Philadelphia, I Love You

As I proclaimed in a recent Facebook status update, I have country roots, and I have urban roots. If you have been hanging out here for any length of time, you know my country roots lie square in the Wild and Wonderful beauty of West Virginia. (Although to be fair, it's not that reeeeally that country where I live. Wait, never mind. Yes it is). It took me a while, but I grew to love it here and here is where I shall remain for the foreseeable future.

My urban roots on the other hand, were not established until the ripe age of 17 when I went off to college, fresh-faced and clueless about most of life. I chose to attend Eastern University, just outside of Philadelphia. Nice suburban campus, twenty minutes to downtown. By the time I went to college, I had spent more time in foreign countries than I had in big cities, so count me in as a wide-eyed wanderer. My very first memory of a big city still leaves me amused and confused to this day. See if you can explain this one:

First Saturday morning on campus. I was piled into a van with a bunch of other freshmen, headed to begin our semester of required community service. It was my first venture out in my new city and I was craning my neck out with window when I happened to spot THIS scene on the sidewalk:  It was early morning. There was a very handsome young man walking down the street. Head held high, shoulders back, walking with a purpose. He had no shirt on, nor was he clad in pants. He did have a very nice briefcase, very nice dress shoes (wingtip perhaps?) dress socks, and boxers.  He was also carrying a briefcase. He did not look to his right or his left, he was on a mission. This man was definitely very secure in his near-nakedness. I was instantly mystified. Who on earth does this?  Nobody else in the van seemed to really care or notice, but I needed this to make sense.  I came up with two scenarios.

1) His clothes has been stolen after a one night stand. He was on his way home and had no money for cab/bus fare. 
2) He had just been robbed, was really embarrassed about it, and was attempting to pass his outfit off as the new normal. I am telling you, there was no shame in his game. That man was confident,  head held high and no clothes on to speak of, and a briefcase. 

Wooowwwwww. This place was wild. I was HOOKED!
And that is the moment where I threw off my country roots and embraced the city life. I quickly declared my major as urban development and began attending classes on EU's downtown campus.

Philadelphia is where I learned to:
A) Love all things food.  From Pat's Cheesesteaks on the gritty south side, to Penang in Chinatown, to the pretzel factory at midnight, my love affair with food was cemented here.
B) Drive like a woman on fire. Philly traffic is where my hatred of gridlock reached epic and fiery proportions, and I learned to weave, cut people off, honk my horn, and slam on my brakes with the best of them
C) where I learned that white girls can actually dance if they just follow the beat of the music.  18 to party, 21 to drink nights at various clubs were in abundance, and I made sure to frequent them as often as possible. Especially on school nights, so that I could ensure academic success.

Ahhh Philly, I love you.

I love to return as often as possible and last weekend was one of those opportunities. We had a wedding to attend and it was very nearly like old times. I ate cheesesteak, thoroughly enjoyed Malaysian curry and roti canai at  Penang, and my husband was white-knuckled in the passenger seat beside me as I determined to beat everybody else on I-76 to where ever they happened to be going.

I have lived in Washington D.C and Atlanta since college, and while I love both of these cities, neither holds quite the pull that Philly does for me.  I embraced it all- from the 'hood to the grit to the glam, I had found a place I loved.

And still do. 

What about you? Where do you love to go back to, and why?

A few random pictures for you

Occupy protest. Don't see this in WV.

City hall with William PENN at the top. Thanks Jonathan Hobbs for the correction to my glaring oversight.

The beautiful bride and crew at Bartram's Garden

A Little Shame and Embarrassment Abroad

We have all been there. Embarrassment happens and we find ourselves scarlet-colored and shame-faced. The moments that happen abroad though, can find us with an extra deep hue of red and sense of mortification.

"What if they think all __________(insert nationality) act like this?
"What if they think I am THAT tourist?"
"Why is there toilet paper coming out of my pants in the middle of this bus station?"

I bring you three of my most embarrassing moments, all experienced on foreign soil.

