Stina's Trip » new friends

From mountains to sea

admin — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 21:44:24 +0000

(Hanoi, Vietnam) — Right now I’m hiding out in my hotel room as I escape the heat, motorbikes, aggressive vendors and endless ways to spend money that Hanoi is known for. This is by far my favorite big city in Vietnam, but it’s still better taken in small bites than giant gulps. I was out this morning, and I’ll spend hours out there this evening, but for now, it’s nice to be sequestered.

I officially have less than a week to go, and I’m in a funny place about it. Part of me is happy to get back to my North Carolina life, as I really cherish my jobs and friends there. Being here reminds me how special it is to feel included in something.

Another part of me, however, wants to ride off into the wild blue yonder. My mind keeps replaying the final moments of that early ’90s travelogue flick Captain Ron (really). The feather-light comedy follows a family sailing around the world. In the beginning, they can’t wait to get off their boat. But by the end, they find they can’t leave. When they reach their final destination, which they’ve been talking about the whole trip, they just keep on sailing — and continue farther off the grid. The movie probably isn’t anything to write home about, but I saw it when I was 9, and thinking about that ending tableau still makes me smile.

Please understand me. I’m not staying in Vietnam. But being here is a reminder that the world is so big. In my American life, the weeks and months blend together, but here every day is another reality. I love my North Carolina routine, but here I’m busted out of it, and it’s such a pleasure that I’m involuntarily biting my lower lip as I write this. I have this itch, this constant hunger to travel. Even here, I often feel better on a plane or a train than I do sightseeing. I love moving forward and constantly finding somewhere new. Sometimes I feel like I need that to live. I don’t know if that’s a gift or a disability.

Anyway, I recently returned from two spots: the mountain town of Sapa and the coastal getaway of Ha Long Bay. Both were fairly equal parts incredible and tiring, and at both I felt incredibly lucky, as I have nearly every day of this trip.

Sapa

Tucked away in the far northern mountains, this remote spot was a real mix rustic quaintness and out-and-out touristy capitalism. For visitors these days, the thing is to go “trekking,” which basically means hiking through areas that aren’t completely geared toward it. On the way, you see a world of rice paddies and bright green terraced farming open up in front of you as women from the local villages plead with you to by their handicrafts. To make matters a bit more complicated, you absolutely need them as you slip-slide down slick, muddy hills. Then, when you reach the bottom, you’re so happy to be safe, that you kind of don’t mind spending more money than you should on embroidered purses, earrings and bracelets that you don’t need.

At least that was me. Sapa was one of those places I was hankering to see from the moment I spotted it on a map while on the plane, and I was so strangely pumped up about it that when I got there I couldn’t help but be let down by its introduction. That first morning, after an overnight train ride and a rough bus haul, I ate a mediocre buffet breakfast at my hotel and then was whisked down a steep trail to a little minority village. The place, which had concrete sidewalks and a gift store that blasted traditional music, felt more like one of those living-history villages that recreate the colonial times than a town where people actually lived. I felt sad and ultimately a little responsible for it all, and when our guide sort abandoned us on the walk back up, I didn’t even care.

The next day, however, the world was all new again during my soggy 6-mile trek. Maybe it was the sleep, but I felt renewed. My guide, named Shum, was sweet and hilarious, and she kept warning my group not to step in the “buffalo chocolate.” Perhaps best of all, I met Steph and Tyson, Australian journalists I would randomly run into again less than a week later in Hoi An. We talked for hours as we walked through the rain with our ponchos and rubber boots. The scene was so simple, really, just chatting and walking forward through mud and drizzle, but it might have been my favorite time on my entire trip. I can close my eyes and be back there instantly.

That night, we slept in a guesthouse in the middle of some remote village. I hung out with the group and listened to tales told by a retired Czech lady and her English husband and tried to learn a new card game. That was unsuccessful, but I did learn I can’t hold my rice wine. I ended up in my mosquito-net-festooned bed sicker than I ever have been. But, strangely, I was still in a good mood. I was in a haze but I still knew that my Vietnam experiences, nausea included, were all mine and would be mine forever.

