What a Long Strange Trip It's Been

Other than a blog, I hold on to a few tangible memories of the past year within and marked on a body whose job it is to take over the tasks previously assigned to my now too busy mind in remembering my war wounds as a sort of forget-me-not scrapbook of my travel year:

A fading scar of a gash down my tummy during a silly solo disassembly of my queen-sized bed and frame as they were being set up for storage more than millions of miles and a lifetime ago.

Blisters on my feet bottoms which began and extended somewhere between Athens and Lisbon and finally quieted down and lightened up after some new British soles.

Two bug bites under the skin on my left outer thigh which remind me with an itch of Frome, where I believe I was affected, every single night before I go to sleep.

Another reminder of Southwest England in the form of a formerly twisted right ankle on a final walk on a footpath, whose barometric pressure readings can replace Denver’s Chief Meteorologist Mike Nelson’s forecast and who, I believe, would stand firm against any inclination I may have to reconsider putting on a pair of high heels.

Now less infected earholes from less than sterling earrings frugally purchased in the Netherlands to avoid closure.

A rounder belly and another well-worn corresponding notch on my belt loop, thanks to five weeks of New York City lower-budget cuisine consisting of schmeared bagels, a few slices, a litter of Gray’s Papaya dogs, and cheesecake swimming in a strawberry puddle... And on the flip side, leg muscles which have been further defined by countless miles toward train stations, from bus stops, on dog (and in one case, cat) walks, and from the Lower East Side and Brooklyn through the Upper West.

A minor oven burn, now smooth and faded to only slight discoloration on my left wrist from one of this year’s rare cooking occurrences — this time in Austin — accentuating my weak and out-of-shape culinary muscles.

And other than a blog, my memories are fading too quickly as a whole, but show up in color when I least expect them in a currently saturated brain which is working hard to sort through mental photo albums of somewhere elses, with an effort to file those experiences into their correct cerebral folders:

A bright pink glass bottle formerly filled with Rogue Ale which caught my eye in my twin’s house last month, a gift from her friend and now a flower receptacle, taking me back to the 16 ounce Amber Ale which sat alongside their burger for my benefit in Portland, in between a wander through Powell’s City of Books and the thrift shop where I scored keen green Keen all-terrain shoes.

Advertised preparations for this year’s Mardi Gras put Australia back on my mind’s map, reminding me of my will to succeed in the form of standing in one place on the front line for four hours at Sydney's LGBTIA event only to leave ten minutes after it started due to my protesting limbs and annoyance with so many bystanders getting all up in my bidness.

Yet another dreadful airplane catastrophe in the Indian Ocean — this one heading from Surabaya, Indonesia — to Singapore, bringing to my mind the older couple I consulted about tipping etiquette at a Changi Airport restaurant, filling me with hope the timing of this tragedy didn’t coordinate with their routine doctors' appointments which regularly take them from their adopted home of Indonesia to their former in Singapore.

A walk down the candy aisle at my local Safeway, where I spotted some Peanut Butter M&Ms, placing me back to the England countryside, where I held way-too-long kibbitzes with contractors — father and son — renovating the house next door. The son told me about his fondness for PBM&Ms and how he always requests bags from family who travel to the States since they aren't available where he shops. I left the bags on the shelf, wishing I'd previously asked for my friends' addresses — and now that I think of it, their names — so I could send them candy-coated surprise pieces of my home country.

A bottle of generic shampoo colored in bubblegum pink, which I purchased from the Dutch department store of Hema in Rotterdam. It now sits on my tiled ledge cut out for my bathroom window. It was ready for the recycle bin a month ago, as it requires two slaps on the bottom for a teaspoon-sized drop and backup from Aveda standing next to it. And although my hair is no longer interested, my mind refuses to wash out the lingering residue of the Netherlands.

A slice of heaven in the form of a Pizza Margherita, shared between my parents, a few new friends and me at a local restaurant on Main Street, Longmont. While we were talking, my tastebuds politely excused themselves to consult too faint a recollection of a similar-looking Napoli slice, re-entering the discussion and disappointed the evidence proving an Italian victory would not hold up in court due to an expired statute of limitations on flavor, and, at the same time, pleased the ‘za comparison was so close as to leave a hung(ry) jury of my personal taste testers.

A simple ceramic coffee mug, containing my drink as I write this. Black on the outside with jutted white polka dots and a bright red interior which reveals itself more upon each sip. The mug which co-starred with me in regular FaceTimes with my house-sit homeowner while she was caretaking another’s home in Nevis. A gift from her cabinet to my mailbox within a week of my return to Boulder, with the purpose of keeping me in tune with Austin, the memory of a high maintenance cat in my heart, and the promise of a new life-long friend.

