expedition.

By the time we had eaten breakfast and set out, however, it was already late morning and the sun was well up and as we headed away from the refreshing sea breeze the heat became oppressive. But we plunged into the desert hills nonetheless. We had a vague idea about finding a gorge we had heard about that was supposed to be a few miles inland. But the trail we thought would lead to it soon began a steep ascent and, though we suspected it would not lead to the gorge, we decided to see where it would take us. We passed through an olive grove and up past a few houses before we broke out on the side of the base of a mountain with our little village and the brilliant blue ocean sprawled out below us.

We continued on this rocky trail as it wound up, along the side of the mountain. Here in these vividly barren mountains little grew except for some coarse, stunted little bushes and shrubs, but the air was filled with a wonderful herbal aroma that rose from the dry, shriveled plants. The scent was elusive at times and pungent at others. Those warm, fragrant wafts of air further contributed to the feeling of adventure–the smell was foreign yet familiar, soothing yet evocative.

The path led steeply and quickly up the mountain and we soon found ourselves scrambling up the crest and onto the crown of the first small peak of desert mountains which extended as far as the eye could see. The steep face of the mountain fell away before us and we could see the tiny dirt path we had come up by snaking down it and on through the olive groves. Beyond the olive groves we could see the small cluster of white washed buildings lined up along the vibrant Mediterranean blue which stretched on infinitely beyond them. It was a strange contrast to see–that endless blue which through its very intensity seemed to cry of refreshment and life. And yet, at the edge of the blue the dry, empty world began. A world that could not receive the life of the sea–though they touch for a moment. And here we stood–in this other endlessness of dry and crumbling rock.

Something about that contrast–and maybe the fragrance in the air–made me feel invigorated, curious, expectant. I needed to see more of this crumbling land. And so we headed back down off the peak and onto the trail that continued into the heart of the mountains. The path followed the curvature of the mountain we had ascended and we anxiously awaited to see what would appear beyond each bend. We seemed to be gradually ascending again with a deep gorge appearing below us and another craggy mountain on the other side of it. We realized we had found the gorge we had been seeking, but were instead passing over top and along side it. Through this mountain pass we could see more hills in the distance–some appeared to have cultivated olive groves on them which piqued our interest–who could be farming out in this barren, alien land?

A few more bends and curves and the trail and we once more found ourselves with a clear view through the pass; but this time another world had appeared on the other side. It was like looking through a veil on a time and place from ages past–a fantasy that would pass in a moment. Beyond the high walls of the mountains we were passing through, the land seemed to open out onto more rolling mountains. And perched on the edge of these–with the gorge winding past underneath–was a tiny village of square, rambling houses–bleached white and shining in the sun. But more surreal still was the sharp peak–like a finger of rock which loomed over the town. A narrow path meandered out of the city and up the hills to the peak and then wound up the side of it to the narrow summit where rested a small white building–a monastery, we excitedly speculated.

We stood there, staring, for a while, marveling. We turned to each other, hardly believing the other could be seeing the same thing through the veil. But we were. And tired, and hungry though we were, we wanted nothing more than to press on to this place before it vanished. But we had already hiked several miles and it was at least another three to the village. We were out of water and had no money to purchase food or water if we made it to the town. And so, with great reluctance we turned around. But I was the first to say, “We are going back tomorrow. All the way to that town. And we will climb that rock tower and visit that shrine.” Tyler looked at me with surprise. “Really? You will want to come all the way out here again?” I looked at him with eyes that I can only imagine looked bewitched and said firmly, “Yes.” There was no question in my mind or his–we had to visit that town. If it was still there on the morrow, that was.

The next day we rose early; we packed extra water, food, and money for our trip. This time we found the path to and through the gorge we had been looking for. A wooden sign pointed into the gorge with the single world “Pefki” on it. We decided this must be the name of the town we were pursuing. When we reached the gorge we found ourselves entering into the cool shade of the rock walls rising high on either side. The rock was bare but had beautiful streaks of various shades of reds and yellows and the artistry of time had worn and carved its face into beautiful, interesting forms. Through the gorge ran the smallest trickle of a stream and around it had sprung up life. Grasses, shrubs and even some small trees filled the canyon. We followed the faint gurgling of the stream further into the shadows and as the shadows grew so did the stream. At one point a smaller path broke off of the main one and meandered down and into a cluster of small trees. We had to see where it went, of course. Inside the shelter of the trees we found a small, round pool of water–cool and clear. The water trickled over moss covered stones and frogs swam around the pebbled bottom. The air here was particularly sweet and refreshing. We spent a few moments absorbing the beauty of this secluded place and then continued on our way.

