I Raise My Glass to You

In honor of this Thanksgiving weekend, I feel it is necessary to thank those who have meant the most to me this past year: the newest members of my burgeoning extended family, the people who took part in the most drastic growth I have ever experienced.  L'Abrinis/L'Abriers/L'Abri-ites, here's to you and the hardest (yet most wonderful) three months of my life.  Thank you...

Lindi: for being my BFF; for your skillz in the kitchen (i.e. mashed potatoes, hashed browns, biscuits, sweet potato biscuits); for our walk down Church Lane and sitting in the misty rain; for our well-past-midnight heart-to-hearts in the bathroom.

Sue: for the tour of the house (and your enthusiasm about the "throne"); for giving up your bed for snuggle time; for saying how you felt about work tasks when no one else would; for being part of the great vegetable garden incident of '09.

Tiffany: for wearing that ridiculous jumpsuit; for busting out in spontaneous dance whenever you saw me; for doing the same thing with Wesley (i.e. salsa dancing in the kitchen); for ditching the London gang to spend quality time at a French deli in Covent Garden.

Cassie: for being my bed mate; for your interpretive dance moves; for surprising me daily with your revelations and musings.

Marcie: for meatloaf Tuesday; for our date to the Greatham; for being aware during a rather difficult lunch discussion.

Aaron: for your wisdom during book group; for your ridiculous (and mumbled) monologues (i.e. dinner with Stefan and Lois); for somehow always having Monday dinners with me and making them even more enjoyable.

Olivia: for the awesome rap (presented twice!); for letting me sleep in your bed on more than one occasion; for your ridiculous (and super endearing) catchphrases; for having such a book crush on East of Eden you brought it to a lunch discussion.

Drew: for letting me force you into doing dishes when we needed extra help; for making the ginger tea when I was getting sick; for always sharing and providing anything for the community.

Lily: for loving us so much you extended your stay; for taking care of my girls while I was in Italy; for being part of the loud and super obnoxious makeshift Trivial Pursuit game on Good Friday.

Leah: for your special shrug in response to many things; for dancing at the Hawkley (finally!); for showing us all up on the volleyball court; for your hugs on my especially hard days.

Helen: for waving to me every morning when I woke up (until I switched beds); for our High Tea dates that I looked forward to all the time; for making me laugh just so you could enjoy hearing it.

Kari: for your questions; for sitting in a pile of clothes every morning trying to decide what to wear; for your laugh--I could find you from a mile away; for being a part of the great vegetable garden incident of '09.

Andy: for playing "Hallelujah" every morning and singing your heart out; for always (always!) carrying Mayan Gold in your pocket for the enjoyment of those who worked with you; for doing crossword puzzles every morning and being far too loud.

Laura: for smoking whilst playing volleyball; for being the first person I had a conversation with; for huddling in a blanket out on the lawn divulging secrets to each other during the last week; for instigating Black Wednesday.

Gretchen: for dancing to the "Hallelujah Chorus" on Easter Sunday; for (unknowingly) allowing Dare to push you down in a volleyball game; for your incredible impersonation of Merlin from The Sword in the Stone (and surprising me with a performance at the last High Tea!)

Danny: for marrying Ma'rta.  'Nuff said.

Abby: for your laugh!; for sitting at the head of the big table every morning (I was devastated when you left); for instigating Grey Monday by getting lost in the woods after your tutorial.

Eri: for being able to show emotion during the last high tea (breakthrough!); for being more excited about finding my wallet than I was; for that disgusting Swedish spread you used at breakfast almost every morning.

Lee: for so diligently learning English (and using it to encourage us); for getting lost in London and making us find you in Trafalgar Square; for proving Jim wrong at a lunch discussion.

Jana: for your hating to talk at breakfast; for stealing flapjacks for me and intentionally placing them next to you during film night so I would sit there; for our walk down Snailing Lane; for being part of the great vegetable garden incident of '09.

Steven: for making the laundry signs (and letting me boss you around); for knowing that hidden treasure under a mattress would make me laugh; for our Monday nights at the Greatham (and bottles of red wine); for always trying to understand my POV.

Susan: for calling out Alasdair on your first day; for that amazing talk we had in your room one Sunday morning; for coming at all--I wish you could have stayed longer.

Jon: for engaging me in debates (and then apologizing for crossing the line); for your awesome Welsh accent; for letting L'Abri lure you into its hold.