1. The "I don't care if you're kosher!" incident.
This one occurred at the ripe age of 14, a time when not many of us know very much about life or love, or about the kosher diet of  Jews. The location was Israel and I was on a tour with my mom, best friend, and some members of our church. It was the second time out of the country for both me and my best friend and we were living the life. We thought we were pretty hot stuff and we took that hot attitude wherever we went. Including to lunch one day, where my friend attempted to order butter to go with his bread. Acting appropriately as only teenagers can,  it was our assumption that our every wish would be granted, in life and especially in restaurants. Imagine our shock then, when the nice lady serving our lunch denied the request for butter in an incredulous tone-"But we don't serve butter. We are kosher!" This little piece of information was digested by both of us with confusion and a sense of  indignation. But..... but....WE are not kosher, therefore our need for butter should be fulfilled!  Right? Of course not. We were in their country, eating their food, abiding by their customs. Ahhh, fourteen year olds are clueless, aren't they? My friend decided to voice his outrage by informing anyone within earshot....(brace yourselves)....
"I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE KOSHER!"
Oh. No.He. Didn't
Did he just announce that for the whole kosher restaurant to hear?
Affirmative.
Odd looks ensued. The nice lady huffed. It seemed like all conversation within a two mile radius stopped.
I wanted to crawl under the table.
She probably spit in our food.
 I may have been just 14, but I did know that  telling someone that their religious dietary restrictions mean nothing to you was ummmmm....crossing the line.
Shame face.


2. The "Lost in Translation" incident.
I actually devoted a whole post to this one-my second post ever on this blog. It was my first time in Myanmar. I was living the life, thinking I was pretty hot stuff and generally behaving as without a care in the world. If that sounds similar to Embarrassing Moment #1, it is, except now I was 24, not 14. Burmese is not a language I ever intend on learning, let's be honest. There are way too many circlely looking letters and tonal sounds. But I thought I should at least master a few phrases. I happily learned "Let's go!" and used it quite liberally-on public transportation, amongst the group I was with, and towards the Burmese friends I made. I did this for approximately eight days before one of the aforementioned friends kindly and finally informed me that the way I was pronouncing it actuallllllly meant something else.
What, pray tell, did it mean then?
With a giggle, Mii Mii whispered to me on the crowded bus "I have black teeth!"

Well isn't that just fantastic?

3. The "Inappropriately Dressed" Incident.
A few years ago, I spent two months in southeast Asia. I hung out in Thailand, Myanmar, and hopped over to India, but most of my time was spent in Bangladesh. It was my first time on that side of the world and each experience was wilder than the last. I attended quite a few weddings while there and was happy to do so-I loved dressing up in a sari, watching the dancing, and eating the food. Loved it. Imagine my surprise one evening when I out for a little neighborhood stroll with a friend and we heard a commotion coming from a nearby home. Of course, we just had to find out what was going on and craned our necks to peek over the wall. We quickly realized it was a wedding and tried to scoot on past.

Too late.
We were spotted and exuberantly invited in. I was wearing sort-of clean sweatpants and a green hoodie with a rainbow on it. My hair was a hot mess, as it usually is when I am in foreign countries. My friend wasn't looking much better. Going into the wedding was absolutely unthinkable and we thanked them and pointed to our clothes and attempted to continue on our merry way.
They wouldn't hear of it and after approximately 15 minutes of polite arguing, we realized that we would need to attend the stranger's wedding reception or risk offending said stranger and possibly an entire country.
Siiiiiigh.
Our reluctant acquiescence was met with exultation and we were led into the reception where everybody, and I do mean everybody, was dressed to the 9's and looking beautiful and magical.
Everybody except us. I tried to slink past the guests of honor, never making eye contact, looking wildly around for the first corner in which I could hide. It's bad enough crashing a wedding, but crashing one in SWEATPANTS?!
Not gonna lie, we did get a few looks that night. Ones that I read as "Oh look at those poor ratty Americans. Don't they have any better clothes?" But mostly, the wedding guests were thrilled to have us join them. We stayed as long as was possibly polite and then hightailed it out of there.

I sent telepathic apologies to the bride on the way out.

What about you? What are your most embarrassing travel moments? 

The hair and sweatshirt. Same trip, but on a more appropriate occasion.

