The Return of Dottie

"I left my job. I have $9,000 in my suitcase. And by the way, I think I have the chicken pox."

Sure, my family can laugh about it now, but when they heard that from me via phone from Japan,  it apparently left them in quite a kerfuffle. My sister later reported that my dad completely freaked out when he hung up the phone.

Was he worried about my health? Apparently not. No sympathy there. He was worried about the cold, hard cash.

"It's fine," I assured him, "it's very safe here!"

My first "real" job after college graduation was as an English teacher in Japan. At ¥150,000 a month, I thought I had it made - at the time, that was about US$1,100 a month. I contributed a minimal amount of money each month to pay for the utilities consumed in my two-room, Japanese house, but because the house was located on my boss' property, I wasn't charged any rent.

My boss was a very business-minded man. He took me to the bank, opened up an account for me, and handed over the passbook. Each month, he gave me an envelope containing a stack of 10,000 yen bills (ichiman). Fifteen of them, to be exact. Unsure that I would be able to navigate the bank on my own, I never returned. The envelope of ichimans resided in my sock drawer, and each month, I added to the stack. Sure, I pulled out a bill here and there when I needed to buy groceries, or train tickets, but I managed to sock away about US$9,000 over the term of my contract. In my twenty-four-year-old brain, I was rich.

When it was time to leave the country, I made travel plans. First, a visit to Hiroshima to see friends. While there, I planned to buy a plane ticket out of the country, and then wire the rest of that cash home. Certainly my father could understand that, right?

And then, in Hiroshima, along came the chicken pox. And that fateful call home.

As a foreigner in Japan, I was under constant scrutiny at all times. On the subway, on the street, and certainly while driving to and from work. But nothing prepared me for the scrutiny bestowed upon me when my face was covered with black, chicken-pox scabs. Fortunately, it was winter, so the rest of me was well-covered.

I wasn't lying, spots galore in Hiroshima

Kind of like today. It is chilly here, almost Thanksgiving, and I am well-covered in jeans and long sleeves. But underneath, I am suffering from an allergic drug reaction so fierce that there is nary a clear patch on my skin. Today, my friends are not taunting me (as they did in Japan) with, "Hey, Dottie, how's it going today?" And I don't have the fever that accompanied the chicken pox.

Covered in spots and feeling itchy sucks no matter what the cause, and it is certainly no way to kick off the holiday season. But you know what I did yesterday? I called home and talked to my mom, fishing for a little sympathy. And this time? I got it.

Is there a doctor in the house?

Like it or not, you probably have healthcare on your mind after last week's Supreme Court ruling on Obamacare. It got me thinking about my own misadventures with doctors in foreign lands.

Case #1: Jordan

Hiking through the gorgeous, sandstone canyon that is Petra, I became ill. Very ill. Doubled over after climbing approximately 700 steps to the High Place of Sacrifice, I ran from the altar, past the obelisks dedicated to the gods of strength and fertility, and found my own altar where I left a very generous sacrifice. Unsure if I was ill from the "authentic" dinner the night before, or the scorching heat in the canyons of Petra, my body continued to expel demons along the way.

The High Place of Sacrifice

Miraculously, I made it down from the High Place of Sacrifice, and collapsed on the floor of the cool, cave-like entrance to the restrooms, also carved out of sandstone. I visited the toilet numerous times, and resumed my spot on the floor after each visit.

The climb to the High Place of Sacrifice

After watching me go back and forth and writhe on the ground, the restroom attendant inquired if I might want an ambulance. "YES!" I cried out. I noted the look of surprise on my husband's face as the words "No" came out of his mouth at the same time. Too late. The attendant radioed his guy, and moments later, an ambulance arrived outside the cave entrance. Relieved that I wouldn't have to hike the 1.5 miles out of Petra, I was laid out in the back of the ambulance, my husband at my side.

"Can you drop us at our hotel?" he asked.

"No, no, hospital."

"Oh, we don't need to go to the hospital, she'll be fine."

"No, hospital."

