Searching in Cancun

Cancun was a place I had never intended to go, but there is something wondrous about saying "Yes," accepting an invitation and extension of a friendship that ultimately became a kinship. My friend Jenny was traveling on a business trip there, and the resort was such a vista of paradise that many of the conference attendees brought a significant other. I walked the white sand shores in the morning, and studied the transparency of water throughout the day. It was more than just examining the many shades of aquamarine; I was searching for a familiarity, a story that had begun with the sea.

Let me explain. Sometimes we find ourselves through the journey of others, whether real or imagined. I had begun writing a story about an abandoned woman who lived on the edge of an ancient lake in ancient time. As long as I found a thread of inspiration in her life, and the events that precipitated in the glorious burst of creation, I could find my own way along the winding road of my life. At least I could make do. Yes, I had begun to feel lost after months of searching for myself. In some ways, I could see how people could go on searching forever, trip after trip, degree after degree, relationship after relationship. Bohemian wandering, continental sojourns at times were preferable to admitting a deep truth within yourself and realizing you have to change.

I had scoured the museums of Paris, looking for the face of my heroine, among those immortalized on the canvas. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for,a restlessness in the gait, a certain ingenuity in the eyes perhaps, a moment of surprise when one is shaken out of resignation. I never did find a face that satisfied me, but in the searching, I discovered more about my character. And perhaps about myself.

As I was searching for inspiration, Jenny was searching for potential wedding venues. Jenny and I lived oddly analogous lives, and I recognized the symptoms well. Not wearing the engagement ring, not settling upon a date, not mentioning the very fact to people we just met, as if by omission it would cease to be true. Yet, she would exert herself identifying all the elements of the perfect wedding, like a mechanical exercise. What is it about women that we keep hoping even when the blatant hopelessness hits us in the face like a slap? Maybe it was love, and maybe it was arrogance, the illusion that we could actually change another.

Somehow, between the void in my life and the absence in hers, we became like sisters. Perhaps kindred spiritship was borne in mutual pain, as well as good times and a similiar sense of fashion. It is only when you fall that you discover who will help you up, encourage you, and stiffen your resolve to become more than you currently are. I remember so many epiphanies in the past year, yet straddled with many nadirs of self-doubt. And in the midst of it all, the sister who was overwhelmingly supportive, and always patient, was Jenny.

Silhouettes of Strangers Who Became More

My memory has never been linear. Europe has been a litany of experiences and people that somehow melded into one as I recounted that journey westward, a Dejas-vous of all the things that have touched my life. Some remembrances are crystal clear; others are blurry and indefinite as things that seemed to have never happened.

I had encountered Kyle, an army officer on leave while on tour of Dachau. Afterwards, the English speaking group gathered for a drink and I joined them for typical peripheral small talk. The group dissipated except for us two, keeping each other company before our respective trains, his destined for Vienna or Salzburg and mine destined for Prague. It seemed military men were extremely lonely. I thought nothing of it when he asked for my email address, but he consistently wrote me long emails for months afterwards. He even wished he had kissed me, but perhaps the romantic fancies are far more potent than the reality. He had a rather pleasant, clean-cut face with chiseled features, and I would altogether not have minded kissing him. Then again, looks could be deceiving and he might have slobbered all over me.

There was Jasmine, an independent Greek girl studying towards an economics degree in Zurich. We walked all over the city and sat in cafes, lamenting her love life, since she apparently had a successful, doting boyfriend whom she loved not. I watched her justify why she should be with him while sensing she longed to unfurl her wings and fly in a different direction. I wondered if she would be relegated to the status of luxurious wife with this fellow, or if she ever had the courage to break free. I never knew, except she introduced me to soft gingerbread cookies encrusted with chocolate, which became my daily staple in the midst of expensive Switzerland. The Swiss believed that one should pay for the quality of fresh fruit and produce; therefore everything was exorbitantly priced for us American bargain shoppers. Even the idea of bargain shopping is considered an anomaly in Switzerland, as good quality needed to be properly reimbursed and why would you not want to pay for it? Nonetheless, gingerbread cookies typically bring me back to La Suisse.