After following the trail deeper into the gorge, through rocky, mossy, damp places illuminated only by light filtered green by the trees above, the path began to climb upward again. Soon we were scrambling up a steep, narrow path that somehow wound up the wall of the gorge. Suddenly we were above the gorge and bathed in the bright, hot, desert sun. We had covered a significant portion of the distance to the town, Pefki, on the hillside; further than the day before. We could now see the whole path laid out before us. To our right–across the gorge–there still rose a sheer wall of mottled rock. We were catching our breaths and appreciating the view when I heard a distant sound coming from the rock face. My eyes instinctively scanned the flat face and were snagged upon movement halfway up. Goats! Four goats were hopping around on invisible niches in the rock wall.

After watching in bemused amazement for a few minutes we continued on our pilgrimage to the mysterious town and the distant mountain-top shrine. As we walked we discussed the possibility of whether the town was actually inhabited and what we would find on top of the peak. We made up our own history and mythology for the origins of this place that had captured our fascination.

Finally, we reached the outskirts of the town. We passed rambling shacks with vegetable patches; a dog here and there lying in the sun. Up a cobble-stoned path, under the shade of olive trees we climbed. We entered the town, walking down narrow streets with houses on our left and a low wall on the right, beyond–the gorge, the mountain pass, and far, far in the distance a sliver of blue ocean. Some of the houses were dilapidated, but others had fresh, brightly colored doors set into clean, white-washed walls. Vines climbed over the walls of private gardens and heavy clusters of grapes dangled down into the street. We picked handfuls and ate as we walked. The streets were empty. Silent. We walked as ones afraid to break a spell or wake the dead. When we spoke it was in whispers.

Though the town seemed deserted the occasional sign of life continued to present itself–a massive Greek urn with potted flowers, glimpses of carefully tended gardens, a cat resting on a wall. We wandered the empty streets, climbing higher into the town by way of staircases joining the street levels. The first person we encountered did not fully confirm to us that we had not entered a dream. We were climbing one of the aforementioned staircases when we pulled up short at the sight of an old woman asleep in a chair on her door step. We peered at her from around the corner. She was dressed traditionally–skirt, shirt, headcovering–all black. The hair that showed beneath the cloth was pure white. We waited, but she did not move. We passed quietly by, watching her as we went, but she did not stir or make a sound.

We were still speculating over this scene and, whether we had indeed been transported back in time, when we found the street we were on opening out into a sort of stone-paved patio, shaded by a huge tree and looking out over the valley below. Under the tree were several tables and chairs set with tablecloths and silverware. The door to the building closest to this layout was open and a chalk board stood alongside it with meals and prices written on it. Faint sounds of kitchen activities drifted out to us. We looked around, but no one was in sight. We peeked in the doorway just as a young man walked out.

The sight of someone so fresh and alive took us completely off-guard. But after a moments mumbling and confusion we asked if we could have lunch on the patio and a moment later we were seated under the tree, looking at menus. We enjoyed a wonderful lunch there, all the time marveling, delighted at the strangeness of this experience.

When we had finished our meal and felt thoroughly refreshed, we knew we had to complete our journey. The rock thumb with loomed over us, beckoning us on. We climbed up through the rest of the town–not encountering a single soul as we went. Another wandering path lead up, out of the town, over grassy hills, towards the rocky pinnacle. We followed this, occasionally looking back to see the miles we had traversed and the small town growing ever smaller. Beyond the rock that we pursued the grasslands ended–or rather harsh rock had been forced up through the earth, or perhaps the earth had worn away from them thousands of years ago. They formed impressions against the sky and enticed us to investigate. But we would not be distracted. We would make this pilgrimage that had undoubtedly been made by many before us. Finally, we were at the base of the rock. The path had no pity for the pilgrim and climbed as steeply as could be allowed–a small rail separated the path from the sheer drop on the outer edge of the path.

And so we climbed. Feeling every step to be full of meaning and wondering what that was. The sun was overhead now, and we climbed straight for it. Our legs were strongly protesting long before we reached the top and, when we at last stepped out onto the flat pavement at the top, they trembled with exhaustion. But there was no place for weakness here. We had reached the top of the world and below us was a detailed map of the many miles we had traversed. Though the view was beyond magnificent we were drawn to the small white building which occupied most of the peak. Two small windows and a wooden door between them. A bell hung from a little arch on the roof and the rope to ring it hung down beside the door. Tyler grasped the rope and rang the bell–breaking the bright silence which had engulfed us and signaling the end of our pilgrimage. We held our breaths as we tried the handle–it opened. Inside, a small room, candles, icons, the cross, and the face of Christ. It wasn’t a monastery; it was a shrine. We felt the devotion, the sorrows, the prayers of generations, and we were silent. When we stepped back into the bright sunshine we stood for a while and marveled at the world below and this small, white shrine quietly above it all.