Tuning into political talk radio the other day on a station I occasionally land on to glimpse at the playbook of the other team, I caught a blunder which equally appalled and delighted me. The host, a local guy who once held an appointed position in fed gov and did a "heckuva job" during a helluva hurricane was talking about his hairdresser from "Kahlua" Lumpur (which he rinsed and repeated at least 3 times). He neglected to mention her home country of Malaysia and instead skirted around it, saying he's been to Singapore, Indonesia, and Vietnam, clearly not knowing (or benefit of doubt, remembering) where Kuala Lumpur is located. My point isn't to mock him. I realized that prior to one year plus four days ago from today, when I sat in an international holding room in KL Airport mid-night and en route from SYD to SIN and prior to meeting ex-pat Penang pals, it would not have phased me. It made me realize I bring back a novelty trinket which holds no monetary value but is comprised of knowledge about worldwide physical and human geography which makes me feel that much smarter than I was before — and, yes, than that of a previously high-titled and -paid official.

An email from London's Heathrow Airport which arrived in my work inbox the other day, providing me with current goings-on. LHR sends me these based on an unawareness of the fact I only feigned interest in the Airport's well-being and current events during a four-hour layover from Doha, Qatar to New York to gain another 45 minutes of Wi-Fi over what my home email provided.

A trepidatious and anticipatory return to my office in Boulder, CO, where I was welcomed back by my workmates who weathered more than 365 stormy days without me, serving residents struggling to find a place to call home due to finances and flood. This was not unlike a jump back onto the ship docked at the Piraeus Port in Athens, where I was welcomed back by my shipmates who weathered a similar yet extremely different bumpy sea for 39 days without me.

This wasn’t my first international rodeo. In 1997, I had designed a trip to France for a 10-day self-guided walking tour to wander 8-12 miles each day by myself through lavender fields and sunflower blooms while a van graciously schlepped my backpack. Then to Italy, where I would experience the walker’s dream traipsing sans tour through the Five Lands, Cinque Terre, along a rocky coast which sits just above Italy's kneecap.

I landed in Paris, where I was to spend my first of five weeks without a stitch of français in my vocabulary despite some last-minute cramming of language tapes, pre-Rosetta Stone. I had mastered bonjour and si vous plait, naively and lazily telling myself that a nice greeting in a local language would unlock cultural doors and recolor stereotypes. While noble attempts on my part, these niceties resulted in strange stares and long-winded responses through foreign French tongues which were Greek to me.

Other than one day of delicious family security during that week, I did not hold a conversation with anyone. On that day, I went swimming and lunched with my cousin and his partner who, at that time, Chunneled their way between their homes in France and London. And I had no way of knowing whether it was because the locals did not or did not want to speak English or did not want to speak to me. It felt isolating and unsettling. Regardless, I made it to the end of the week walking the path next to River Seine, window-shopping the Champs-Élysées, subsisting on easy-to-order point-and-pay street food of baguettes filled with mozzarella, pesto, and tomato. I also hung outside the Louvre, though for reasons which escape me now – although were likely related to my newly-developed fear of dead-ended conversations and the exhausting exertion I had to provide for any transaction — did not enter.

After the week, I jumped onto a southbound train to Aix-en-Provence after a one-night stop in medieval and artsy Avignon, finding it even more difficult, if impossible, to connect with others. By the time I got to Vaison-la-Romaine, my tour start, I was in full panic mode, something I had never experienced previously. I remember one occasion clearly: I walked into a gelato shop in town, hoping a universal healer called ice cream (or "glace" locally) might calm me down and center me. I entered the store and immediately began bawling uncontrollably. I couldn't even order. And as clear as lemon ice to me even now, although my memory could be exaggerating, the counter staff and some town folk in the shop began to point-and-laugh, which prompted me to turn-around-and-walk-out.

My best guess is the disconnect between me and my host country was in small part due to my timidity and my then first solo venture oversees, and in larger part due to a portion of a population which gave me the same (lack of) respect I gave them by not learning their language. However, I have a feeling anything less than fluency, citizenship, and blood-relation to at least three generations of royalty in their country would have left me in the same situation. I have heard the heat has been turned up on these lukewarm welcomes, especially 20 years later, though I'm not quite ready to try it again without a Francophile escort.