Traveling by ambulance on the road, I lost my chance for one last glimpse of this on the hike out:

The Treasury

The doctor greeted me and insisted that I required a shot. And some Immodium. After a visit to the restroom in the hospital, I concluded that I didn't want anyone in the building doing anything to me. I politely informed the doctor that I didn't need a shot, and I had my own Immodium thank you. That out of the way, he spent the next 30 minutes requesting that we help him come to the United States, and seeking names and references of other doctors or hospitals who might sponsor him. Somehow we got in touch with our driver, whose arrival interrupted this interrogation. And so ended this escapade.

Case #2: Indonesia

On the ferry from Medan to Jakarta (You can read about it here!), I noticed that the mosquito bites on my legs kept getting infected. Or so I thought. I was also recovering from a nasty case of pink eye. I had spots that were red and sore to the touch, and I wondered how I kept getting new bites while riding on a ferry.

In Jakarta, I managed to find work teaching English and housing with some fellow English teachers from Australia. At dinner one night, roommate Eve noticed one of my spots, and freaked out. "You know those things can turn into tropical ulcers here. You need to get to the doctor!" She gave me the name of a doctor who spoke English, and I managed to weave my way through the streets to locate him.

He took one look at my legs and started laughing. "What's so funny?" I thought.

"Oh, that is a staph infection. It won't go away without medicine." I was still waiting to find out what might be funny about this. Turns out this was just his SOP. He told me what to buy (no money changed hands), and I set out to find the apotik. Apparently I didn't need a prescription. I walked up to the counter and showed the clerk the name of the medicine on a little scrap of paper. He produced a small tube of clear gel that cost but a few pennies, and I was on my way.

Typical pharmacy in Indonesia

I don't know what was in that little tube, but it cured my staph infection. I brought it home with me and continued to use it on any little cut or scrape that started to look red and puffy for the next seven years. It was a sad day when I could no longer squeeze anything else out of that tube.

I know we are all unsure of where our healthcare system will take us, but I for one am grateful for the doctors here and around the world, working in their own systems, who helped me along my way.

Sweet Eats

The heat and humidity have descended upon us here in the midwest, and summer has officially arrived. Along with the heat come images and tastes of summer.

Swimming.
Barbecues.
Camp.
Fireflies.
Beer.
Flip flops.
Fruit.

Sampling the fruits of exotic destinations is one of the best parts of traveling. Sure, you can stick with watermelon, bananas and papaya, but why not venture outside of your safety zone? You may bite into a hidden gem that you realize you cannot live without once you return home; or you may bite into a real stinker (literally!), that you try once for posterity and swear you will never try again.

Here are some memorable fruits I've sampled while traveling that are worth a try:

1. Mangosteen

Mangosteen is my all time favorite! You must sample this one, and no, it is not a mango. The hard, purple casing of this fruit is deceiving, and a little bit difficult to remove. But once you crack that exterior, it gives way to a soft, supple, slippery but sweet fruit that is divided into sections like an orange. The larger sections usually contain a seed. This is melt-in-your-mouth goodness in a small package. On a business trip to Hong Kong, I found some mangosteen at the market and insisted that my colleagues sample this gem. They all looked at me like I was crazy, but changed their minds as soon as the first bite hit their taste buds.

2. Jackfruit

Do not confuse jackfruit with durian (see #3, below). Jackfruit is not as prickly as a durian, and is also typically larger than a durian. And much less stinky! Jackfruit is sticky and so can be difficult to cut, but once you make your way into the middle of a jackfruit, you will see small pods that look like seeds surrounded by the flesh of the fruit. This flesh is the edible part of the jackfruit. You can eat it raw when it is ripe, its taste and texture a bit sweet and starchy. Unripe jackfruit is commonly cooked and used as a meat substitute, and I have very fond memories of a jackfruit curry with rice that I bought from a street vendor in Indonesia.