Then there was Sophie, a Quebec student who traveled through Europe by the labor of her hands. She picked grapes in Provence and Tuscany, did odd jobs like waitressing and cleaning in Paris, Berlin,and Milan, any place that welcomed a cheap and migrant labor force and international worker's permit from Canada. She told me that being on the road was often lonesome and that she tended to become much more easily infatuated with friends on the road than back home. And I wondered if it was that exciting newness, of being able to grow and to reinvent yourself, of becoming more of the version of yourself you have always wanted to be, in this itinerant lifestyle that causes you to be more open to love. Or the idea of love, since these amorous liaisons rarely last. But you find yourself inevitably changed.

Sophie also alerted me to one of the best kept backpacker secrets: couchsurf.com. This free service concerns itself with matching a backpacker who needs a place to stay in a given city and the host who offers free accommodations in their home(i.e. a couch). She was currently sleeping on someone's couch as we spoke. In the backpacker world, there is an unspoken law of hospitality and mutual help without thought of gain. We were all traveling on a budget, hoping to see the world and willing to rough it. It brings out the very best in human nature, this egalitarian sense of giving what you can and taking what you needed. Non-institutionalized, completely voluntary, and without exchange of any currency. What would the world be like if money was abolished?


Of course, I couldn't forget Raphael, a German Christian socialist who was studying engineering or physics in Zurich. He was in his early twenties and intense, with smoldering eyes and a very particular manner of speaking. I felt sure he would become a politician, and he didn't deny the ambition. I don't know if it was the intensity or the ambition that attracted me more, but after the exchange and a few espresso, it seemed I had been conversing with someone who would change the world. I met him on my last day in Zurich, and he kept trying to arrange subsequent rendezvous even after I had left the country. Perhaps he will remember me, perhaps not, but someday he will hold the reins of power, when the European union has become an archaic institution.

Then, there were the shadows of Matthias, with whom romance fizzled and David, with whom it was never kindled, both of whom surfaced in and out of my journey.

Perhaps they were individual people in certain times and places, but I remember them like a long line of ghosts, people whose details fade, but for the indelible imprint they have made on my life, the gifts they gave me, the things they taught me, the joy they brought in making my existence richer and fuller. For that, I will always thank them.

Olivier and Instinct

Somehow I dragged myself back from the metro and into the incredibly warm bed of the hotel. The next day, it was snowing. Heavy feathers floated from the sky and dissolved onto the black pavements. I crossed the Charles bridge over the Danube on the way to the train station. Sick as I was, I still toyed with the idea of going to Poland, even though the weather was well below freezing. Then my better senses took over and then I headed to the platform for Munich. Then I turned towards the train destined for Krakow. If there is one thing I have learned, it is better to make a decision, any decision, even if it is the wrong decision, than to remain in the throes of indecision. I scurried back and forth between an ideal and the needs of my ailing bones, like a chicken that lost its head. Well, I lost my hat. In the last minute dash between platforms, I lost my well-insulating, furry hat that covered my ears. Great.

I arrived in Munich, back at the eventful Euro Youth Hostel where I got sick in the first place. I longed to take a nap, but I wound up sharing a room with a young Arabic man who seemed polite enough. I had never seen anyone so closely resemble a pirate, from that dark swarthiness to the brusque mannerisms in which he handled his bags. Somehow, he seemed sinister and a horrible feeling spread from the pit of my stomache. Too uncomfortable to stay in the room (we two were the only occuppants that night), I went to the lobby.

I was still there 3 hours later. As backpackers went back and forth going about their business, I wrestled with the ideals of being safe and being mean. Rationally, my Arab roommate had done nothing to offend me, he hadn't even proven himself inconsiderate. It would be unfair, premature, and judgmental to assume that something would happen to me after the lights went out. But I was scared despite rhyme or reason, and could not bear the thought of going back into that room.