Even though I felt defeated and anxious about my (then) upcoming traverse, I checked into my hotel and announced myself to the tour company which was going to give me my walking papers, directions to my food stops and pre-arranged hotels, and then set me on my way by my lonesome. After that, I headed outside to explore the purple landscape stemmed in green and visit the outdoor market displaying local fresh vegetables and fruit, oil-cured olives, and designer pastries, believing paradise would snap me out of my angst. Unfortunately, it didn't, as I had already decided to surrender. It was time for me to go home.

Soon after my stroll and decision, I met angels in the form of Canadian Seniors who were scheduled to start a similar tour the next day with the same company, but in a group and with bicycles. This dual-linguistic gaggle of grandparents couldn’t help but notice my state of uneasiness and asked me to join them for dinner. I did and was so thankful for the ability to use my voice, connect with others, and eat a real meal with fine wine after more than a week of fast French food.

A glass of wine into my tale of woe shortly after we sat down, they invited me to join them on their bike tour. Regardless, I didn’t — and still don’t — ride a bike, I declined. Part of me had already surrendered to leaving and the rest of me was holding on to my dream of succeeding on this journey on my own. So, I cancelled my trip, lost all my money and the balance of positive sense of self I had left at that point, put aside my a cappella Italian hike, and flew home the next day with my proverbial tail between my legs.

If my younger self were interested in some counsel from her 20-year older version she morphed into, I believe I would have encouraged her to scrap her original plans (and change up that haircut) and join this group of caring, vibrant adventurers to see where their fat tires might lead. On the other hand, it's very likely that ending my trip on such a defeated note paved my way with determination, motivation, and longing to succeed on this one. As I write this, it occurs to me this fly home was not unlike jumping ship mid-cruise, and it makes me wonder if, in these circumstances, I took the easy way out or minded a gut which might have known better. My jury is still out on this one.

This journey was exactly how I hadn't envisioned it since, other than a set-dated cruise and a jump-off house-sit in Portland, I actually hadn't envisioned it. And this was despite all the Rick Steves' videos I watched, my well-traveled friends I grilled, check-ins with my gut who wasn't feeling very instinctive, and world maps splayed on screens in front of me I constantly changed up, testing to see if pasteled or primary-colored countries might offer more inspiration. I just wanted to get away and go everywhere, but nowhere more than another.

The most difficult part of my year revolved around planning, not one of my strong suits as you might have gleaned from any or all of my blog posts. Other than purchasing plane, train or boat tickets and corresponding night stays in advance, I was not guaranteed a static itinerary — and even then, planet Mercury could decide to sit still, climate change could storm in, life and death could, and did, get in the way, and my arrow could change direction for the simplest of reasons, or more often, for no reason at all.

As soon as my feet hit new soil, my mind was focused on my next step regardless of time and distance between my upcoming potential destination. Sometimes, last-minute plans led to dry house-sitting opportunities and inordinate travel prices, though other times advanced planning would kick in my dread of commitment and result in decreased opportunities to act on my ever-present whims. Conundrum.

I'm glad I took this journey alone. I was tasked with making my own decisions regarding where to go, how to get there, when to arrive, where and what to eat, where to stay, and when it was ultimately time to change my shirt. I met so many people I might have otherwise passed by, with no real reason to speak with them or those who might glance my way but not approach, as my engagement with an other might provide a perception of unapproachability.

I cringe at the lost opportunities for meets and greets I may have had to pass up had I chosen a partner to dance with around the world. I met incredible people, many who visit my memories, my email inbox, and maybe my home in the future. I adopted new pet friends in Jinks, Panther, Star, Katie, Rosie and Max (and his sisters, Bessie and Elizabeth, who were bunking elsewhere) and my furry niece, Fiona, who allowed me to give and receive love away from home and gave me lots of reasons to pause Netflix and move our paws in NYC exploration. And, in our three weeks together, although more time than I would have preferred, my North Carolinian roach roommates, whom I thank for my honorary degree in Entomology and a better understanding of a point at which I break.

During my solo sojourn, I needed strangers or friends I hadn't met yet to give me directions regarding getting from Point A to B (which my head mapped out and followed as A to D to C to B, eventually landing me in the right place but with unnecessary steps). I needed to interact with and trust them to choose change out of my handful of coins which would, hopefully, equal the cost of my purchase in their country. I needed to lock a smile with someone which would remind me that, if nothing else, we all have human emotion as a common denominator. I needed to keep an ear open at all times for an American voice to grasp ahold of, and in rarer cases, disassociate myself from. And I needed to know, with my limited time in their 'hood, which noodle dish was specifically Singaporean and confirm malt vinegar should, in fact, replace ketchup on my chips.