3. Durian

There is a reason that this bad boy has been banned from some establishments and modes of transportation in South East Asia. Its aroma is so strong, you can always detect when durian is in the vicinity. The sharp, spiky exterior gives way to a mushy, custard-like interior that some say smells like dirty socks, and some say smells like heaven. I can only describe the flavor as a stringy, marshmallow-textured, onion-flavored custard. You have to try it at least once!

4. Rambutan

 

Do you like your fruit hairy? I guess it's not that different than a peach, right? The Malaysian word "rambut" means hair, hence the name. Peel that hairy exterior to reveal the sweet and slippery globe of fruit on the inside. You can pop the whole refreshing thing into your mouth, and spit out the seed when you are done. Delicious, and portable, these guys have accompanied me on many a long, hot bus ride through the jungle.

5. Lychee

Looks a lot like a rambutan, right? Minus the hair. Lychees have a rough, textured rind that is more pink than red. If you bite off a small piece of the rind, near the stem, you can pop the fruit right out of the rind and into your mouth. Like a rambutan, it has a smooth, white pulp, similar in texture to a grape, but has a more perfumy flavor than a rambutan. You can use lychees as your beer nuts (or make a lychee martini)! Delish.

6. Starfruit

Carambola is the true name of this fruit, but you can see why it has adopted its nickname. Starfruit has edible, waxy skin that gives way to crunchy and juicy flesh. The entire fruit is edible, and is sweet and sour and tart all at the same time. Look for fruit that is not too green, because unripe starfruit is extremely sour! This one may not be for everyone, but it is worth a try, and its juiciness was a great pick-me-up while I was sweating my way through Indonesia.

7. Dragon fruit

Poor dragon fruit gets a bad rap. It looks sexy and exotic and interesting, but I'm not sure the flavor lives up to those expectations. While it appears to have thorns, the dragon fruit is not actually prickly and won't harm you. It has sweet, soft flesh and seeds on the inside, sort of like a kiwi. Unfortunately, the taste is a little bit bland and flavorless, so while this one isn't quite the full package, it's worth a try.

Enjoy your summer eats, and if you have an exotic favorite that can't be missed, please share.

Would You Get Naked?

Photo by Rob and Stephanie Levy via Creative Commons

Well, would you? If you have the balls (pardon the pun), you can march into Wicked Campers in Australia wearing nothing but your backpack, and receive a free day's van rental. Check it out: Backpackers Offered Nude Discount

For a backpacker, every penny saved adds up to additional days on the road, so this begs the question: how far would YOU go to get something for free?  And where do you draw the line?

I honed my penny-pinching skills in New Zealand and Australia, and perfected this art by pitching my tent in the backyard of many hostels, taking people up on their offers of free lodging, and hitchhiking (something I would never even consider doing in my own country).

In Adelaide, poor Ian was drunk at a bar with his buddy, Geoff, and the two of them struck up an innocent conversation with the backpackers. Ian happened to mention that he had room in his home for two of us to stay; the next morning, still hung over, Ian answered the door to find two grinning Americans reminding him of his invitation. He agreed to the deal, and the next day, my travel companion and I turned up with our backpacks and settled into his daughter's bedroom.
For a week.
And then another week.
He definitely got more than he bargained for because we were working on closing another spectacular deal, a free ride from Adelaide to Perth.

Adelaide to Perth is a three-day road trip across the Nullarboor, the vast, empty plain that runs across South Australia, save for a few emus and wombats. Some dude named Wayne, whose name I found on a hostel bulletin board, was helping to broker our safe passage across the Nullarboor with a truck driver who hated to drive alone. When the ride finally came through, there was nary a moment to spare; this ride was leaving in a hour. We scrambled out the door, and I'm sure Ian was relieved to see us go.

Enter Hippie. He was an enthusiastic, scrawny guy with shoulder-length hair, skin tight jeans (can that really be comfortable?), and a great attitude, and he was thrilled to have company. He defied all truck-driver stereotypes the moment I laid eyes on both him and the stuffed animal dangling from his rear-view mirror. He tossed our backpacks into one of the new cars that he was hauling on his three-trailer semi, and seated the two of us in the cab of the truck.