To distract myself, I struck up a conversation with a long-haired PHD physics candidate from Holland named Olivier. He was from a small town outside Amsterdam called utrecht. He had kind, gentle eyes and his pale visage was of the fine European facial construction seen in portraits of Jesus. He had the calmest demeanor when speaking. He was here for a conference, to present or gather information for his dissertation, and leaving for the Netherlands the following day. We spoke of many things, travel, Europe, life and circuitously arrived at where we were at that very moment. Yes, it was an existential conversation. I also confessed the reason I was hiding out in the lobby.

"So switch rooms," he suggested.

"I can't do that," I protested. "It would be rude."

"There is a reason for your instincts, even if you dont know what it is."

I must have looked unconvinced as he sought to persuade me to listen to myself.

"The worst that can happen if you change rooms is that you feel rude. But if you don't and something does happen, you will regret it because you knew."

He was right. Somehow, his reassurance was exactly what I needed to trust myself. There were plenty of vacancies and not at all an issue for the hostel. Perhaps nothing would have happened if I stayed in that room. Perhaps I avoided a catastrophe. I will never know. But there is a peace, a transcendence from worry, when you listen to that innermost voice.

Needless to say, I slept soundly that night.

Black Light Theatre and Mulled Wine

Jane was a young, attractive drama teacher from Australia whose smooth accent matched the vivacity of her nature. At twenty-six, she was traveling the world for a year. Typical of Aussie backpackers, since they live so far from the rest of the world that when they embark on an adventure, they are abroad for at least six months to a year. If only Americans were that bold...

We became fast friends. The blighting cold ushered us towards the Church of St. Nicholas, gleaming more like a chateau in the midst of Old Town Square. The interior was airy and everything glistened; light was used as an architectural construct and it was organic and transparent, almost like a highway to heaven. I remember the rose-colored marble of the columns, golden cherubs kissing the altar, and the Versailles-esque gilding upon an impeccably white facade. A jewel of Baroque architecture, the services were sadly poorly attended unlike the masses at Paris' Notre Dame or Basilique of Sacred Coeur. Then I recalled that these lands were formerly under Communist rule and how those doctrines tended to discourage (i.e. punish) allegiances to anything beyond the state. God included.

Then on to the Museum of Communism, which initially did not sit well with me. However, Jane with her agnostic tendencies, had appeased me by going to a church so looking at Marxist paraphernalia seemed like a fair exchange. In a dingy corner of a dubious shop, the proud Museum of Communism slinked along without any spectators besides Jane, myself, and a bespectacled young student who was probably writing a thesis on the issue. I can't say that the museum was particularly memorable, since all I can recall was the red, comic-like drawings that passed for propaganda, and the very poor attempts at preservation. It seemed that nobody cared about Communism here, the molting of a reptile's skin, a poor and painful part of history that has finally been shed.

Freezing from our ears to our toes, Jane and I resorted to the mulled wine sold in the streets. Vendors would pour us a steaming, reddish liquor from large metal cannister
they wheeled around. Warm and intoxicating, one drink became two, two became four, and both of us became slightly inebriated from the multiplicative property of alcohol. We laughed, we sang, we stumbled through the streets arm-in-arm sharing stories. Jane had left her boyfriend at home, and I told her I left the world at home including sour romances. I couldn't tell if it was the wine that warmed me up or the friend who was at my side. Even the most transient friends can have a potent impact on us, changing our perspective ever so profoundly.

Being interested in drama, Jane was excited about Prague's famous "shadow" or black light theatre. I had no idea what it was, but I promptly changed money (inevitably losing a few Euro in the process because I was "free-spirited" in the extreme) and bought tickets to Aspects of Alice.

More mulled wine, and we were sitting in a small theatre, with tons of small children and some straggling parents. Circe du Soleil-like performers entered, fluorescent colors against a black background, the movements of black-clad acrobatics unfurling a fantasy of glowing lights and frenetic, kinetic sounds. In the center was Alice, her dress an electric blue, her hair a soft blonde as she found her way through Wonderland. What became clear were the metaphoric stages of maturity, as Alice was growing up.


