Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad: A Modern Air Travel Adventure

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I would have a preferred a strict "No Bag Left Behind" policy, but I suppose two out of three ain't bad...

I would have a preferred a strict “No Bag Left Behind” policy, but I suppose two out of three ain’t bad…

“You can only check two bags,” the man in front of me said for the second time. Seeing my expression – and no doubt both questioning my grasp of the English language AND grateful for the counter that stood between us at this point – the airline representative repeated himself yet again. “You can only check two bags. There’s a strict embargo going into Santiago.” Perhaps I would have been better able to process this information if I hadn’t just slid all three of my to-be-checked bags to this man. The three bags I’d spent a week packing and repacking. The three bags containing everything I thought I’d need during the 3+ months of my extended stay in the Dominican Republic. The three bags which, incidentally, I’d had no trouble checking in online the second I was able to do so 23 hours 59 1/2 minutes prior to departure. I couldn’t do anything but stare. First at the man in front of me – whom I’m sure really is a very nice man and I feel horrible about the things I was thinking toward him – and then at those three beautiful bags. Because I want you to think, just for a minute, what it’s like to pack for a trip of that length. Three and a half months in another country, one with a climate completely different from your own. A country where not all of the comforts of home are readily available. And where it is nearly impossible to ship anything without considerable expense and red tape. As you can probably imagine, a great deal of angst went into that process. It seemed never ending. And it wasn’t until I zipped up the final bag that morning that I felt a sense of calm. I was even a little proud of myself, because I felt like I’d struck the perfect balance: prepared, but not ridiculously over-packed. And now this man was essentially sending me back to the drawing board with only the narrowest of windows. I could have wept right there but, frankly, I knew I couldn’t spare the time. The cut-off was quickly approaching. Would it have been different if we hadn’t hit unexpected construction on the way to the airport? Maybe. But even with more time, the task wouldn’t have been any easier. My mind was already working, trying to calculate what was in each of the (very full) bags. What did I absolutely need? What could I live without? Because I wasn’t going to waste time arguing. The important thing was ME getting on the plane, after all. And I couldn’t risk running afoul of the air-travel gods any more than I already had. “I need 2 minutes,” I announced, reaching around to pull 2 of my 3 bags to the side. (Which sounds easier than it was. Keep in mind these were two rolling duffle bags stuffed to the gills.) I unzipped both, picked the one that held the most essential items and, as quickly as I could, removed as many non-essential items as I could. A half seconds later, they were replaced with the most important things from the other bag. Or what, at that split second, I thought were the most important things. Only, of course, I wasn’t half as calm and collected about it as I’m making it sound. I was nothing short of a hot mess. Time crunch or no, I was still distinctly aware of the fact that I was the floor show for the other passengers in line. As a result, that three-month supply of feminine hygiene products I had the foresight to pack didn’t make the cut. (A decision I may very well come to regret.) What felt like 30 seconds later, heart pounding and palms sweaty, it was time to zip up the overstuffed case. In my post-adrenaline haze, I had no idea what made it in and what didn’t. And I was too shell-shocked to care. Thankfully my mother, who had so graciously offered to drive me to the airport in the first place, had insisted on coming in with me. So she was there to take possession of the poor lonely suitcase I had to leave behind.

Post-adrenaline rush

Santiago-bound at last!

As for me, it took the entire first leg of my trip for my nerves to quiet. But now, a few days later, I’m settling in to my home-away-from-home in my tropical paradise. And I can’t for the life of me remember what was so important in that other bag. Because, let’s be realistic: this is hardly the worst airline horror story I’ve ever heard. Heck, it’s not even MY worst airline horror story. And it’s not like I’m never going to see the contents of that bag again. All that truly matters is that I’m in this beautiful place, following a lifelong passion and living a life that still feels a bit like a dream. And if I bit of worry or angst starts to creep in, well…I have the rustle of the wind in the avocado trees, the crowing of the neighborhood roosters, a view of both the ocean and the mountains, and the gentle clatter of the keys on my keyboard to remind me just how lucky I am. Besides, this is supposed to be an adventure, right? It wouldn’t be fun if it was too easy.

Sunrise over the avocado trees on my first morning. #100DaysInParadise

Sunrise over the avocado trees on my first morning. #100DaysInParadise

Spring Cleaning…in July

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Time to purge!

Time to purge!

I’ve spent the last week hoeing out.

No, that’s not a comment on my morals, or a sign that I’ve developed a penchant for gardening. I’ve just decided it’s time to unload the accumulated debris of my past lives.

Since I moved back to Central New York six years ago, most of my possessions have been residing in the far corner of the garage. I’ve been reluctant to go through them. After all, those boxes and totes hold far more than clothes, books, household items and random odds and ends. They’re chock-full of memories. Many of which I was keen to put behind me when I initially packed it all away.

They say time heals all wounds, and in this case they are right. Because a month or so ago, I came to the realization that I’m finally ready to let it all go.

A sure sign from the universe. First item removed from box #1 on July 15, 2014.

A sure sign from the universe. First item removed from box #1 on July 15, 2014.

So, last week I arranged for a dumpster. And as soon as it arrived, I began the long-overdue task of going through those containers.

If I had any doubts about the timing of my endeavor, I didn’t need to look further than the first box for an assurance from the universe. One of the first items I extracted from its musty depths was a tiny tin of mints. The tin was a favor from a friend’s wedding – which took place exactly 8 years ago to the day. (Happy Anniversary, Liz & Kent!)

I’ve found myself less nostalgic about the past than I thought I’d be. As evidenced by the fact that I’ve had no qualms in discarding certain items I’d been previously unwilling to part with.