Ha Long Bay

For me, doing nothing usually comes with a side of guilt. I’m not much for kicking back and taking it easy unless I’m in a heavy period of denial (not unheard of). So, I had gone back and forth about Ha Long Bay, a spectacular body of water dotted with craggy rock formations that tourists often use as a backdrop for heavy partying. I figured I didn’t need it, that I could leave that sort of laid-back thing to the folks who were better at it, or were at least looking for it. I thought I was immune to all that touristy relaxation stuff.

Like so many other times on this vacation and in my life, I was pleasantly proved wrong.

I ended up having a nice, decadent time on a nearly fancy junk I had booked sight unseen. I shared a kayak with an Irish doctor of a certain age and met an American college professor and his bubbly, sweet 12-year-old son. I delighted in the fact that my singleton suite had golden pillows, dark wood and a real shower (not just a shower head angled over the entire bathroom). I didn’t even mind that I had to put in earplugs to drown out the engine at night and that my bill for sodas and maybe two cocktails was $17. I was on vacation, and I felt it acutely.

The sole night I spent on the boat, there came a point when nearly everyone jumped off the second floor into the sea. I couldn’t pass that up. The brine was a comforting, almost-warm blanket, the perfect antidote to all the crowded streets and screaming motorbikes I’d been hearing for weeks. Lying back, I was in love with my salt water womb and the quiet darkness that surrounded me. People were talking and splashing not too far away, but I felt delectably alone.

For a few minutes, before all my mind chatter and worries returned, my head was wonderfully thoughtless. And I was just there, floating.

Children and animals

admin — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 10:45:53 +0000

This post is for my friend and Mountaineer columnist, Paul Viau. Before I left, he joked that I shouldn’t only take pictures of little kids and animals, as that’s kind of my thing at the paper where I work. The funny thing is that I feel even more of a desire to take photos of these subjects here. There’s some sort of familiar safety in making a baby smile for my camera, and I’ve been loving it. Pretty much everything else is new and challenging here, but little kids wanting their picture taken is one thing I understand.

So long, Nha Trang. It's been good to know you.

I’m in Nha Trang right now, but I’m just about to head out to Hoi An on a “sleeper bus,” which will be an adventure in itself. The bus will consist of maybe 30 “beds” — seats that look like a hybrid of a plush bus seat and a poolside lounge chair. For about 10 hours, I’ll be almost completely horizontal, except for a slight incline against my back, and I’ll see the dark Vietnamese countryside go by until (hopefully) I squeeze in a couple hours of fitful sleep. I’ve chosen a bed on the upper level of the bus, which kind of adds to the excitement, especially since Vietnamese bus drivers seem to look at pot holes as more of a challenge than something to avoid.

In the last few days, I’ve had so many experiences, from being bitten by a dog (the rabies vaccine is surprisingly easy to come by in Nha Trang) to snorkeling in a murky section of the ocean, to drinking 45¢ beer with a lovely, young British couple. I don’t know how to distill all this, how to boil it down and come up with cool little anecdotes. Everything is happening so fast, and I’m constantly fearful that I’m not doing enough or that I’ll run out of time. There is so much to take in that I don’t know where to start, but I suppose trying to figure that out is part of the fun and challenge of being somewhere new. I love traveling, but it’s humbling and perhaps perfect to know that it’s not always easy for me. Not at all.

But, at least I know how to do one thing, and that’s snapping pictures of children and animals (well, as long as the latter don’t attack my ankles again).

Paul, these are for you.

Jessica's dad is Australian, and her mom is Vietnamese. I met her right before a fateful run in with a dog.

I know ... this one's a little hard to take.