Phil: for returning not once but twice; for reading Peter Pan; for walking back to the manor with me--a talk that solidified the friendship we now share.

Calvin: for our epic hugs; for often walking with me (to the Madhuban and Hawkley), and even holding me up as we trudged uphill; for teaching me everything I ever needed to know about Brits (i.e. chavs); for throwing yourself into the thorny bushes to save the volleyball and the rest of the game.  

Charlie: for being brave enough to sing at high tea; for being brave enough to say a certain four-letter word at a lunch discussion; for always getting the dishes washed by our self-imposed deadline.

Ocelia: for crawling into bed with me the first night I arrived; for asking me to edit your letter aloud whilst folding laundry; for sitting on the cold, dirty floor of Gatwick Airport for nearly 2 hours talking with me on your last night in England.

Elizabeth: for your beautiful voice that nearly made me cry; for shopping with me on Oxford Street; for our nearly missing the train back to Liss yet catching it just in time and meeting up with the rest of the gang.

Wesley: for being "Wesley the Brave" on my first walk back from the Hawkley; for your wicked dance moves (at the house, in the pubs, on the street); for all the songs you wrote about us and performed so beautifully; for being honest and setting boundaries when necessary.

Alasdair: for being an ass (in the best of ways) on the volleyball court; for all your fish paraphernalia; for loving L'Abri more than you ever thought you would and coming back because you missed us so much.

Dare: for making volleyball a contact sport; for always saying, "Hi"; for accompanying us girls on our trip to Portsmouth.

Fiona: for your warmth and openness during my first day of working (in the garden); for teaching us that awesome Irish dance; for getting me to dance at the Hawkley; for the hard truth you gave me in regards to losing my wallet.

Julia: for letting me seduce you one too many times; for your hugs (oh, so great!); for the butternut squash chili that was always too spicy until the last time you made it; for always making music that made the house feel like home.

Tim & Meg: for your immense wisdom and desire to understand our generation; for being our adopted "parents"; for actually getting away with calling me "Lizzie" (Tim) and trying to convince us that Marmite is actually wonderful (Meg) even though it isn't.

To the workers, so much thanks for the time and energy you invested in each and every one of us.  We are not the same and that is a good thing.  I look forward to returning soon, to coming home once again.

World Spins Madly On

I like that music has the ability to conjure up a whole host of memories with just one note, one chord, one word.  That the opening to a song, be it guitar, piano, or voice, can pull me back to certain moments and memories in my life, can connect me to people, places, things in a second.  

I am, in no way, a music buff.  But I do like music, and for a year now have held a special, large place in my heart for Deb Talan and Steve Tannen, the husband/wife duo known as The Weepies.  I remember randomly visiting their myspace while I was dog-sitting last summer, falling in love with "World Spins Madly On" from their album Say I am You.  To date, it has made 126 appearances on my iTunes (not counting how often it blares through my headphones or my car speakers via iPod).

I love that it is the background song to my most girlie of moments, namely:

1.) Afternoons at Barnes & Noble, reading through Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist and, in spite of myself, finding much truth about being a Christian/woman/human being.

2.) A beautiful road trip to Ohio for Elise and Austin's wedding.  I listened to it all the way to High Point, NC, then all the way to Ohio, then all the way down to Indianapolis.  When I listen to the song, my mind always sees mountains.  I like that.

3.) It is intricately connected with my adoration for The Jane Austen Book Club.  Though I've never read the book, I listened to some of it on CD on that some road trip.  Since then, I've seen the movie, and now can't seem to watch it without thinking of The Weepies.

4.) This same song plays during a scene in Friends with Money.  I love this movie.  I have no idea why.  Catherine Keener just shines, though, and there is a certain heaviness that accompanies this script, depicting the lives of four women in an eerily realistic light.  I often watch it when I'm depressed, a necessary escape that leaves me grateful for what I have.

There are, of course, many more moments, too many to remember, to know.  I'm just glad for the few that I can count, and for words that keep me company during some of my brightest and darkest hours.

When I Ache

When I ache my heart tightens, my eyes squint, and I try my hardest not to cry.

Rarely am I successful.

Though it was a little over seven months that I stepped off a plane at London Gatwick Airport, I feel as if it was just yesterday.  And though it's been over four months since I stepped off a plane at the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, I have yet to forget what happened during the three months I was gone.