In the cab with Hippie

Hippie talked and talked and talked. When he stopped talking long enough to go to sleep (he had a little bed in the cab), I stretched out in the back of a brand new station wagon tethered to his trailer. I showered at the truck stop, learned a little bit about how to drive a semi and observed life on the road. And after three days, he made true on his promise and delivered us to Perth. For free.

The free ride with Hippie was trumped a few weeks later as two of us hitched up the west coast of Australia on a route that coincided with the tour of a Beach-Boys-esque band called the Delltones. Picked up by two roadies for the Delltones near Carnarvon, where we were too early for the banana harvest, the guys tried to convince us to join the tour. We begged off and spent a lovely few days in Coral Bay snorkeling on the Ningaloo Reef, and then carried on hitching our way north.

Nearly a week later, a taxicab driver in Broome mentioned that the Delltones were in town for a gig that night. My friend and I looked at each other and knew what needed to be done. We ran around Broome until we found the band, and ended up on the road with the Delltones from Broome to Darwin. We saw a few shows, slept on hotel room floors, and gambled with the guys at the casino when we reached Darwin. Here are the guys we trusted to drive us up the coast hard at work:

Peter & John making it work.

To come full circle, I will loudly proclaim that there was NO nudity involved in any of this wheeling and dealing. I found Australia to be full of friendly, hospitable people with no ulterior motives, and came to understand that traveling without an agenda allowed wonderful experiences to unfold. And as for lining up nude for a free day's car rental? Not my style.

Of Mosquitos and Malaria Drugs

Malaria Drug Fakes! Yikes. Africa and Asia are apparently rife with fake malaria drugs, and yet these are precisely the places in the world most affected by malaria. Pills with poor chemical makeup are common, as are full-on counterfeit pills. And then there are the pills that contain some of the right ingredients, but not enough to kill the insipid parasite that is malaria, leading to resistance that allows the virus to migrate and become even more virulent.

After five months in Australia and four months in New Zealand, malaria was the boogeyman that haunted me as I embarked on the South East Asia leg of my travels. I knew it was out there, and that it was serious. I knew that prophylactic medication was part of my rite of passage into Indonesia, but I wasn't happy about it. I had learned a thing or two about malaria, and it scared the daylights out of me, but the stories I heard about the drugs were equally as frightening. There was Lariam, one of the better medications, that was said to cause neuropsychiatric issues and insane, hallucinatory dreams that I dubbed "Lariam dreams." There was chloroquine, which seemed to be the drug of choice among backpackers, that could also cause stomach problems (which were a given in South East Asia anyway), mood disorders and hair loss. Good stuff.

As I understood the disease and the treatment, taking the pills didn't prevent you from contracting malaria; the only way to make that happen was to avoid being bitten. Once bitten by an infected mosquito, the virus makes its way to the liver, multiplies, and then spills out into your bloodstream. It is at this time that you first feel the effects of the disease, and the medicine begins to work its magic, helping to alleviate your symptoms and eradicate the virus. Because you are supposed to start your treatment one to two weeks before entering a malarious area, I found myself in a travelers clinic in Darwin, Australia, the week before jetting off to Timor, Indonesia.

I allowed myself a shot of gamma globulin to help boost my immune system, a prescription for choloroquine, which required me to begin my once-weekly regimen immediately, and a responsible overall checkup and gynecological exam, because it had been about a year since my last checkup. And just like that, I was on chloroquine for the next six months.

Within one-and-a-half weeks, I found myself on the island of Flores, Indonesia, in a place of astounding beauty. Rolling green rice terraces dotted the landscape, the hills and mountains were hidden amongst misty clouds, and I was preparing for a midnight trek up Mount Kelimutu for a view of its multi-colored crater lakes at dawn.