Lost Girls Winner and a Lazy Labor Day

I am finally getting around to posting the winner of my copy of The Lost Girls (read my review here). It has been a crazy week, causing me to miss my customary Monday posting.  Life happens.

So without further ado.......Kalyan over at Heaven's Garden is the lucky recipient of some girls.
 Hope he enjoys ;)

Woohoo! And thanks to all for stopping by and making my first little giveaway a success. I loved all of the book suggestions and will need to get started on them. Winter is coming and I will need some good reading.


On to other things:
We just celebrated Labor Day here in the US of A and our was a pretty lazy weekend. But I did venture out on a kayak, which requires a tiny backstory.

The number one question (or some variation of this) I was asked before and after my trip to Nicaragua was "How will/did your husband do without you for so long?"

Let me assure one and all, here and now. He did just FINE. To sum up, I arrived home to a refrigerator that still had the dinner I cooked the night before I left, and a new boat. Ok, a kayak.

But still.  Gross to the dinner and ???? to..... a kayak? He doesn't even like water sports.

I had an inkling of the boat, but was under the apparently wrong impression that he was going to wait until my return to purchase. I received a nice little surprise when checking the back account from an internet cafe in Granada that the boat had indeed made its arrival pre-wife's return.

I was completely miffed and stomped out of the internet cafe to find the nearest international phone so that I could place an irate  call to my husband. He of course did not answer, as he was probably out enjoying said kayak. By the time I finally reached him, I had had all sorts of time in which to fume, and rant, and rave, and vow things. One of those things I vowed was that I would NEVER, under ANY circumstances, EVER, go out on the kayak with him, or be remotely involved in any kayaking type activities. When I found out it was a one seater, this heaped coals upon the flames of ire (despite my vow to never use it, I still wanted to be asked, of course) and I made a new vow to refuse to even look at it.

Anyway, guess what I did on Labor Day?

Borrowed a friend's kayak, is what I did

The offending kayak and a pretty happy husband

A Sunny Tuesday in September a Decade Ago

I don't normally post on a Sunday, but today is special. I am putting aside my customary humor and travel adventures to give you something else.

 The frivolity of summer and the anticipation of fall came to a halt today as Americans reflected, prayed, worshiped, wept, remembered, and celebrated. We all know what happened on September 11, 2001. It is nearly impossible to be unaffected by it, whether positively or negatively, or whether or not you knew someone in the planes, in the towers, or in the Pentagon.

I was a newly-minted college senior and living the dream. That sunny Tuesday morning, I was puttering around my apartment just outside of Philadelphia, attempting to get ready for my first class.

My phone rang. It was my mother. Not unusual.

What was unusual was her first question, fired at me without even the briefest of hellos.

"Do you have the TV on?" 

I did not, but that would soon be remedied.

She insisted that I turn on the television immediately and what greeted me was confusing, horrifying, and bizarre. All at the same time.

The rest of the day is a blur. I honestly don't remember much of it except trying valiantly to contact my best friend who had just moved to DC for a semester internship. For hours I got busy signals and automated messages from the phone company.  By the end of the day, I had word that he was fine. One sweet relief in the midst of an ever growing national tragedy. I remember thinking on September 12th, that it was weird it wasn't September 11th anymore.

Life crept back into normal.  The events of that day impacted me, sure. But at 21 years old,, the world was mine for the taking. I had nothing holding me back, nothing to lose.

Ten years later, I am not that same person. Ten years later, this tragic drama holds more meaning and value to me than it ever did on that bright Tuesday morning in 2001.

The other night I was watching a program in which the events of that morning and the aftermath were told from survivor's perspectives. One story in particular made my gut wrench.

There was a woman whose husband worked in the South Tower, the second one to be hit. He called her after the North Tower was hit and before the second plane crashed and assured her that he was fine, but wasn't sure of what he should do. A few minutes later, his range of options became significantly limited.  He called her again, from the 105th floor, twenty floors UP from his office. She was instantly panicked-why was he above his office? Why was he still in the building? How was he going to get down? He told her he tried to get out onto the roof, but the door was locked. She begged him to try again. He promised her he would and put the phone down. He came back on and told her it was a no-go. He was by himself. There was nothing left to do.