At home in Saigon (5 a.m.)

admin — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 21:55:27 +0000

Dear Readers,

I apologize, again, for dropping off the face of the earth after my last post months ago, but I have been in that sweet, comfortable normalcy that comes along with being somewhere that kind of suits you. It’s strange, being in one place for more than a year, and part of me has loved it, and another parts has been itching for adventure. Well, the later half of me recently won out. I’m writing from Ho Chi Minh City. I’ll be in Vietnam for three weeks.

Outside a Chinese pagoda, outside the center of Ho Chi Minh City.

Not much has happened yet, good or bad, but I have to say that just being out of my everyday routine is so sweet that I’ve been smiling like an idiot on my flights and taxi rides and even when I walk into my tiny yet clean hotel room (it’s a windowless cell — but it’s my windowless cell, and it even has cable). I am awakened by the beauty of being away, and more excited, overwhelmed and nervous than I can say.

This place is so awake with activity. Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by an absolute sensory overload. Within a couple feet of each other, kids are playing and a is rooster jumping on cars and various women are trying to sell you sunglasses from their portable stands. The traffic feels like absolute chaos, but I have a sense the locals somehow understand it’s random, aggressive flow. The motorbikes, taxis, buses and bicycles somehow coexist here, though when they whizz by one another, they usually leave a few inches to spare. The crush of motorbikes is particularly impressive, and at every stoplight, there’s an army waiting for the change to green. In the last 24 hours, I’ve seen three adults riding on one of those mopeds. I’ve seen moms hold babies on the back of those things, and I’ve seen drivers doing everything from smoking to talking on their cell phone as they navigate the motorized zoo. The lack of rules is scary and breathtaking in its audacity. I also kind of love it, and there’s not-so-small slice of me that’s jealous.

Today, I met a lovely Austalian lady and two friendly Kiwis, and we toured a few ornate Chinese pagodas a little ways from the city center. Later, we drank a few beers together. Sitting next to these three strangers, I was blown away by how lucky I felt. I don’t care if how many friends you have — to connect with someone, especially when you’re far away from home, never gets old. It elated me more than I can say, and I floated back to my budget hotel, and didn’t even get disturbed when I lost my a bit.

It’s hours later now, and lounging on my bed thin, slightly hard foam. I have no idea what tomorrow holds, but I’m excited to get up early and see what it might be. Just like that race I did a few months ago, this place has me awake. I’ve never been here, but something about the space I’m in now is familiar. I’m so far away from home, but I feel in my skin, and it feels wonderful.

Incense at a pagoda.

This is Dave, one of the friendly travelers I met today. He's taking a look at a pagoda's intricate details.

I wasn't sure if I should even take this, but this is the reality for this kid — and many others. The poverty here is immense.

Running through the void

admin — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 01:17:37 +0000

(Note: I wrote this hot off a breakup. I feel like, perhaps, it would be wiser and at least more political in this small town, to keep it to myself. But, oh well, here we go.)

I know it’s not attractive for someone to admit his or her hunger, but I’m not going to whitewash the fog of loneliness I was in Friday night. All I wanted to do was break through it. For some people, I think camping or heavy drinking or adopting a kitten is the attempted solution, but for me running has nearly always been the best thing. I’ve been doing it since I was 9, and nothing gives me a sense of accomplishment and perspective like a good run does.

I went online and found that the Rhododendron 10K (6.2 miles) was slated for the next day in Bakersville. Never mind that it was more than 90 minutes away and started at 8:30 a.m and that I hadn’t run more than 3 miles in a shot in the last three years. It sounded perfect.

The next morning, I escaped my Waynesville reality around 6 a.m. and headed east, then north, following winding back roads, thick with trees. Even while only driving and listening to terribly addictive pop music, I already felt accomplished, having stepped off the grid of my own patterns and expectations, and heading toward something that felt right. Growing up, running was a huge part of my life, and my father and I would run together five days a week, pretty much without fail. We also did somewhere around 20 or so races, from 5 milers to half marathons. When I moved away from home, however, my running became spotty, and my speed (which was never much to shout home about, anyway), went downhill.