I'd like to say that I can forget, that I can compartmentalize all my feelings and emotions and pretend that even though life sucks I'm still okay.  But that's a lie.  I feel too much, I think far too much, and those feelings are now a part of my makeup.  Sigh.

Sometimes I wish that I wasn't so intentional, that I would stop slipping letters into envelopes and licking the flap shut, or typing paragraph upon paragraph before hitting send, or clicking a name and face that pops up in facebook chat and saying, "Hi."  I tell Alasdair that I get weepy every time someone from L'Abri sends me something.  He tells me that's because I love everyone so much.

And I do.

My family is scattered across cities, states, and countries.  We'll never all be together again and I can't help wallowing over this realization.  Daily.  Sigh.

Love, London

I was perusing the Chicago Tribune this morning, cutting coupons and looking to see if there were any interesting articles when I found the whole front page of the Travel section devoted to this city: London, England.  Intrigued, of course, I read through the reporter's list of "Don't Miss" and "Skip it?" attractions in this city where I just spent a significant amount of time.  This is my take on what he had to say:

"Don't Miss"

1. Tower of London: I visited this site the first time I came to London back in 2004.  It was okay.  Not great enough to go back this past trip, but interesting nonetheless.

2. Westminster Abbey: um, is it possible that I've never been inside?  We tried!  In 2004 we tried to make it to Evensong but it never happened.  Ah, well.  I say I haven't gone inside as an incentive to go back.  2011, here I come!

3. Portobello Market: I went to Portobello Road twice before finally making it to the actual market.  The reporter says it has the best lunch in London, and I'm not surprised.  My best lunch there was a toss up between a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich at an eatery called Gail's or a lemon & sugar crepe at a place my friend Heather took me called Kitchen & Pantry.  This guy mentions the Ghanaian stew without telling you where to get it.  Not such great reporting, eh?

4. St. Paul's Cathedral: tucked away in London's financial district, Mom and I went here before a trip to the Borough Market.  We should have walked along the Millenium footbridge instead of taking the tube.  Ah, well.  We happened to get there in time to partake in the eucharist.  It was a sacred moment for sure.

5. London theaters: I've seen both the Lion King and Wicked in this town.  Contrary to the reporter's view that the theatres surround Leicester Square, there are several outside the vicinity--including the one by Victoria Station where we saw Wicked.  

6. Buckingham Palace: I've not seen the changing of the guard, but I have seen it at night and it's breathtaking.  

7. The Tate Modern: go if you have a really long time and a love for modern (not necessarily contemporary) art.  It's very crowded.  Of course it is--it's free.  I love it, though, just on the basis of the walk between it and the Borough Market.  It's the only reasonable way to get there from the London Bridge tube station, and it's worth the footwork for the view across the Thames.

8. London Eye: Mom and I went when it was dark and raining.  If I could do it again, I would go on a sunny day.  

9. Covent Garden Market: one of my favorite spots in the city, I found both a tea strainer for one pound and a ring for four pounds at this market.  Love it!

10. Hyde Park: when I go back, I'm convincing fellow L'Abriers to take a picnic to this park.  I've heard it's wonderful for that purpose.  It was too cold to appreciate it while I was there, but if ever I live in London I will frequent it often.

Places he missed: Camden Market and Trafalgar Square!  How could anyone leave those two places out of a "Don't Miss" list?

"Skip it?"

1. British Museum: yes, true, it is dull once you get past the mummies.  But it was worth going considering I had Eri, who is Japanese, Lee, who is South Korean, and Wesley, who is Chinese-American, with me who could appreciate the Asian art.  Also, losing one of our friends in the largest museum in London and finding her again gave reason for God's existence so I do have quite fond memories of this place.

2. Thames Tour: we took this tour in 2004 and even during the summer it was freezing.  We got off at Greenwich, visiting a not-so-great market and trying to find our way back to the city through what seemed like a rough neighborhood.  Beware of pick-pockets signs were everywhere.

3. Harrods: I hated this place.  We went in 2004 and I had no desire to go back.  It's gaudy, overpriced, and worthless.  London is already overwhelming without the need to go to the most overwhelming department store I have ever visited.