The Descent

Leon, Nicaragua 
We were not long on the peak before a ridge began to chip away at the circle of the sun and we were reminded of the shortness of days near the equator. It had taken hours to reach this height and now there was certainly less than an hour before the quickly fading sun would be fully obscured. And so with this realization upon us we fled the mountain top. We  knew there was no possible way to reach the bottom before dark if we descended the same way we had come. Our friend suggested an alternate–hopefully more direct route–but one that was unfamiliar to all of us. We weighed our options and decided we would have to take the risk of the unknown path.

Our pace began at a rapid clip, but as the shadow of the mountain began to extend across our path we broke into a jog and soon after a full-out run. We fled the mountain we had spent the entire day conquering. Behind us the shadows reached out their arms to engulf us and we raced to escape their embrace. Down, down the narrow, winding path. Down through the underbrush and the fields, down past the tree of paradise where we had lingered too long in its shade such a short time before. Then we had seen the shadows as friends, now we saw a looming enemy at our back.

Soon we came to the fork in the path where we were forced to leave the familiar and trust that this new path would bring us safely out of this wilderness. We took this path still at run; and as we did the trees closed in overhead and we were instantly submerged in the twilight we were fleeing. Roots and rocks and slippery leaves threatened to send us sprawling at any moment and we were forced to slow to a jog and then soon–as the twilight thickened–back to a walk. The world grew grayer and grainier–like a faded photograph–and our eyes strained to find the way. We hurried on as best we could in this manner for some time. I could not pinpoint the moment it happened, but suddenly I realized that the last of the day’s light had left us and darkness had fallen, thick and complete under the trees, and my eyes groped hopelessly had vague shapes in the blackness.

We had only one headlamp between the three of us and though our friend walked between us to share the light it was hard to say if it did not actually worsen the situation. If we walked behind we walked outside of the swath of light and though the way ahead was lit, our own steps were in darkness. If we walked in the light our own shadows obscured our immediate path and the light destroyed any sensitivity to the darkness and we were again left blind. But we stumbled on as best we could.

By this time my feet (foolishly clad in thin-soled hiking sandals) were so sore, bruised, and tired I could barely walk. And with every step I was likely to feel a sharp rock underfoot or to stub a toe on a root–each step more painful than the last. It was when we finally seemed to have reached the base of the mountain and the steep descent had ended that the worst of the trek began. We found ourselves on a road of sorts with steep dirt walls rising on both sides. The road was covered in deep, coarse gravel. I cannot express the horror of walking on this material with bruised and battered feel in unprotective sandals and to make matters worse the gravel slid under our feet making progress slow and exhausting. We were all feeling done in by this time, but I was in the worst shape and kept falling behind no matter how hard I pushed myself to continue stumbling forward. A fear had begun to rise in our minds that we might not make the it to the main road in time to catch the last bus back to the city–that we might be stranded in this wilderness until morning. Another, even worse fear was also brooding in our minds that this path might be leading us entirely astray and we were actually wandering farther and farther from civilization. We were keenly aware, now that the warmth and security that sunshine offers had left us, that we were three young, vulnerable gringos, stranded in the back country of third-world country–helpless and exposed should human or animal decide to give threat.

The ring of light provided by the headlamp grew further and further out of my reach as my husband and friend trudged anxiously in the direction they hoped was leading out of this dark wilderness. A rustling in the undergrowth on the steep embankment to our left stopped us in our tracks. The light swung in that direction and we saw the reflective glow of eyes peering at us. We all held our breaths for a moment and then I hurried to reach the light and the safety of numbers. By the time I reached the others the eyes had disappeared. We looked anxiously around us and then began our journey again with even more urgency than before.

When we had traveled in silence for a while and no sounds of pursuit or flickers of eyes appeared in the shadows we began to relax a little. We took a short rest to catch our breaths and give my aching feet a chance to recover. In spite of our fears we allowed ourselves to revel for a moment in the incredibility of our situation. We turned the light off and looked up at the brilliant array of stars overhead. It was a beautiful and familiar sight; but something about it jarred me. It took me a moment to realize why–these were not the stars I knew. This was a different sky, a different configuration of pinpoints of lights. I saw for the first time constellations I only knew from textbooks. The feeling that came over me then was one that made my skin crawl and made me shiver–one of unearthliness. Can it be the same world if it does not share the same sky?