The Rhododendron Run was going to be my first race in six years.

By the time I arrived in Bakersville, a tiny place by the Tennessee border, I was feeling blindly confident. I chatted happily with the folks at the check-in and walked around the starting line area as I soaked in the pre-race excitement and jitters. In the midst of all the people stretching and generally psyching themselves up, I met a nice man, originally from Liberia, who was about to watch the race with his three little children. His wife, he explained, was running. We talked for a couple of minutes, and as I left, he told me they’d cheer for me too.

Shortly after, I was one of about 100 people lining up, listening to the race master’s instructions and bowing their heads for a prayer. A bullhorn sounded, and we were off.

Breathing heavily and trying like crazy not to tucker myself out prematurely, I smiled as I realized that I’d forgotten how humbling it is to have a flood of racers pass you. That day, the group included a boy who looked around 9 and a hunched-over woman who must have been in her late 70s. Try as I might, I never could catch her.

As I ran, a strange new reality settled into me. I realized that I had gone from being a slow runner to being an extremely slow runner. I’m used to doing about 10-minute miles, but my first mile was just shy of 12 minutes, and none of the following ones were any better. Often, I could pretend I was running the race, which circled through the small town and its surrounding hills, alone, as there were only three or four people chugging along behind me. When I did encounter other souls, such as the extremely friendly volunteers handing out water and giving times, they were unfailingly supportive. I even had fellow runners cheering me on as they ran past after reaching the turn-around point. I must have looked in a bad way, because they kept telling me that I was doing really well and that I shouldn’t give up.

What they didn’t know was that there was no way I was letting this race get the best of me. I was going to cross that finish line — having not walked a step — no matter how long it took.

Though I never became faster, the race did get easier toward the end. After five miles, I was feeling upbeat, actually, and even fancied trying to catch up with some of the runners in front of me. I managed to stave off the guy behind me, as every time I heard the sound of his snot rockets being expelled and his shoes hitting the pavement, my pride made me pick up speed. This little game kept me distracted until finally I was at the 6-mile marker.

A few seconds later, I saw that friendly man from earlier with his young family. They had waited long after his wife had finished to root for me.

It was right about then, with less than a quarter of a mile to go, that I broke down and cried. I was still moving forward, gulping for air, and tears were trickling down my face. I think it was due to that man’s surprising support, but also because I was amazed that I was about to finish something that I realized was so important to me. I’m sure the loneliness had something to do with it, too. I was overtaken with conflicting emotion — so much so that I missed the final turn toward the finish line.

Within a few minutes, I reached the end of a blocked-off road, where an old man stood directing traffic. I asked him where the finish was, but he couldn’t hear me. I started crying harder and he just stood there, smiling awkwardly and not knowing what to do. I ran around in circles for a moment and finally flagged down someone who had long-since finished the race. She directed me to the end, and suddenly I started running faster than I had in the last hour and 15 minutes. Finally, I felt free to give it my all. With what must have looked like a great gust of aggression, I sprinted past a running woman who was probably 30 feet from the end. Gasping and dry heaving, I pushed myself across the finish. I then promptly puked and crumpled to the ground. I hadn’t felt that vulnerable or that powerful in a long time.

A few hours after, I found myself at nearby Roan Mountain State Park, with its famous rhododendron gardens. As I perused the thousands of flowers, it began to rain heavily. It was one of those unrelenting, cinematic downpours, and as I ran the half mile or so back to my car, I became completely soaked. Strangely, perfectly, I felt like I was being baptized. I felt no hint of the loneliness I had started my day with, though I knew it would come back, as loneliness loves to do.

I was in such a moment of euphoria that I even saw the beauty in being lonesome, as I knew that was what had brought me out to run that day. I sat still in my car for a few minutes and tried to hold on to that clarity. I still am.