He couldn't go down  and he couldn't go up. The realization that this would be their final conversation in life was suddenly present between them.

She said goodbye forever to her husband on the phone, watching his certain fate play out on the television before her.  Knowing that when she put the phone down,  the father of her children and her partner in life would be gone.

Can you imagine? I cannot.

Since that fateful day in September, I too, am now somebody's wife. Watching her story the other night was heartbreaking. I watched and cried, and then cried some more.

Since that fateful day in September, I now play the role of teacher. I do this in fairly conservative and largely homogenous West Virginia. There are certain pockets of anathema towards the ethnicity and religion that perpetrated this deed. But I cannot allow that in my classroom. Hate already finalized the events of that day, I cannot allow it to perpetuate. It is my job to encourage my students to consider the humanity of it all.

Life has changed in the last decade. I have changed.

Hold your loved ones a little tighter today.....and every day.

I Am Giving Away Some Lost Girls. Do You Want Them?

This is my first giveaway, so please keep reading. And comment.
But we'll get to that in a second. First things first:

I love to read.  I love to read while traveling, and I especially love to read books about  traveling. So that is why I was pretty excited when I came across The Lost Girls, and determined to hold off reading it until my next big trip.  It took me a few years to arrange that (getting married and becoming a teacher kind of took precedence over really long trips) but when I booked my ticket to Nicargua, my next thought was Yes!! I get to read the book! Finally. (Did you actually think I was giving away humans today?)
Here is my very unprofessional (and slightly miffed at the end) book review.

First the synopsis. Three New York City girls quit their jobs with 30th birthdays looming and decide to step way out of the box and do something crazy and take a 'round the world trip.  Leaving jobs and boyfriends behind, they book their first ticket to Peru.

What follows is 500 pages of all three girls taking turns telling their story. The 500 pages is partly why I wanted to wait until I was traveling to read it-I knew that is when I would have long stretches of time where there would be nothing much to do.  Several hundred pages is a long story to tell, unless you are War and Peace. As a result, I feel that at times, the dialogue was a bit overwritten.  Since I am no literary genius/critic/expert, I was trying to think how I could describe these parts of the book and "overwritten" was the only word I could come up with. It was as if they were trying too hard to replicate their experience for us, trying to force the feeling of the reader being right there in the moment.  Ehhh.

My other major issue is that they each came home at least once during their year of travel. One of them came home twice.  Is it just me or is that cheating the definition of RTW if you come home? Twice even?!  Because to me, that's just going on three really long trips, back to back.


 And that is where my criticisms end. Here is why: Have I ever set out to travel the whole entire world in one specific amount of time? No.  Have I ever written a book about that, or anything else? No.

Enough said.

It was an entertaining read, easily accomplished in about a week.

However, I might have been just a teeny bit more gushing in my review if I had not received the following reply when I posted a comment on their blog right before I left on my trip. (please note that it does say the message may not have been sent by them, so who actually knows?)


The Lost Girls lostgirlsworld@gmail.com to me
show details Jun 15
This message may not have been sent by: lostgirlsworld@gmail.com  Learn more  Report phishing
Hi Claire
Thank you for your comment at The Lost Girls (http://www.lostgirlsworld.com/). Be sure to come back soon.
Thank you,
The Lost Girls
You posted the following comment:
---------------------------------
Hi ladies,
I just got my copy, via Amazon, in the mail today. I am taking it with me on my month long jaunt to Nicaragua. Heard great things about it. Gave it a plug on my latest post ;)


*gasp* *clutching hands to heart*
A FORM REPLY?
Maybe I have high expectations in the blogging community, because we all have started somewhere, and that's usually at or near the bottom. Or are still at the bottom. But I am pretty sure this is the first form reply I have ever gotten. I think I would have rather just have gotten no reply at all.

Moving on.

Would you like to read this book? Because I am giving my copy away! All you have to do is leave me a comment with a recommendation on your favorite book that has to with a traveler, a journey, or anything travel-related, by September 12 at noon EST! I will choose the winner at random (i.e. my husband will choose your name out of a Ziploc bag) and announce it here next week. I will mail it anywhere, so if you live in a mansion in Massachusetts, that's cool. Or  if you live in a hut in the Himalayas, that's cool too.