4. Oxford Street/Piccadilly Circus: okay, Piccadilly Circus I can understand, but Oxford Street is great.  I spent much time shopping there, and have fond memories of my time there with Elizabeth.  With the exchange rate improving, clothes were actually affordable.  Though, truly, I would recommend Kensington High Street for shopping.  Much easier to navigate.

5. Royal Albert Hall: I don't even remember seeing this place.  Must really not be worth it.

6. Jack the Ripper tour: really?  who would actually do this?

Places he missed: the British Library.  I know this is blasphemy coming from a writer, but going here ruined an already ruined day.  The only point of going would be to look at original manuscripts from English authors and Beatles lyrics.  Skip it.  Really.  Just don't go.

Writing this makes me miss that city--that country!  If all goes well and I can find a job and live on my own for awhile, I plan to go back some time in 2011.  Either summer or fall, and either for a month or the full three-month term.  If I go back to L'Abri for a term I would only go as a helper.  Part of me would prefer the month so I could spend time in Ireland, Scotland, and Holland along with England.  We will see.  Patience, ah, such a wretched virtue.

Baby, Life Goes On

There is so much to say, and I would say it if I felt compelled.  But I don't.  Some musings are best kept inside of our heads, or shared when we feel it is necessary.  I guess these things I can share, though:

I finished a rough draft of an essay.  It's the first I've written since I wrote for the L'Abri blog back in April.  I've been working on it since I got back from L'Abri, but haven't had the drive to complete it.  Tiffany's desire to compile a book of memories from Spring Term '09 has been the push, and I've stumbled ahead, using writing as an excuse for therapy.  Oh, to have an outlet such as this.  To create, to meet with our Creator on such an intimate level.  

I'm over halfway through reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.  How to describe this prose?  Creative nonfiction, yes.  An account of death, certainly.  A portrait of a marriage, of a woman (who happens to be an iconic American writer) recording the year after and the years leading up to her husband's death.  I can't say that I've spent much time extracting lessons from her words save for this: "That I was only now beginning the process of mourning did not occur to me.  Until now I had been only able to grieve, not mourn.  Grief was passive.  Grief happened.  Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention."

I realize that I have only begun the process of mourning.  Up until this point, I have been grieving the loss of L'Abri.  I believe that I was grieving well.  As for mourning I'm not sure.  I reckon that reliving my term through pictures, music, and writing may or may not be healthy.  The writing, yes, I believe is healthy.  The music?  Sometimes.  But the pictures, sigh, they only serve to rip open my hardly healed wounds.  After so much talk of living in the present mine is being swallowed up by the past.

And the future.  This not-knowing business gets old quickly.  Though I do know now what I want to do, getting there is most of the battle.  Except to say that it's time to declare my own independence, to see that life goes on and it's up to me to go with it.

In Mourning

"Was it real?  Were we really there?"

My friend Steven, an Iowan I met at L'Abri, posed these questions (or something similar) to me last night as we resorted to facebook chat to wish one another a good night.  Gone were free Monday evenings when we would all gallivant in separate groups down to the Greatham Inn, only to reconvene on large leather couches next to the fireplace where the owners always kept the flames ablaze.  Or a different type of Monday evening when I was able to steal just one friend and sneak away to the pub to learn more about one another without the presence of thirty others to distract us.

"Was it real?"  Did I really go to England?  Did I really spend three months hoarding time and space in hopes that it could last just a little bit longer, that I could hold on to a different view of living, one that cursed modernity and embraced community?  These words I now cling to among others: boundaries, delayed gratification, reality, the present moment, cynicism, idealism, goodness and what is good?  I find myself making jokes in my head about Jim Paul, Andrew Fellows, Stefan Lindhom, even Scott Peck and Martin Buber.  I wonder what a lunch discussion would look like today: who would make the meal?  Would it be Marta with her Hungarian dishes--so good we stole helpings for other students?  Who would ask the question?  Wesley?  Helen?  A different member of the council of the brains?  Would we argue or agree?  Speak or sit in silence?  And why do I all of a sudden feel that every statement should be transformed with this little mark: "?"

Today I will have been home for a month.  And I have spent much of it in shock, mourning, really, this loss.  Recognizing that part of my reality, now, is allowing myself to do that.  

"You are REAL!  And we were REALLY there!"  

I typed these statements to Steven, assuring him that what we experienced has not been left in England, both of us agreeing that all of it now permeates who we are at this very moment.  And we are able to remember, able to show gratitude to the memories we now share with one another and with so many other dear and precious friends.  