I was only about two or three pills into my regimen, and didn't seem to have any side effects at the time, but the night before my trek, I came face to face with a terrifying image. I sat on the front porch of my guest house watching a pale, gaunt, shaking man pick at his dinner. Unsettled but intrigued, I struck up a conversation with him, and asked him if he was OK. He explained that he had contracted malaria, and was on the back end of a terrible bout of illness. Fever, chills, shakiness, weakness, uable to eat, he had lost 10 pounds in a week. Horrified, I probed for more information.

"Were you taking medication before you became ill?"
I visibly winced when he answered, "Yes."
Nosier then ever, I asked, "Do you know where you picked it up?"
"Yes," he surmised, "it was probably on the island of Sumba."

I made a mental note to cross Sumba off my list of preferred destinations, and pledged my allegiance to the malaria prevention gods. One of my fellow trekkers, Brendan, a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of guy, eschewed the visit to the travel clinic in Darwin. Flat broke, he opted to wait until he arrived in Indonesia to buy his pills, where he knew they would be cheaper. A hilarious episode ensued when Brendan attempted to communicate to the driver and sidekicks of our tricked out disco van from the airport that he needed to stop at a pharmacy.  

The van stopped in front of a building, and an old man with no teeth wrapped in a batik sarong emerged from behind a counter peppered with large, unmarked glass jars full of different colored pills. He was so delighted to see foreigners that he came around the front of the counter and kissed me on the cheek. Minutes later, Brendan emerged from the shop with a plastic bag full of white pills, wondering what on earth he had just purchased. Hopeful that they were in fact malaria prophylactics, Brendan swallowed the first one, and we went on our way.

As far as I know, I stayed tropical-disease free during my six months in South East Asia. By the time I weaned myself off of the chloroquine, I was having some stomach distress and muscle cramps. Although I was unsure if the symptoms were from the chloroquine, or anxiety about my return to the United States after 16 months, I know I dodged a bullet. When I again returned to South East Asia for a trip to Borneo many years later, I indulged in some Lariam therapy. The hallucinogenic effects were lost on me, but I remained in a dream-like state in the gorgeous, monkey-clad jungles of Sabah, and once again skirted the tropical disease blues.

Hello Kitty, Take Me Away!

And she's off....Reuters photo

Oh yes, it is true. The king of cute has invaded the friendly skies. Taiwanese airline Eva Air has branded a few jets with Hello Kitty and her posse. But they didn't stop at the paint. 

Behold, the Hello Kitty travel experience, from check-in,

Kiosks! Reuters photo

to dining.

Kitty dessert - Reuters photo

This is how you do it, people! Marketers take note. Sanrio company knows how to do it, and there are millions of teenagers and adults in Asia who subscribe to Sanrio's "cute" ways. With a simple company philosophy, "small gift, big smile," they have been wowing the world for over 40 years with Hello Kitty and her some of her many pals like badtz maru, cinnamoroll, and hangyodon, who looks like this:

What does this guy do?

What's not to like!? Founded in Japan, the beloved Hello Kitty has been embraced by the Japanese and the rest of Asia, and there are entire subcultures that revolve around this beloved feline. Head on out to Harajuku in Tokyo and observe the Hello Kitty streetwear:

Harajuku girls - hellokittyforever.com

Do we have the equivalent of this in the United States? It seems like our teenage girls are more into wearing risque clothing than trying to be cute. Although, who says you can't do both?

Lady Gaga inspired - tokyofashion.com

I had some fun encounters with Hello Kitty's ugly step-brother, a big-eyed, green frog, who went by the name of kero-kero-keroppi back in the day. It appears that his name was too much to pronounce, because on Sanrio's website he is now just a studly frog referred to as keroppi. He was good enough for me, though, and I sported his look for the one and only Halloween that I spent in Japan. How did I do?

I kinda want to go. I mean, come on, salted nuts,

buzzfeed.com

buzzfeed.com

and exclusive accoutrements? Taiwan, here I come!