Standing there in the heavy silence of night we were all in awe and fear of what we were experiencing–and in spite of our fears we loved it. I felt the smallness of my existence in this wild, foreign land with its unfamiliar sky. I felt how vulnerable we were–but also how alive. Sometimes the most wonderful moments in life are also the most terrifying. Sometimes fear is the recognition of the greatness of a thing–that it is beautiful, wonderful, even terrible.

We were shaken from our reverie by that faintest sound far off in the distance. We strained our ears to catch it again but it was elusive–leaving us uncertain that we had heard anything. But then it came again–a melody–music, coming from somewhere, far, far away. But it was something. A sign of life in this world we had felt for a while entirely alone in. It seemed to be coming vaguely from the direction we believed the road to be. And so we set out again on this seemingly endless journey.

Time seemed to stretch on and on and the sound at times seemed to become more distant and again the fear that we were lost rose in us. But we knew nothing to do other than to continue forward and  strain our ears for the sound of vehicles in the distance. When we were again nearing despair and the pain in my feet was so bad that I was nearly crippled our ears caught the sound we had been hardly daring to hope for–an engine–a car whizzing down a road in the distance. The other two hurried ahead leaving me stumbling in the darkness–but I could hear their excited cries up ahead as I struggled to follow. A few minutes passed and my husband was hurrying back. “There is a bridge and a paved road ahead!” He called back to me. And at that moment I saw headlights through the trees. Soon I was crawling up an embankment and onto the road. We were all laughing and smiling in our relief. And a moment later our friend had waved down a vehicle and then we were inside, sitting down–finally–exhausted, happy.

Later that night–after a huge dinner and a hot foot bath for me–we scrambled up onto the red-tiled roof of the compound; precariously balancing mugs of tea as we climbed. We sat there looking out over the rambling city roofs and reliving our wild adventure, and discussing our dreams and plans for the future. We lay back against the hard tiles of the roof, listening to the sounds of the city around us, and feeling the tiredness of our bodies which gave evidence to the reality of our surreal adventures.

The Earth is a Living Myth: Looking Upon the Heart of the Earth

Leon, Nicaragua

I woke to a knock and a voice at the door of our sleeping quarters. My feet made contact with cool, dusty concrete as a I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I woke my husband and we entered the courtyard together and crossed to the kitchen where our friend fed us rice, beans, and hard cheese. By the time we had each downed our cups of coffee we felt alive and ready for the long day ahead of us .

We packed a few essentials–water, a machete, a book of poetry, a hammock, a few baloney sandwiches–and then we were ready to set out on this adventure. Stepping out onto an empty, stoned-paved street we were hit with a wave of morning heat. Down one street, then another, through an alley and out into a busy market our friend guided us. People on foot, in carts pulled by donkeys, on bikes, and motorcycles all swarmed around us.

We plunged into the covered market area–a maze of booths and stalls selling everything imaginable. Freshly arrived from a world of neatly, packaged sterility, I was overwhelmed, invigorated, and intrigued by the myriad smells and sounds attacking my senses. Piles of strange fruits and vegetables, pungent cheeses, and raw meats surrounded us on all sides and the merchant of each product yelled out a price and promotion. I could hardly move for desire to soak it all in; but my husband and our guide were rapidly disappearing into the labyrinth. I ducked quickly through the crowded space to catch them.

We headed towards the light and open air on the other side of the market; stopping on the fringe to get bags of juice for the bus ride (like a gold fish at the fair would come in). Our friend led us seemingly arbitrarily onto one of a line of retired school buses. We sat aboard drinking our juice bags through straws and waiting for the bus to start.

Soon we were leaving the narrow streets of the city and driving through the dusty countryside. The others chattered and joked, but I couldn’t draw my eyes from that hot, dry countryside with its scattered tin-roofed huts. The world was so foreign and strange and soon the sharp, smoking triangles of the volcanoes appeared in the distance.

We were dropped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. We began our trek up a dirt side road with the largest of the volcano peaks looming in the near distance. Halfway up the road a young horse appeared trotting down the road towards us. We watched bewildered as it drew nearer and then passed by–unaccompanied and intent on its destination.

After a while the road came to an end and we found ourselves at the head of an unmarked trail heading up into some sparse trees and meandering in the general direction of the faintly smoking peak. We paused for a few moments before beginning the real portion of our adventure. Up the rooted, rocky trail we climbed–grateful for the thin shade that the trees provided to protect us from the sun. It was still early in day, but the air felt like it came from an oven–so hot and dry.