A place called Apalach

admin — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 20:00:12 +0000

(AUSTIN, Texas) — I don’t know what I want.

I can write that and know I’m in no way embellishing my feelings or being overly simplistic. Up until this point, all my choices have felt fairly straight-forward to me, even if they didn’t look that way to the outside world. Go to college, graduate. Move to Portland, move away. Live in New Mexico, live in Colorado. Move to Utah and love it. Travel across the country alone in a trailer. And now, and now…Austin? I just don’t know. I kind of hate it here, and I kind of love it, and I’m far too intrigued to leave. Right now, I’m sitting in a hip, dimly-lit café/bar/cool kid hangout somewhere in the city, and 25-ish folks are laughing and drinking and sitting in front of their laptops all around me. The music in here continually shifts from obscure indie rock to old school country and more, and the menu ranges from vegan cake to meaty Frito pie. I am intrigued, and I am repelled, and I can’t help but want more. This town is like a cut on my gums — it kind of hurts, and it kind of feels good, and no matter what, I can’t stop touching it.

A million things have changed since I last wrote, and I am now gainfully employed, thank God. I’m a hostess at Magnolia Café South, a hip Austin institution on South Congress Avenue. I feel luckier than I can say, though the work is hard and fast and definitely not my strong suit. A little Austin existence is shaping up around me, and I even have a couple of friends, I think. I’m shocked and pleased. The world feels wide open.

In honor of all this and of my trip (which I do not consider over yet), I’m beginning a series of photo essays of places I’ve been to recently but for some reason didn’t get around to posting about. I don’t know where I’m going right now, but I know where I have been, and hopefully showing some of these images will bring some clarity about all of this. Even if it doesn’t, the photographer part of me is still itching to show off some of my stuff.

This first set is of Apalachicola, Florida, a little town I visited not so long ago. The reason I wanted to start with it is that I seriously considered moving there. I envisioned doing there exactly what I’m doing here (getting a job and a place to stay, etc.), though I understand now how dramatically impractical that would have been. Sure, it was a nice town, a fine town, with wide streets and old buildings and a river and a bay nearby. But there was no way to make a living there, not for me. I would have been out of my element so completely that disaster would have pretty much been my only option. It scares me now how willing I was to overlook that.

But I was romanced by the town, and I have little barrier against this specific kind of seduction. I am so susceptible to quirky, friendly, scrappy communities that it’s not even funny. I’m always looking for the next cute, strange place to take me in. This town had those qualities in spades. Within a matter of hours of my arrival, I had met a large handful of friendly, cool people, from my host, Emily, to Tamara, the boisterous and welcoming Latin lady of a certain age who owns a coffee shop in town. It all felt right in some strange way. My second day, I went out to look for a potential job and met more folks — store owners, mostly, all of whom seemed open and happy to help however they could. Yet no one had a job for me. It didn’t matter, though, because for some reason I was determined, locked-in on the idea that this was going to work, as though the shear power of me arbitrarily deciding to move somewhere would spin the universe in my favor.

I guess, in a way it did, but not in the fashion I wanted at the time.

Downtown Apalach, as I heard it called.

I’m not sure when the shift happened exactly, but when it did, it was dramatic. It could have been that drunken party I attended on someone’s boat that did it, but I don’t know. Apalachicola, a water-surrounded town of a 3,000 and change, seemed so sweet and warm for two or so days, and then, suddenly, it was stifling. It’s not that anyone in it had changed. Emily, a waitress and artist about my age, was still low-key and friendly and casual in that specific way that people in the restaurant culture can be. Tamara was still fiery and motherly and happy to have me park my trailer outside her home. But I just couldn’t anymore. A veil had been lifted, and I suddenly found myself relieved to be moving on into the unknown. Before I left, I stopped by a yarn/book shop downtown and chatted with its owner, an earthy and soft-spoken woman a couple of decades older than I. I bought some variegated, pink yarn and told Dale my thought process and conclusion. She smiled and sighed and nodded in a way that let me know she understood. So many people, she told me, come to this town and have a great first weekend. They meet cool residents and have cool experiences and then up and buy a home here. It’s only after they move in that they realize what they had experienced during that first visit was as good as it gets.