Every time I wake up I move one day farther from my time at L'Abri, but I am okay with this.  Because each day is full of its own beauty and its own pain.  I'm grateful that three months have helped me better understand how to cope with it all, how to view it in a healthful and real manner.

be blessed (and live)

liz

I'm Alive

I made it to L'Abri this past Tuesday.  It took me nearly an hour or so to get to Waterloo Station via the Tube.  Rush hour is not kind even when underground.  I made it to Waterloo around 9:30, and took the train to Liss at 9:45 (providence!)  Again, providence met me once I arrived because a taxi was waiting and able to take me to the manor house 2 miles away in Greatham.  The rest of the week has been a slight blur of making fast friends, frequenting many pubs, gardening, cooking, creating, and talking.  I am alive.  I am alive in many more ways than just having made it here in one piece.  

I wish I could explain this place better, but I believe it will take me many weeks and months to fully understand what this is that I am experiencing.  Suffice to say that I am where I should be.

I have to run now as a new friend, Leah, graciously let me borrow her mac to type this whilst sitting in a pub near the house.  But I do want to say that I spent last night walking 40 minutes to another pub located in the deep countryside, a walk that involved two awfully steep inclines, a field, and a muddy path all resulting in one of the most fun nights I've had in a long time.  I can't believe I'm in England.  Our walk back was even more adventurous as we took the long way back to the house via a very randomly placed "kebob" stand on the side of the road.  Led by the fearless "Wesley the Brave" and his "torch," we enjoyed the scenic route back to Liss and then Greatham.  I laughed... a lot.  I froze nearly to death.  But I am, as I said before, alive.  I love this.

Directions [by Joseph Stroud]

Anyone who knows me knows that I have an affinity for moleskine journals.  Sparked my junior year of college, I have since started a mini collection of unfinished yet severely tarnished journals.  In the spirit of this trip, I bought a new one: unscathed; unmarked that is until I went on a search for the perfect words to grace the first page.  Rifling through "Good Poems," a so-called textbook from my poetry class, I knew Garrison Keillor would come through for me with this compilation.  And he did, of course.  In the section entitled Trips was this poem by Joseph Stroud:

Directions

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world

Take a plane to London.

From King's Cross take the direct train to York.

Rent a car and drive across the vale to Ripon,

then into the dales toward the valley of the Nidd,

a narrow road with high stone walls on each side,

and soon you'll be on the moors.  There's a pub,

The Drovers, where it's warm inside, a tiny room,

You can stand at the counter and drink a pint of Old Peculiar.

For a moment everything will be all right.  You're back

at a beginning.  Soon you'll walk into Yorkshire Country,

into dells, farms, into blackberry and cloud country.

You'll walk for hours.  You'll walk the freshness

back into your life.  This is true.  You can do this.

Even now, sitting at your desk, worrying, troubled,

you can gaze across Middlesmoor to Ramsgill,

the copses, the abbeys of slanting light, the fells,

you can look down on that figure walking toward Scar House,

cheeks flushed, curfews rising in front of him, walking,

making his way, working his life, step by step, into grace.

peace to you,

liz

In Preparation

I've been a little overwhelmed these past few days.  Actually, I have been "a lot" overwhelmed.  Thursday night I was unable to fall asleep until 3 in the morning or later.  Friday, I spent the day running errands, picking up paychecks, depositing paychecks, eating dinner, and... packing.  I am just one small percentage of the whole of women who believe that in order to travel, and travel well, we must pack everything we have ever bought.  Combing through my bathroom that evening, I found myself gazing longingly at a bottle of hand lotion I bought sophomore year that's still full, thinking, "I need hand lotion for my trip."  I picked it up, looked at it for a second before my mind snapped to and yelled, "Down, Liz!  Put the hand lotion back in the basket."

I was convinced I needed all my jeans (which would seem like a good idea if I owned two pairs.  But, as my friend Neil--who owns one pair--now knows after a recent conversation about denim, I own close to 10 pairs of jeans).  Deciding which to bring and which to leave home has been a source of contention for me.  I'm still wrestling over that, as well as how many sweaters, thermal tees, socks, and pairs of underwear should join me across the pond.  I want, I need, all my clothes to see England... don't they deserve it after hanging from my closet or being stuffed in drawers for so long?