We climbed through the woods for miles, up and up. Finally, we broke out of the trees and passed through parched fields on a path so narrow, dusty and hot that we were soon covered in a fine layer of brown dirt clinging to our sweatless skin. I would not readily admit that I was tiring, but once or twice suggested we stop to eat–anxious to have a rest before I had to break down and demand  one. It had been a long and sunless winter for me and I bitterly found my body weaker than I was accustomed to. But I soaked in the hot sunshine like one starved–feeling it heal and warm me to my bones.

Finally, after many miles through this desolate unmarked wilderness–when we all felt at the end of our morning strength–we saw it. A massive, lush tree in the midst of all of the dry shrubbery. It was surreal–like seeing a mirage of an oasis in a desert. We did not fully believe it until we reached its shade and entered instantly into another world. Under the thick, heavy canopy of this massive mango tree was an atmosphere of peace, still and cool.

Our friend strung his hammock and we sat on a rough wooden bench already there. In this haven of coolness and quiet we devoured the most delicious baloney sandwiches anyone has ever eaten and gave sighs of relief and contentment. We reclined and relaxed and read a few poems. We sat quietly and melted into the earth and the tree and felt that it would be best to never leave this place.

I don’t know which of us broke the spell and suggested moving on. We emerged from the shadow of the tree and instantly were returned to the ordinary world. It was still brutally hot, but the sun had shifted in the sky and we saw that we would have to hurry to complete the miles to the top and then begin our descent.

Revitalized, we set out with renewed briskness. The climb grew steeper and the undergrowth thicker but shorter. The path began to switch-back up the side of the cone–we were on the side of the volcano now. The climb was backbreaking and my heart was pounding harder than it had in a long time when we crested a hill and broke out of the undergrowth. We scrambled up through barren, rock strewn hills; one after another. Finally we reached the summit of a hill like the rest but instead of another hill beyond it we saw that we were now on the backbone of a ridge leading directly to the crater. Beneath us was a flat field strewn with rocks of all sizes thrown from the mouth of the crater. A few tents were being set up there for other pilgrims to spend the night. We speculated about how awesome that would have been to do (but when we woke in our beds that night to a massive earthquake we were grateful to be safely away from the power of the mountain). Ahead, looming over the boulder field was the massive crater, the sun just behind it, veiled in a thin cloud of smoke and outlining it to make it look even larger and sharper.

The narrow foot path lead on through the boulders and up towards the crater, and so we followed. No signs showed the way or told where not to go. No barriers to stop those who made this pilgrimage. At the end the path grew very steep and we scrambled excitedly, anxiously to the top, to the rim. When we reached the level ground around the rim we walked slowly forward, slack-jawed in amazement.

Our friend directed us to a rock at the edge where it was “said” to be safe to stand. We all stood in silence staring into the vastness before us. The opening of the crater created a sheer cliff dropping away hundreds of feet to the floor of the pit. As the smoke shifted you could sometimes catch gray glimpses of the rocky bottom far below. The crater produced a mind-filling, brain-numbing noise of its own. I cannot quite describe it–whether it was a roar, a hum, a whirring. But it was there nonetheless and combined with the fumes and the enormity of it all I felt off-balance–as if I might at any moment pitch forward head-over-heels into the abyss.

We morbidly speculated over what would happen to one who fell in–would they die first of impact, heat, or suffocation–as we peered into crater. As we looked into the shifting depths and our eyes tried to focus on some end point something gradually began to appear to us–a glowing red-orange orb. We could not believe our own eyes at first. It could not be, could it? The orb grew larger, pulsing, unmistakable now, then vanished in a swath of smoke.

My eyes searched for what they were sure of a moment before, but was now gone. And then again, out of the swirling depths a glow appeared–faint, but unmistakable. The veil of smoke that threatened to hide it once again from my eyes did not lessen the effect–it made it feel all the more real, and threatening; a monster in the shadows. I knew then that I was seeing the living world beneath our feet and it looked back at me, and I trembled. I felt naked and vulnerable, but also more alive and aware of my own being than ever before. I was looking upon some mythical, primal force, some power I did not know until that moment that the world possessed. I knew of magma, yes, but when I looked upon the exposed, pulsing heart of the world I knew I would never be quite the same again. The world was a new place for me–more terrifying and wonderful than before. I felt that I had been looking for dinosaur bones and instead found a living, breathing dragon–looking for the incredible and finding the mythical.

Outer Banks, NC

We woke early for the sunrise–to say goodbye.
But the world was bitter at our leaving.
And the sun refused to show its face.
The sky wept over us while the waves spat angrily at our feet.

Living in a Disposable World: The Consequences of Chronic Consumption

This post is not van living related, but I hope the same audience will be interested in this important topic as well.

