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 But there would always reach a point where the fun would still be going on around me, while I would become withdrawn from it, wearied of the excitement, and all I would wish for was to go home, curl up in my own bed, sleep in late and wake up to the sounds of my mom bustling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?

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.

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.