Titanic Centennial and Other Matters of the Water

This week, the world is remembering the centennial of the Titanic tragedy with events to match every lifestyle. Perhaps you visited a museum or exhibition commemorating the event, or cruised to the crash site in the Atlantic Ocean, where passengers were encouraged to dress the part, take a look: A Dispatch from the Titanic Memorial Cruise

My fine hometown of St. Louis, Missouri, hosted an event at the Fabulous Fox Theatre: "Step back in time and experience the history, fashion, food and music of the elegant Edwardian Era with “Last Dinner On The Titanic," a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic." Is it appropriate to celebrate the anniversary of a tragedy? Remembrance might have been a better choice of words.

The "unsinkable" monster of a ship was a stalwart seafaring vessel to be sure, not unlike those that ply the waters today. Cruise ships. Ocean liners. Ferries.

I have embarked on a few ocean journeys myself, in places like Greece, Indonesia, and Malaysia. A few were interesting, to say the least: riding with cockroaches from Sumatra to Nias island, in the heart of Indonesian earthquake/tsunami territory; rocking back and forth amongst breathtaking scenery en route from Santorini Island to Athens, Greece, while a multitude of passengers vomited over the railing during the eight-hour ride.

And then there was the mother lode of them all. Sumatra to Jakarta, a 2-night, 3 day odyssey on a ship (hopefully) large enough to quell the fears ignited by those ubiquitous reports of sinking ferries in South East Asia. Pelni, the government-run passenger line, mans the ships that ply the waters in the archipelago that is Indonesia, a country of 17,000 islands. This particular boat was cruise-ship-like in appearance from the outside, big, broad, sturdy-looking, everything a passenger would hope for when embarking on such a journey.

Pelni ship

Penny pinching, I opted for economy class, which looked a little something like this:

Economy class "cots"

Packed in amongst the locals who also eschewed first, second, and third class, I was allotted a tiny space, the size of a cot, for the three-day journey. For an extra charge, you could buy a pad for the hard, wooden platform that would serve as bed, lounge and dining area. My trusty Therma-Rest was the perfect accessory for this ride. Really, the accommodations were fine, I didn't need much space, and the locals were all quite friendly. I did, however, felt a wee bit like an animal in a zoo, as curious eyes watched my every move. See the foreigner eat. See the foreigner sleep. Does the foreigner read? She does! And she showers, too! A few brave souls engaged me in conversation, and some tried to direct me to the mosque for daily prayers.

The social highlight of the voyage was disco bar night, where I listened to a groovy band, watched the man I nicknamed Captain Stubing getting down to a funky beat, and was invited to dance by a large man with a wispy mustache.

Although the food left a little bit to be desired, three meals a day were included in the cost of the ticket, so rice and bland vegetables served on a tin tray, prison style, did the trick. Not quite the elegant food of the Edwardian era that my fellow St. Louisans must have enjoyed at the "Last Dinner on the Titanic" celebration, but enough for me.

Newbie

As a consultant, the beginning of every new project is like the first day of a new job. I always have to spend some time getting to know the client, their industry, and the people I will rely on to help me complete my work.

This week, I kicked off a new project for a repeat client, a university, so I already know a little bit about the department, but I am meeting most of the people I will be working with for the first time.

Remember the first day of a new job? Those early days/weeks/months kinda suck. Not sure of exactly what you are supposed to be doing, you feel awkward and helpless. You need to ask for help. You feel the need to look busy even if you're not. If only you can fast forward to the day when you know what to do and are finally confident that you can do it.

When I graduated from college in 1990, the economy was much the same as it is today. Jobs were few and far between, so I had to get creative, and landed my first "real job" as an English teacher in Japan. If you know anything about Japan, you might remember that the land mass is spare, the population is dense, and the terrain consists of crowded cities and towns connected by very, very narrow roads wedged between and up the sides of mountain ranges.

Week one of the new job consisted of accompanying the departing teachers to every class in order to build navigation skills for the minimum two-hour round-trip drive to each class. I took copious notes and wrote things like, "turn left at the McDonald's, and then turn right at the yellow vegetable stand." Road signs in English were sparse.

During my free time that first week, I was tossed two sets of car keys and instructed to learn how to drive on the left side of the road.