For my New Year’s resolution this year I decided to attempt to avoid the use of all disposable items. I gave myself a few ground rules–I could use recyclable disposable items only if I personally saw that they were recycled, I could use disposable items if they would be disposed of regardless (ex. straws and napkins automatically provided at restaurants), packaging wouldn’t count (nearly impossible to avoid), and finally I would not inconvenience others (ex. not refusing disposable dishes, etc. while a guest). I won’t pretend that I have stuck to this objective perfectly, but it has been extremely eye-opening. The primary thing I have taken away from this experiment was that due to the above (I think pretty reasonable ground rules) I still found myself using a large amount of disposables. Why? Because our societal approach to the world is a disposable one and without making myself a non-functional part of that society it is next to impossible to remove these items from my life. This problem is bigger than individual irresponsibility–our basic infrastructure has a fundamentally problematic approach to consumption and until we alter that there is little hope for change on a grand scale. We need to see a societal shift in how we view and approach the world and its resources. This experiment has been extremely discouraging because I quickly discovered that disposable items/materials are so pervasive and so integral to our society that they are in all practicality impossible to avoid. I want to walk you through an average american day highlighting the types of disposable items that permeate our everyday life.

You wake up in the morning and blow your stuffy nose with a tissue, then head to the bathroom and use some toilet paper. You pick up your toothbrush to brush your teeth, and then use a paper cup to rinse with mouth wash. You clean your ears with a q-tip, you shave your face/legs with a plastic razor. Head downstairs and make some breakfast. You pack your kids’ lunches with plastic baggies, napkins, plastic utensils, and organic juice boxes. You wipe up a spill with a paper towel. You stop at a coffee shop where you get coffee in a paper cup, and a bottle of water, use some sugar packets stirred in with stir stick, grab some napkins to go.

Lunch time you go to Chipotle where you have a burrito wrapped in paper, use plastic utensils, a plastic cup, and napkins. At work you use pens to write on sticky notes. You buy a bottle of soda and some cookies in plastic packaging from a vending machine for a snack. You toss the empty bottle in a recycling bin that you fail to notice is filled with trash (no way its going to a recycling facility).

You stop at the grocery store and everything you buy is packaged. At home again you wash your dishes with a sponge, dust with paper towels, clean your floors with a disposable wipe. You make a lasagna in a one-time-use aluminum pan. You set the table with napkins. After dinner you change your baby’s diaper and use baby wipes. Getting ready for bed you remove  makeup removing wipes.

Do you see how pervasive this is? So many things that we think of as necessities due to either convenience or hygiene. Unfortunately, due to the affluence we experience in the US, we treat most of our possessions as disposable (even though they don’t technically fall under that label). Electronics, clothes, old toys, lawn accessories, and organic waste are all things which we might not think of as disposable, but they end up in landfills rather sooner than later. Most people in the US claim to care about the environment and want to see changes happen. We jump on a chance to buy notebooks and pencils made from “recycled materials.” We dutifully (maybe) put our bottles and cans in recycling bins which may or may not actually get recycled and feel like the sins of our consumerism are absolved. But we don’t think for a second about the countless disposable cups, plates, napkins, straws, razors, tissues, etc, that we are continually throwing away. According to the US Environmental Protection Agency the average individual produces 4.38 pounds of waste per day. Only a little over a quarter (1.51 lbs) of that gets recycled or composted. That is a lot of waste. That means that the average American contributes around one ton of trash per year to landfills or 164 million tons of trash per year as a nation. That is staggering.

We need to begin rethinking our approach to our consumption of resources and how we can do it in a responsible manner that reduces harm to our planet and especially the less fortunate of the world (who are the most affected by our irresponsibility).Part of this is awareness. Awareness of the quantity  of waste we produce and of the consequences of the waste.

Landfills are one of the most obvious of our problems, though some continue to deny the seriousness of the issue. These vast expanses of waste are pushed off on low income communities (including exporting unwanted garbage to 3rd world countries) who can’t afford to fight them. Numerous studies have shown the negative affects of living near landfills due to leaching (which is often hard to detect due to the frequent location of landfills next to bodies of water which disperse the toxic pollutants). Organic materials (we only compost 50% or less of our organic waste) either decomposes anaerobically (due to a lack of oxygen) and releases methane gas (a worse greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide) or simply does not fully decompose. Regardless of whether you think there is enough space in the world for all of these massive landfills, the fact of the matter is that we are taking massive quantities of valuable natural resources, whether those be organic materials, metals, or petroleum based products and cut them off from the natural cycle of life (and if they are re-entering they are doing so in harmful, toxic ways).