I had another close-to-sleepless night on Friday.  Had my alarm not woken me up at 8:30am, I do believe I could have slept at least until 10am.  But alas, my last shift at Talbots was waiting for me--four hours that I aimlessly walked through with my mind half asleep, my body on the brink of drunkenness as I drove home to, once again, devote hours to packing.

I finally reached a point close to 10 last night where I could fit everything in my suitcase and maybe try to cram more.  I crawled into bed shortly after, experiencing 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep that was so deep I dreamt my family was going to spend two weeks on vacation in Vietnam after a short trip to Hong Kong and before that: Australia.  I attribute these destinations to two things: my friend Seth's trip around southeast Asia, and the many chapters devoted to the Vietnam War in Tom Brokaw's "Boom!  Talking About the Sixties," my latest finished read.  I woke myself up after expressing concern to my father that the Vietnamese don't like Americans and we could be killed.  Lovely, I tell you.  Just lovely.

I couldn't fall back asleep because I realized I forgot to pack my converter, and my flat iron.  My nicely packed suitcase now needed room for two more bulky items, and I crawled out of bed to check the size of my converter case.  Only the case didn't hold a converter--at least not the kind of converter I needed.  Instead, it was a converter for internet access.  Not hair dryer access--internet!  As I perused the internet, trying to find a store that would sell what I needed I became increasingly frustrated as I realized society's obsession with interconnectedness and lack of concern for basic beauty survival like blow drying and styling hair.  I think I may just make a trip to Boots upon landing in London and buy a flat iron that fits British outlets.  

So I hate packing.  And I hate preparing for trips because I inevitably forget something.  Tuesday evening can't get here fast enough, yet I think I'd like to hold off on boarding the plane until everything is settled, which I fear would take much longer than two-and-a-half days.  Oh goodness. 

Giving Up and Letting Go

Never do I feel more like a control freak than when I plan a trip.  Phone numbers and addresses and tickets suddenly pile up in my head, and before I know it I have clicked on a word document, my fingers typing out an itinerary that begins with the first hour of the first date that I leave.  Every minute detail I could ever need is saved and printed, filed away in a folder that will accompany me on whatever journey it is I will be taking.  

My planning style, unfortunately, always consists of tension between concentration and procrastination.  While I can't survive without an itinerary, I hardly ever create it until two or three days before my departure.  I inevitably forget to print out reservations after I made them months earlier, resigned to call the airlines or hotel in order to reconfirm my original confirmation number.  I put off asking friends if I can stay with them until the last possible moment before I hit sheer panic.  I'm always late and hardly ever early.  I am a self-professed traveling contradiction.

Most, excuse me, I mean all of my solo trips have taken place stateside.  Since having declared a year and a half ago that I would be going to England sometime within the year after I graduated college, I've had several sleepless nights in which I try to convince myself to make reservations at L'Abri and order plane tickets and search for a railcard.  Reservations were made this past summer, tickets purchased in the fall, and I just finished that hunt for a railcard yesterday only to realize I can't get it until I land at Gatwick Aiport (grr).  I still need to complete my itinerary, discuss whether my mom or I will buy tickets for the London Eye and Vinopolis and the Roman baths/costume museum in Bath.  Dad and I still need to decide when he flies to London, when we fly to Italy, and how we'll be getting back.  All in a week, I keep telling myself, all in a week.

With my heart beating a little faster these days, my mind racing as if completing a 200 yard dash to the finish line, I'm trying to remember what it really means to travel.  That beyond itineraries and tickets and reservations are experiences that I could never really plan.  Getting lost and missing connections and learning new transportation systems are all part of the adventure, the stories I'll tell when I get back.  No one will care that I paid way too much money to go on a wine tour--they'll care that I got lost trying to find it, or dropped my wine goblet (like some people I know), or tried the best wine I've ever had.  

I'm nervous to travel alone in a foreign country, but I think I'll take to it just as I have flying alone and driving alone.  No one tells you that some of your best reflections take place behind the windows of a plane, a car, a train.  You just have to know that they do; you have to believe they will because they always have.  I'm trying give up my need for control (but never the itinerary), and let go of my fear and expectations.  I'm trying, I really am, and I think that when I get back my trip will feel more like a hundred experiences, like footprints that created new paths in snow rather than walking along a pre-existing plowed road.  At least, that's what I'm hoping for.