Car choice #1 looked like this:

As if sucking in my breath to squeeze through narrow alleys studded with telephone poles wasn't stressful enough, trying to navigate the rear-view mirrors without shaving those babies right off the front of the car nearly sucked the wind right out of me. What kind of maniac would design such a car in a country with no room to spare?

Car choice #2 was a stick shift. Of course. So, Emily, please learn how to drive on the left, sitting on the right, while shifting with your left hand and trying not to turn the wrong way. Excellent.

Week two, it was time to man up because the old teachers jetted back to America, leaving me to get myself to class without getting lost or crashing the car, all the while figuring out how to teach English to my eager new students in the noodle factory, chemical company, and barber shop.

Somehow I lived to tell the tale.

This week, week one of my new project? It was a piece of cake.

Wake Me Up Before You Go

Boy #1 and Boy #2 enjoyed a relaxing in-town vacation last week during spring break. This Monday morning, they seemed happy enough to be back in their routine, but on Tuesday, they both needed to be at school early. At bedtime on Monday night, I reminded them, "Guys, everyone needs to be at school at 8:00 tomorrow morning, so you need to get up and get at it."

Although Boy #2 has an intense dislike for anything that contains the word camp, he has a sense of comfort around anything that involves the word school. "You'd better set my alarm so I won't be late, and turn it up so it will alarm me," he told me. And so I did.

Boy #2's alarm clock is set to beep at him a number of times, but also has the option to wake to the radio or to a CD. Similarly, my alarm clock also beeps at me three times, takes a break, then beeps at me three more times until I turn it off or hit the snooze.

I have awakened in many a town, city, country, tent, guest house, hotel, stranger's house, friend's house, hostel, and lodge. Many times, my location determined the wake-up method.

My first morning in Indonesia, on the island of Timor, the wake-up call came early and often, beginning at 4:30 a.m. First came the earsplitting rooster that I was certain was under my bed. On the heels of the rooster came the call to prayer, long about 5 a.m., over the loudspeaker in the center of town. The wailing continued until getting back to sleep was no longer an option, and I realized that in this predominantly Muslim country, I would be hearing the calls to prayer every day, numerous times a day, beginning in the wee hours of the morning.

When I left for a semester abroad in England, my parents gave me a tiny travel alarm clock, the size of a credit card. It sat on my makeshift bedside table, a box hidden beneath a scarf, and woke me every day for class. After a month or so, I was invited on a weekend trip with two other study abroad friends, both men. We took the train to the town of Norwich, and roamed around until we found a cozy B&B. When we inquired about the availability of a room for the night, the woman working behind the front desk was flummoxed. She clearly had issues with me, a female, spending the night in the same room with these two men, under her watch. We held our ground, and told her a tall tale, "Well, we had a bad experience up north, and....," implying that I was afraid to stay alone. Begrudgingly, she granted us the one room, but let her displeasure be known every time we passed the front desk.

Norwich Cathedral - Photo by Jean Brooks

After a lovely weekend touring Norwich and its historic cathedral, we returned to Essex. Monday morning I overslept, and realized that my alarm clock was missing. I checked with the guys, and of course, the clock was gone, no doubt forgotten in our scandalous room at the B&B. I had to call that disapproving woman and politely ask her to mail me the alarm clock. Miraculously, she did. That alarm clock traveled with me for the next five years, until it fell apart.

I spent a month in and around Queenstown, New Zealand, utilizing the facilities of a backpacker's hostel, while sleeping in a tent out back every night in order to reduce my nightly rate. Every morning, I woke up with the sun to a view of stunning Lake Wakatipu.

Lake Wakatipu - Photo courtesy of www.dangerous-business.com

In Victoria, Australia, I was up before dawn every day to beat the heat while working on a grape farm. But it wasn't the early morning wake-ups that were memorable. While there was grape picking going on at the farm, there was also a fair amount of work that involved drying fruit, in this case sultanas, which are small, sweet and golden colored raisins. The grapes were dried on racks, shaken from the racks, raked out on tarps on the ground, and further dried in the sun. At the first hint of a raindrop, those sultanas needed to be covered to protect them from further moisture. Behold the middle of the night wake up, the farm's owner pounding on my bedroom door, "Rain! Rain! Cover the grapes! Cover the grapes!" We all rushed outside, shook the grapes into the center of their tarps, folded the edges over, and tucked those sultanas into their own snug beds. If I was lucky, there was still time for me to tuck myself back into my bed before heading out to work again at dawn.