But we have recycling, right? And that means that as long as we recycle we aren’t doing any of this harm. Recycling is certainly better than not recycling–both economically and environmentally it is more prudent than sending to landfills. However, that doesn’t mean it eliminates the use of valuable resources and energy or the production of pollutants. Every time we recycle we lose in the process–versus if we made long lasting products and put up with minor inconveniences such as carrying around our own water bottles. And that is is if our recyclables actually get recycled. I dutifully recycled in college only to find that most of the time the recyclables went to the dumpster because of the garbage mixed in. I know the recycling at my current job almost always goes in the dumpster because people are too careless to sort out their trash. Often our would-be recyclables not only don’t end up recycled, but end up as litter on the side of the road, floating in the ocean, or in the stomachs of birds.

Two major things need to happen in order for us to make real changes in this dangerous and rapidly escalating cycle we have entered into. The first is a societal change of perspective. We need to cease being consumers of the world and become part of it again. We need to give and take rather than just devour. We need to plan 15 extra minutes into our day so we can sit down in our local coffee shop and drink our coffee instead of taking it to go (or, if we must be on the run, bring our own travel cup). We should sit down to real dinners on real plates and enjoy real meals instead of getting take-out or a hurried meal on paper plates. We ought to buy quality clothes that we love and wear them till they are worn thin–and then upcycle them into something new, rather than buying something new every other week and tossing the old. We need to have a consciousness of our interactions with the world (which we desperately lack). I am certain we would enjoy life more if we did these things. Secondly, we need regulational changes. We need the government to acknowledge the harmful system we have created and begin to institute penalties for environmentally harmful practices and rewards for conscientious ones. We need to encourage businesses and corporations on a larger scale and at a higher level to take responsibility and find alternatives (such as biodegradable and compostable disposables) to current practices.

I wish that my carrying around a water bottle and a set of utensils all of them time were enough to help fix this problem, but if this experience of avoiding disposables has shown me one thing it is that it is not. I, and all the rest of the our society, need to change our fundamental approach to the world and that is going to take a lot more than I can offer on my own.

The Van Life 2.0–Beach Edition 2.0

It’s been a while, but we have finally returned to the van life. Tyler got a job working at the Cape Hatteras National Seashore in the Outer Banks, North Carolina. We were set to depart from PA at the end of March and Tyler was to begin his job the Monday after Easter. Due to some beauracratic  complications with paperwork we found ourselves stranded in the outer banks, with Tyler unable to begin work (and my start date 2 weeks away), and unable to move onto our site. We spent a few days parking on side streets and hanging out in parks before making the realization that nothing was tying us down here and the obvious question was–why not travel? So we did.

We planned a two week tour of the South–Savannah, Chattanooga, Nashville, Asheville, and Durham. And so we embarked. Savannah was our first, and favorite stop. The most enchanting, old-world city we have encountered in the US. This small city is nestled against a river frequented by tour boats and massive barges. The unique, weathered, waterfront buildings house numerous restaurants serving Cajun influenced foods, and street musicians serenade diners while they enjoy their meals. The interior of the city is has parks and squares every few blocks which are filled with huge trees draped in Spanish moss. You can spend hours wandering the picturesque streets lined with gorgeous colonial houses and stopping in historic churches. It is a magical city.

Forsynthe Park

Something that made our stay even more magical was our accommodations. Yes, we stayed in our van, but while trying to find a low-key, inconspicuous place to park for the night we came across a nearly empty convention center parking lot right next to a huge, beautiful resort. It seemed like as good a spot as any, so we parked and headed out to scout for drinking water and a bathroom. The convention center was all locked up, but a back entrance to the resort provided a public bathroom and water fountains. We decided to explore the waterfront a little and discovered…a pool and hot tub surrounded by palm trees and overlooking the river and the city beyond! We couldn’t resist and changed into our swim suits for an evening swim. And did so again for the next two evenings and then headed across the parking lot to stay in our van.

Staying in the hotel parking lot worked out so well for us that for the remainder of the trip (when not staying with friends) we scouted out hotels that did not have any parking regulation signs and spent comfortable nights there with easy access to water and bathroom facilities. Discretion and confidence are ever the keys to success.

After three days in Savannah we headed north to Chattanooga, TN. The location of this tiny city was lovely–nestled in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains with a river running through. We spent a quiet day there before moving on to Nashville, TN where we met up with friends and hit up a kareoke bar. After a beautiful drive through the Smokies we spent two days in Asheville, NC. Another city tucked away in the mountains Asheville is a small but growing city filled with wonderful restaurants and art galleries. A short drive took us up into the Blue Ridge Mountains for an amazing hike through those misty mountain-tops.