For two books that I absolutely love, go here.

Packing Heat on a Sunny Day at the Pool

A few weeks ago in a post about first graders dancing like strippers , I casually mentioned that I had taken a ride on the back of a motorcycle being driven by a man toting a pistol in his waistband. Obviously, I survived this episode, but for the briefest of moments that night, I was sure that I had done the last stupid thing I would ever do as a traveler.

It was a hot day, one of the hottest I experienced the entire time I was in Nicaragua. The kind that depletes your very soul of energy. Rivulets of sweat were my fashion accessories, and I could barely string a nice sentence together-I was grumpy because I was hot and I was hot because the temperature exceeded inferno- like levels.

Complete happiness

That does it, I decided.  I'm going to the pool. 113 cordoba ($5) or not, I will  gladly pay for the luxury of not swimming in my own sweat.  Anneriet (roommate) had the same idea and off we went towards Hotel Granada, our steps a bit lighter in anticipation.

Upon arriving at the oasis of blue, we were convinced that we had arrived in paradise. The crystal chlorine water beckoned and it took all of two seconds to dive into it. It was only slightly more refreshing than, say,  bath water, but anything is cooler than a desert, right?

We proceeded to thoroughly enjoy ourselves over the next few hours-reading, napping, people-watching, swimming, splashing around and generally living the dream. It was fantastic.

Then we made friends, and our day became much more interesting.

Fabiola and Walter were splashing around on the other end of the pool, and when I eventually made my way down there,  Fabiola began speaking to me in Spanish, asking me what I thought of Nicaragua, where was I from, and what was I doing in her country? We all began chatting back and forth, racing each other to the center of the pool, telling jokes, and just generally having a grand ole' time. Walter hadn't said much up until then, but I just assumed he was the quiet one in the relationship. At one point Fabiola announced she was famoso, (famous) glanced at Walter,  and then laughed a deep belly laugh and we couldn't help but join her. But when she mentioned it again, we began to wonder...."hmm...is she?" So we asked. Fabiola laughed again and told us to ask Walter. Walter confirmed, telling us that he was her "guadespalda."

Bodyguard.

Say whaaaaaaat?

This day at the pool just got way more intriguing.

Apparently, Fabiola is a cousin to the chief of police in Nicaragua. Due to people having vendettas against him, corruption issues, and lord knows what else, all family members are under 24 hour police protection.

I didn't know whether to feel extremely safe, or like the bullseye on a target.

It was right about then that we noticed it was getting dark and because of a recent spate of robberies a few of our  fellow volunteers had unfortunately experienced, we decided to do the smart thing and head home.

But why? questioned Fabiola. We will take you where you need to go!

Well of COURSE we can get a ride home with police!

And do you like pizza? came the next question.

Well of COURSE we want to eat pizza with her and the police! 

So that is what we decided to do. How to get there though? Well, as it turns out, Fabiola and Walter had arrived by motorcycle, which will transport only only two at a time. Time to call in reinforcements. A quick phone call later, Fabiola informed us that one of her other bodyguards was on his way.

Well of COURSE he is!

She began divvying up drivers to riders, placing me with the new bodyguard and Anneriet with Walter. She would stay behind and wait for one of them to return for her. Wouldn't that mean she was left alone? Wait a minute. I thought she needed a bodyguard at all times?  And that is when a stab of fear invaded my heart. Isn't that how they do it in the movies? They separate the friends, take them to a wooded area, and that is the last anyone ever sees of the friends? Oh dear me. What have I gotten myself into now? Surely this violates one of the rules my mother charged me with before I left. And I don't even have to wonder what my husband would be saying right now.  I glance at Anneriet to see if I can detect any fear. Nope, not a shred. Just me then. Great. I run through escape scenarios in my head, ranging from announcing that "ummm... no thanks, you're very nice, but I actually hate pizza and it's against my religion to eat it" to conveniently falling off the motorbike en route to the woods.  Siiigh. How do I get myself into these situations?