Run-down old buildings like this are the kind of images I love — yet felt a need to escape after some time Apalachicola.

Now, I know that’s not always the case, and as does Dale. I’m not knocking this Florida hamlet, and neither was she. I just think, in that moment, we both understood that this was not the place for me. It was so lovely to have someone echo that feeling. As I drove off from Apalach, there was a cinematic amount of rain pouring down, and perhaps it would have been safer to wait it out. But I couldn’t. I had to get out of there. I don’t know when it has ever felt so good to hit the road. I don’t even remember the specifics of the scenery, just that it was very green and very wet, and I was one of the only vehicles around. I took Highway 98 an hour west to military-infused Panama City and while that town wasn’t much to write home about, it was a great relief. I knew I wasn’t going to move there, and that was enough to make my stay a joy.

I can’t believe that was less than two months ago. As I look back on this recent history, I’ll admit I’m a little jealous. What a joy it would be to still be mobile, to drive away whenever anything got rough. But that’s not how it is these days. Staying in one spot is all about accountability. Holding down jobs, keeping friends, knowing neighbors. When my Austin world is good, all of these weighty responsibilities seem appropriate and enjoyable. When my life here feels a little dark, those needs and relationships seem surprisingly difficult, and I yearn for the simplicity of the road.

No matter my mood, however, I try not to lose sight of something: I am damn lucky to be here. Austin may be easy to mock and congested as can be. It may be big and impersonal at times. Its idea of itself occasionally drives me crazy. But it is alive here. Events and art and opportunity are everywhere, and it still shocks me that I get to be so close to all this live music, good cinema and plentiful improv. No, this is not what I’m used to. It doesn’t have the comfort and warmth of the small towns I have loved, but it has other qualities are perhaps just as important. This is not a place to write off. Anyway, I feel I have to be malleable and able to exist in cities that are fast and competitive. I have to be able to be in a spot where I’m not considered special and important just for choosing it. Here, I am anonymous. And I kind of like that.

A shout out to my Moab friends. I saw this on the streets of Apalach.

The hope is that if I do return to the small town thing that I do so with a degree of power. I can’t simply retreat to the small-town world because I couldn’t hack it in the city. I want to move back because small towns feel right to me, and I think I understand them. I want to move back because I like the idea of an intimate, rural place being my destination. My future family, my possible chickens and my theoretical piece of land somewhere in the desert float through my mind just often enough to remind me of that.

Ah, I feel I’m just escaping into my head now, coming up with cerebral ideas of the future. I don’t really know what I want or where I’m going, and that isn’t going to be changed by a bunch of statements. So enough.

How about some pictures instead? Here are some more images of Apalachicola, the town that nearly had me. I wish everyone I met there the best, from afar.

Tamara in her coffee shop/gift store/gallery. It was nice and warm and colorful in there.

Emily, right before I left town.

LaVerne, a local store owner. She loved to talk and gave me all kinds of advice and anecdotes and directions. No job, though. In the end, it was most definitely better that way, however.

Sisters Lydia and Adelaide Perr. I met them at Tamara's as they rested for a day in the midst of an ambitious, cross-country bicycle trip. The original plan was to cycle from Charleston, S.C. to California then to Alaska, all the while raising money for the literacy charity Room to Read. In the weeks since this picture, they have actually gotten side-tracked in Colorado (thanks to intense weather, mostly). But their accomplishment of biking more than 1,000 miles is still amazing. You can read about their travels at their blog, http://nokeysrequired.com.

Looking through the I Ching, about which Tamara is passionate.

One of Tamara's many friends, hanging out at her shop.

Dad and daughter in Apalachicola.