A short stop at Duke University in Durham, NC (which is gorgeous, by the way) and 1,800 miles later we were headed back to the Outer Banks to finally settle  down at our jobs for the summer. Our location on the ocean front of North Carolina is clearly very different from our setup in Colorado last summer, so we have had to make a number of updates to our van which I look forward to sharing with you in our next post!

Creative Cooking in a Van, on a Budget

This is my kitchen.

 

Saving money was an obvious priority for us in our choice to switch to this life style and we were not about to start cutting corners when it came to food–even though this was what we had to work with.

My kitchen provisions consisted of this little sink and pantry area shown in the above picture, a small cooler for perishables (which meant we didn’t often have many perishables), and a two burner propane camp stove (we actually cooked over the fire 90% of the time).  My cooking wares/dishes consisted of one saucepan and one cast iron skillet, some wooden spoons and a spatula, a few knives and a plastic cutting board, a single cup french press, silverware, plates, and mugs and cups for four. That was it.  No non-stick pans, no coffee pot, not assortment of kitchen gadgets. Everything that we cooked had to be made in just two pans and served on one plate or in a mug (for soup).

It could have been easy to fall into a habit of going out to eat or ordering take-out or buying ready-made food to avoid having to cook with our limited means. But we did not. We instead had a great time embracing the challenge and being creative and we honestly probably ate better than most people do for a fraction of the cost (~$40 per week on groceries).

Our two burner gas stove.

How did we cut our costs?

1. Shop the sales. When we shop we look primarily for things that are on  sale. We would base our meals for the week around what was on sale when we went shopping.

2. Buy cheap, substantial staples. We always had plenty of rice, canned beans, corn meal, barley, whole grain pasta, potatoes, canned tomatoes, etc, on hand. Foods that are inexpensive, versatile and non-perishable are essential for eating cheap (but also healthy).

3. Free food. Dumpster diving was the primary source for this category, but we also were happy to be known as the couple who would eat anyone’s leftover/unwanted food.

Dumpster diving, however, was by far the most productive of our methods of saving money on food. The amount of quality, free food we were able to obtain was remarkable. Many wonder about the safety of eating food out of dumpster, but it is really pretty simple to determine whether food was safe to consume (most was packaged or in separate boxes or had only just expired that day).

If you have doubts, check out this food

All of this food is just from one dumpster run. And this was all we could take, but there was much, much more.

Food from dumpsters gave us a significant boost in the amount and diversity of produce we were able to have in our diet in addition to some dairy products, snack foods, and bread products.

Meals we made:

 This sandwich was composed of bread from a dumpster, fresh tomatoes and sauteed onions, and a slice of marinated and grilled puffball mushroom which we had scavenged ourselves from the woods. The large white object in the background is the puffball.

These mushrooms were also scavenged from the woods and went into the dish below. It was an egg and mushroom mixture on a bed of pan fried potatoes, topped with seasoned chili beans. 

Pancakes were a favorite meal for us on mornings when we neither of us had to work. We would wake up late and then cook up a stack of hot pancakes with large cups of coffee on the side before heading out for a day in the park.

Blueberry pancakes (blueberries from the dumpster), topped with pancake syrup and butter.

 

 

Another morning favorite was scones and muffins (day old saved from the garbage) with coffee or tea.

After a long day of work or hiking we would often want something extra hearty and so a meal like this beef and veggie dish over barley was the perfect solution.

This dish had a can of beef chunks (canned meat helped reduce worry over food going bad),  and onions, tomatoes, and zucchini, all from a dumpster.The final example of our fine cuisine from our van life is a rice and bean dish. We ate some variation of this dish very frequently as it was extremely cheap, composed of almost entirely non-perishables, and wonderfully delicious and filling. This particular dish was one of our best. It started with a bed of white rice, then a layer of sauteed onions, peppers, and tomatoes all from a dumpster. This was then topped with chili seasoned pinto beans, garnished with avocado slices and chopped cilantro, also both from a dumpster, and served with a side of warm corn tortillas.

So, if you thought that life in a van would mean eating canned soup and tuna salad sandwiches everyday–you were wrong. We enjoyed every meal we made to its fullest and never once regretted our choice to limit ourselves to two pans and a fire. There is nothing more satisfying then sitting down outside, just as the sun is setting,to a hearty meal of rice and beans cooked over a fire, outside of your very own, loan-free, mortgage-free, portable house.

This will probably be the last post on van living for a while as we recently  moved back from CO at the end of Tyler’s seasonal position at Rocky Mountain National Park and are temporarily staying with family until our next opportunity for a van adventure (in a warmer climate) arises.