 Giddy with a touch of terror

Oh, and of COURSE there is a pistol (somewhat, but not really, discreetly) tucked into the other bodyguard's waistband. The one with whom I will be riding to the Last Supper dinner. No holster, nothing official looking. Just a pistol tucked into his nice plaid shorts. Here goes nothin.'

On the way out of the hotel, we pass by a piano and Fabiola decides we need a concert. First Anneriet plays a little tune for us. Then it's my turn and I play an old church hymn, one that was sang at my wedding. Then it's Fabiola's turn.

She plays the same exact hymn, but with all the scale and finesse of a concerto masterpiece. I mean, the woman is practically Beethoven. Seriously. She finishes with all the flair of an encore and then tells us she used to be a church pianist.   I am instantly relieved. She can't possibly be in cahoots with murderers if she can play "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" on a moments notice, right?

I feel better after the impromptu concert, but I will feel much better when we are all happily eating pizza.

Which we all were, in short order, post-concert. Fabiola, one uniformed bodyguard, one plainclothes, and the two of us. And everybody in Telepizza seemed to know her and want to talk to her and spend a minute with her. Fabiola really was famoso.  With that infectious laugh, deep smile, and a generous heart, how could she be anything but famous? That episode is one of my best memories of the whole trip. New friends, a random encounter , a good story, and a shared meal. We never ran into Fabiola again, but I wish we had. I consider her a friend. 

What about you? Ever find yourself in a potentially questionable situation that ends up being a favorite memory?

Fabiola and her fans

This Is What Panic Looks Like

Last week, the husband I broke our five year streak of never having been to the beach together. 'Bout time too, because we had some serious "we are 14 years old again" fun. And we packed all that fun into a mere 48+ hours. We had big plans for those hours though. Our Virginia Beach itinerary looked like this:

1) Find and consume crab cakes (I might eat crab cakes every day if I could)
2) Find and consume copious amounts of crab legs (due to the fact that we spent more on one dinner than I did in one week in Nicaragua, I am trying to pretend this never happened)
3) Find and ride go-karts (I am a fairly agressive driver with what my father describes as a "lead foot." But apparently not in a go-kart. There were small children taking each and every opportunity to cut me off and/or lap me)
4) Find and walk the boardwalk (good people watching)
5) Find  miniature golf course and beat my husband  (accomplished for the first time ever!)
5) Find sun and increase deep golden bronze skin tone so as to enhance youthful glow (not actually his plan, just mine)

And then I got a curious little text message from a  friend who just happened to be headed to the same beach on the same dates. The message inquired as to whether I would be interested in parasailing with her.

Para what? 

Yes please. Sign me up.

Now remember, I don't like activities that scare me shameless or that raise the question of whether I will live, die, or get seriously injured.  After all, it did take me approximately 30 minutes to inch my way down a volcano.

Apparently, that experience quickly became a distant memory because I almost immediately began planning on partaking in this para whatever thing. My knowledge of the activity was minimal:  I knew that it involved floating above the ocean while suspended from a giant parachute or something. How one actually ascended into the air though?  That remained a mystery.

I would soon find out though.  Making our way to the dock that morning, I started to feel the first prick of nerves. I needed to keep them at bay though,  because I had managed to convince Adam, who hates heights, that this would be woohoo! fun.  Although he appeared not to believe that this would turn out to be true, he begrudgingly agreed that he would go. Such a good man.

I am all smiles until the moment we get on the boat and the captain and his buddy inform the three of us that we will be going first.

I don't do "first."

I do "wait and see if/how other people meet an untimely demise and then decide a course of action."

But seeing as how as the nice young man was at that very moment cocooning me into some sort of harness, attaching me to very scary looking cables and stuff, while simultaneously telling me that everything was going to be fine, there was very little to do but await my fate. 

That is when the panic set in. How exactly would  we ascend into the air? Would we be shot off the back of the boat like human cannonballs? Would a gust of wind blow us into the air? Would there be some sort of jet propulsion involved? Would our method of ascent involve me getting bloody and/or breaking something?

But why waste time describing my state of mind, when you can see it for yourself?

Because all of that was documented on film. And if you are in need of cheering up today, then really, look no further than this little series of photos. When finished, please believe this is one of the coolest things I have ever done, despite what my face is telling you.