That said, for future trips, I would explore the option of exploring the world with someone else(s). My job duties would be cut considerably with the ability to discuss with and bounce decisions across the table from a compatible traveler; venture out every night and/or to more diverse and less traveled parts outside of the Plaka, La Rambla, and beyond the Piccadilly intersection of St. James and Soho or into a naughty Red Light District; share two or more entrees, taking advantage of sampling more culinary options; smoke the local legal weed with a friend and without paranoia; split hotel rooms and cabs and rental cars and toothpaste; have an adventure validated by a witness with whom we can trade "Can you believe that just happened?" stories; and be pushed out of comfort zones by someone who needs to knock off items from their bucket list. Yeah, I would consider it.

However, the companionship and security are often paired with inevitable off-days of incompatibility featuring unexplained silent treatments and words we wish we could take back. At least my mood swings are familiar to me.

You were my saving grace and my lifeline. Whether it was a comment from you, who enjoys expressing yourself in full view of others by egging me on with enthusiasm and, at times, empathy, or informing me of must-sees and must-dos, or an email which popped up upon a refresh in my inbox, asking me "Where are you???!" or "I just read your last post and..." or "Have you heard...?."

Even when you weren't as vocal, I could feel your presence through my blog counter — tracking a multitude of visits per day — giving me a slight sense of who you might be based on your log-in location, network provider or time of day, letting me know you spent ten minutes on "Barcelona," hit my "Welcome" page to see if anything new had been posted, or were a new visitor, traveling via binge blog from Singapore through Rotterdam. It was such a gift to know at least one somebody was thinking of me that day, hour or minute, something we often aren't privy to, except in obvious circumstances involving a phone call, an email or nose itch. Everyone should be given an opportunity to know they have been considered in the middle of someone's daily craziness and feel special because of it.

And then there is a particularly thoughtful colleague at my office, who designed a Where in the World is Leslie? map, tracking my travels based on a blog and on a wall where a Fair Housing sign or an emergency exit map should have been placed. It was up for a year, only to be taken down just prior to my return to be replaced by holidays decorations. No offense taken — I know where I stand.

And another special person who requested an email notification after each post. It took me a while to strengthen my post-then-email reflex, initially waiting several days before remembering to alert, but soon I got good at it, hitting "publish" then "Yahoo!" in one fell swoop. Although I never got over the self-imposed feeling of being an intruder to an inbox I had envisioned to be constantly overflowing for a person who worked so hard and often, and often seemed more worthy of time away.

I have really enjoyed writing the accounts of my travels. I had no idea — no exaggeration — what a blog was more than a month before leaving town. A few friends casually asked, "So, are you going to write a blog?" to which I replied something to the effect of, "A what? A bug? A log?"

Writing a blog allowed me to voice my experiences, expel energy and wrap up many days with a conclusion. Usually, I would write it free flow in an hour with twice that much time spent editing for clarity, uploading pictures and designing that location's right column side show in quotes, videos and famous hometown residents. (This right-hand column, although another opportunity for me to learn about a new location in which I found myself planted, was time-consuming and often encouraged me to stay put for a longer period in avoidance of the extra work.)

My blog is the best and most accurate representation of me, formed in my heart and expelled through my babbling run-on mind via technology. (My mouth is known to take over in that fashion when the technological medium isn't an option, thanks to my Mercury, our planet representing communication, located smack dab within Sagittarius, an astrological sign boasting foot-in-mouth widely aimed bluntness.) Through this memory album, I learned so much about myself, including, but, not, limited, to, my obsession with commas (as I noticed and began to delete during re-read edits).

I have no regrets. Except for wishing I gave myself permission to expend more of my budget toward local culinary experiences instead opting for thrift and value. No tickets I would or would not have purchased. Except for the ones which would have taken us from our port at Cadiz to Seville and back, my friends and I missed by drinking one more cup of coffee at breakfast with a side of conversation. No turns I would not have taken. Except for the ability to combat my sea-ickiness and continue on board to experience Malaysia, Thailand, Sri Lanka, India, Oman and Jordan, through the Suez Canal to Greece. But to me these really aren't regrets, they are check boxes on another to-do list.

Since I’ve been home, there’s one question I’ve received more than any other: “Where was your favorite place?" I think is a polite way for them to request the Cliff Notes’ version of a year's worth of stories which could possibly not end.

I have no answer for that question. I fell in love everywhere. At each entrance, my eyes widened at the unfamiliar landscapes and sought out smiles to connect with; my ears perked up to note the nuances in pronunciation, intonation, and inflection; and my nose took in the natural fragrances and cuisines which so distinctly define the history and cultures. No favorites, all favorites.

And while I loved every destination and would jump at the chance to go back to any of them, my bucket list contains any place I have not yet been.