Then two glowing nude women walked out, as Alice was apparently embracing sensuality and ego. Every detail was explicitly and exquisitely highlighted. Jane and I exchanged identical looks of horror, confusion, and amusement. There were young children sitting open-mouthed in the audience! No had told us this was an X-rated show. Or perhaps nudity among Europeans is commonplace while we Americans and Australians still behave with a Puritannical sense of priority.

Nonetheless, our eyebrows were permanently raised for the remainder of the show. After the finale, we had more mulled wine, said our goodbyes, and set on our way. She was headed to Salzburg and I was on my way to Poland the following day. It was well after midnight and the crowds were thinning.

Upon departing, I realized I had no idea how to get back.

Not So Plain Jane

So I decided to stay at one of the ubiquitious Marriott Courtyard hotels in Prague, on points mind you, since I was still traveling on a budget. It was snowing, covering the world with an icy veneer that appeared even icier when one was desolate. I lay in bed, my body was leaden and wobbling, that disorienting state of weakness when you are on the verge of recovery. Without neighbors, there were no distractions and no motivation to see the city, so I wallowed in my own thoughts. Every mistake I had ever made, every regret I had about life, men, and career choices appeared in vivid images before me, and I felt my own worth dwindle in some intangible way.

I had never felt so lonely. Jenny called me after receiving a particularly depressing email from yours truly. Jenny was Chinese, fine-boned and fashionable, the epitome of professional success in corporate America. In her early thirties, she was a pharmacist and global director of regulatory in one of the most prestigious healthcare companies in the country. Why was she friends with a basketcase like me?

Jenny informed me that a mutual friend in NYC, was having a birthday party at a posh club. Dan was an MIT-educated ABC (American Born Chinese), eternally energetic and known for bar-hopping every night of the week, and he conveniently knew every happening place in Manhattan. Not that he could always get us in. Dan was an oxymoron; he was simultaneously painfully shy and eager to party, he was outgoing and conversationally distant, he seemed a Peter Pan who refused to grow up and yet he is the most responsible friend I know.

I felt even lonelier.

The next day, I dragged myself out of bed and walked through the historic part of the city. It was still snowing. Prague was an exquisitely romantic city, with glittering rooftops the color of brick, uniform and yet unique at the same time. (Reminded me a bit of Mykonos, with the whitewashing and cobalt rooftops.) But romance, when steeped in sadness, appears ever tragic.

Nonetheless, I made my way to Prague Castle, abode of the Holy Roman Emperors, republican presidents, Nazis, and Communists. Comprised of Romanesque and Gothic architecture, this was supposedly the largest castle in the world, although the sheer size was not due to any particular building, but the archipelago of structures which congregated in such a dense space. What I remember most was how exorbitantly long it took to cross the courtyards to get from one building to the next, especially in below-freezing weather. The Basilica and monastery of St. George Cathedral was particularly impressive, harkening back to an old poem...

"Here come I, Saint George, the valiant man,
With naked sword and spear in hand,
What mortal man would dare to stand
Before me with my sword in hand?"

It was the mother of Marie Antoinnette, Empress Maria Theresa, who commissioned the final rebuilding of the castle.

However, it was en route to see the Czech crown jewels and the National Gallery Museum in one of the lower rooms, that I met her.

A sweet-faced Australian girl named Jane, who was loitering by the paintings with a similar level of scrutiny and annoyingly slow pace as me.

Things were looking up.

Popular Prague

Yes, this sounds like a gimmick from a travel agency, but I quickly realized that Prague had become the new "it" destination, the rite of passage for all self-declared world travelers, the way Paris was ten years ago or China is in the present day. In my three days in Prague, I ran into more tour groups than in my thirty-seven days in all of Europe combined. So we have the obnoxious crowds, loud tour guides, poking backpacks and fanny packs obscuring anything and everything worth seeing in the otherwise romantic old city.