Today, my alarm clock glows blue on my bedside table, replacing the red digital numbers that stared at me during my younger years. Most days, I don't need an alarm clock anymore, Boy #1 and Boy #2 make sure of that.

Travel (and lack thereof)

I did most of my adventure travel in my 20s. During that time, I studied in England for a semester, saw a bit of Europe and the USSR during my spring break, and parlayed the end of my semester into a month in Paris in my friend's free-of-charge closet-sized apartment in the 7th arrondissement. Never mind that two of us invited ourselves to come stay, and that it was way too small for one, let alone three of us, but we made it work, albeit with little room to maneuver. I worked in Japan for a year, backpacked and worked my way through Southeast Asia and the South Pacific, took separate trips to Vietnam and Malaysian Borneo, and a trip to Europe for good measure. (note to self for future blog post re: cheap cheap cheap travel to Europe and Vietnam summer 1996 - you too can do this, people!).

The Paris apartment

I was married at 30, and my late 20s/early to mid-30s were all about a honeymoon in Costa Rica and traveling to other people's weddings. Thanks to becoming DINKs (double income no kids), this time period included multiple trips across the country to weddings in places like Virginia, Cape Cod, Carmel, upstate New York, Washington DC, Texas, Atlanta and San Francisco. Thankfully, it also included a small dose of international travel to a wedding in the Middle East, in Jordan, that involved a lot of swords.

Photo by Mariea Rummel Photography

While this may all sound quite glamorous, here is the truth. In England, I was a student, and there is nothing glamorous about having no money. The month in Paris was much the same, and meals of lettuce, baguettes and cheese were the norm. And jumping the Metro gates. And accessing the refrigerator while seated on the toilet. That big trip, to Southeast Asia and the South Pacific? Much of that time I was living out of a tent, scrimping and saving in order to continue traveling as long as possible. And working jobs like grape picking to make extra money. Costa Rica? Honeymooning in a nature preserve for part of our stay, we shacked up in a cabin outfitted with bunk beds and window screens - and 100 degree heat. We each lay prone on our bunks and insisted that it was too hot to go near each other. And then there was the punishing diarrhea in Jordan. I'll spare you the gory details, but it started at the High Place of Sacrifice and ended with an ambulance ride out of Petra (note to self for future blog post).

My life as an international traveler came to a screeching halt upon the arrival of Boy #1 in 2002. And Boy #1 arrived very sick, which made it hard to even think about leaving my home town, let alone the country. And then came Boy #2 in 2005. Romantic 10th anniversary trip to Paris in 2009? Fat chance. Trip to Europe in 2011 to visit many friends now living overseas with THEIR kids? Nada.

Oh, I know it can be done. But the logistics? And the cost? We've had a handful of adventurous trips together right here in the USA, but overseas? It's just not in the budget right now.

The locals certainly made it look easy. The women of Southeast Asia were practiced at attaching babies to their bodies with sarongs and going about their business, carrying baskets of water on their heads or working in the fields. I saw children riding effortlessly on varying modes of transportation, including the tuk-tuk, scooter, bejak, train, ferry, minibus, and tour bus. The children that I encountered were sweet, polite and curious. 

Photo by Dewan Irawan

Boy #1 and Boy #2 are now old enough to help take care of themselves, and when we finally muster up the courage (and money) to take them abroad, it will surely be easier than I imagine. I haven't given up hope. Our day will come. Will the first overseas family adventure be a new adventure for all of us? Or will I take them to one of my old haunts and show them a place that is undoubtedly not how I remember it at all?

They're not mine! Really.