I was still sick, probably sicker because my generous, thoughtful hostel roommate in Munich decided to leave the window open before he/she left. I vaguely recall it was a short-haired woman whose odorous feet manage to keep me awake, aside from the fact that she removed my belongings from the inward corner bed (the toastiest bed in the room which I had previously claimed) and plunked it squarely on the bed nearest to the window (arguably the coldest place in the room). All I saw were her feet and her head, snuggled in MY bed. I contemplated waking her up and reasoning with her, except when you are dealing with inconsideration, what can you do? She was already asleep and I probably would have started a cat fight if I dared interrupt her.

I sniffled, fumed, shivered, and wished negative thoughts upon my nemesis. Of course, the bad intentions boomeranged on me, since it was 4am and I was still angry. I wondered briefly if it would serve me better to forgive her. Not that I did, but I considered the idea and in the midst of considering, I drifted off to sleep. Perhaps I was learning to let go. That is, until the frigid cold snapped me out of my slumber and I prayed that God would give her a taste of her own medicine.

Was it a yearning for justice or was I being a cantankerous old cat? I'd like to think it was the latter, although I suspect the reality is less than flattering. So I took this sick, peevish self all the way to Prague and discovered the hard way that it really does serve oneself to forgive, since I probably would not have lost my much-needed hat if I had been paying attention to my journey.

This would be a lesson that would take me years to learn...

For now, I resolve not to travel into cold places during the winter, since that was apparently the cause of all my suffering.

Dachau

I had always dreamed of seeing Auschwitz. Perhaps because I had studied genocide in high school; perhaps because terror, no matter how well-documented and analyzed, never ceases to shock the human system when we see the dark reality for ourselves. It is far too easy to forget, to lie within our layers of comfort and contemporary distractions, to bury ourselves within another part of history. I was never one for the easy path. I seek the remembrance of pain because it feels more real to me, far more real to be hurt than to be happy.

Well, it was snowing in Munich and forecasted to be inevitably colder in Poland. I could barely lift my head, let alone brave a train to the capital of the crematoriums. So what did I do? After sniffling and moaning and fretting the bad luck of getting sick at such an inopportune moment,(although I cant recall of an opportune time to get sick), I gave up a dream. Substituted it rather, with the help of free WI-FI and my trusty sidekick, the ubiquitous IPOD touch (wonderful invention, God bless Steve Jobs). In the haze of a sinus headache and a wet, rattling cough, I booked a local tour to Dachau. Not that one concentration camp could replace another, but I never did make it to Auschwitz.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed to see a site of the Holocaust. What is it about ourselves that we keep pushing towards a destination, a goal even if we know we are poorly equipped for it? The hour train ride was torturous, and towards the end I had forgotten that I had elected this. At the stark, iron-wrought entrance gate, I suppressed waves of nausea roiling inside my stomache. I wasn't sure if it was the flu or if I was sickened by imagining all those premeditated deaths, stacked into piles like in documentaries.

Two things truck me about Dachau. How bare the space was, and how small the showers and crematoriums were. How they were reduced to nothing, how life was nothing, only a room and a bench and a shared bunker if they were lucky enough to live. If not, bodies crammed into the showers, smothering together, not that there was any air to breathe in the first place, but that sulfurous poison enveloping the lungs like a parasite.

The wind was frigid, and penetrated through the fabric of my jeans as if they were threadbare, a gust of paralyzing cold. So this is hopelessness. The labor, the cold, the desensitization of death. Except not everyone lost hope. Viktor Frankel, a noted Jewish psychologist and Holocaust survivor, remarked that man's suffering is like a gaseous entity, no matter how much or how little, it always fills up the volume of the container. Enlightened thoughts.

Then I thought of the lotus, how it grows from the filthiest mud possible, the scourge of the earth, to become an uplifted blossom, opening towards the sky. Lotus was Buddha's flower.

Try as I might, I couldn't help but taste ashes in my mouth.