I’d list them here, but frankly, at any given moment I could veer toward sentimentality. And the next thing you know, I’ll be making a mad dash for that dumpster…

It’s the most random things I find myself most reluctant to part with. Like a pair of purple velour bell bottoms. I’ve been hanging on to them since the summer I was an orientation leader in college. Before you start jumping to any conclusions about my wardrobe, let me explain: They were part of my costume for the Brady Bunch-themed play we put on for that year’s incoming freshman.

Ahhhhh…the memories!

Yes, the memories… they have come flooding back. But I find I’m not quite as attached to the contents of those boxes as I thought I’d be.

That’s not to say I haven’t brought a few armloads of belongings into the house. (Including those purple bell bottoms…) But a far greater percentage has gone either in the dumpster or to Common Cents, the thrift store that supports our local food pantry.

I’m not quite done yet, but already I’m feeling rather proud of myself. And, somehow…lighter. As if by getting rid of the past, I’m more ready to tackle the future.

Which is a good thing, since I’m about to embark on my next adventure. Yep, that’s right. I’m heading back to the Dominican Republic. This time for a more extended stay.

It will be my 100 Days in Paradise.

Don’t worry. You’ll get to read all about it.

My favorite place to hunt for sea glass. A special thanks to my friends Kathie and Mike Holt, for introducing me to the Dominican Republic and for being so generous with their vacation rental. Find out more at: https://www.facebook.com/CostambarOceanfrontRental

My favorite place to hunt for sea glass. A special thanks to my friends Kathie and Mike Holt, for introducing me to the Dominican Republic and for being so generous with their vacation rental. Find out more at: http://www.homeaway.com/174655 or http://www.facebook.com/CostambarOceanfrontRental.

The Curse of the Blank Page: A tale of writing, self-doubt and purple eyeliner

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IMG_3954I’m feeling a bit bored. Something I have no right to feel, really. What with the fact that I’ve spent most of the day avoiding the task at hand: Writing.

It’s not a lack of things to say – or topics to expound upon – that has me avoiding this most earnest of endeavors. So what is it then, that prevents me from taking up my pen and moving it across the blank page or, alternately, positioning my fingers above the keys on my laptop and tap, tap, tapping away at an equally blank screen?

I suppose it’s fear. Not that writing – or even depending on it to make my living – is an unknown for me. But I have this dream, and there is a part of me that fears failing to achieve that dream.

Yes, I’m familiar with all of the old adages. How the only way to truly fail is not to try, etc. etc. I’d rather not run through them all, either on this page or in my head. I can recognize the wisdom behind them. Heck, I even buy into it.

But somehow that doesn’t lessen the dread I sometimes feel when it’s time to sit down and get to the work of actually writing.

Don’t get me wrong, I write every day. I fill notebooks. But it’s coalescing these bits and pieces into something meaningful that freezes my heart. Because as long as I’m not thinking about writing, the words flow – smoothly, painlessly and, when I’m really lucky, beautifully.

It’s when I think that things jam up.

Sometimes it’s the critic in my head. Wow, is she a bitch! She delights in playing Negative Nancy to every idea – sometimes every word! – I try to put down. And she doesn’t limit herself to merely critiquing my writing. Oh, no! She likes to weigh in on all of my life decisions.

Her favorite time to chime in is when people ask me what I do, or what I’m doing these days. I barely have time to respond before she adds her two cents.

“A writer? Really! You have the audacity to call yourself a writer, ” she sneers. “That’s rich. I see the garbage you’re scribbling down. Take my advice – get a day job.”

Thankfully, her berating is only for my ears. But I’m sure the intrepid soul who was kind enough to inquire can see the play of confused emotions across my face. (I’ve never been good at poker.)

Sometimes my in-house critic doesn’t need to say a word. She doesn’t have to. Because the second I sit down to write – or even think about sitting down to write – my writer’s ADD kicks in. Now, I’ve never actually been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. But you wouldn’t know that they way my brain scatters off like a frightened kitten when I come face to face with that blank page.

Anything and everything is a potential distraction. There are the usual suspects – the internet (although sometimes I can justify that as research…), social media, daytime television, etc. And then there are the signs of true desperation. Like the sudden, burning desire to clean out my closet. Or make a vat of chicken soup. Or pluck my eyebrows.

Wow. My eyebrows. They REALLY need some attention. Even everyone’s favorite critic thinks so. I guess she had a good look at them while I was experimenting with some eyeliner a couple of minutes/paragraphs ago.

Which might seem normal, except for the fact that I don’t really wear makeup. And I’m not going anywhere. But somehow, between one word and the next, it was something I just HAD to do. IMMEDIATELY.

So, now I’m just sitting here in front of my computer.

Wearing a shade of purple eyeliner that was obviously a mistake.

Waiting for the words to come.

Something that isn’t even possible if I’m not moving the pen across the page or my fingers across the keyboard.

Which I can’t do if, say, I’m removing the aforementioned eyeliner…

Or flossing, which is what I did to distract myself from the ghastly shade of purple I’ve now managed to smear across my face.

But despite these many, many distractions and that incredibly vocal critic, I have to keep pressing forward. Not because of any impending deadline, per se. But, well, remember that boredom we were talking about?

Well, it isn’t really boredom. No, it’s words – an inkling of an idea, a fragment of dialogue, the tender young threads of a story. They’re just under the surface, nudging against my conscious mind. Like an itch waiting to be scratched.

And there is only one thing to do about it.

I have to sit down, make my peace with that blank page, ignore the nagging voice of my inner critic, forget about eyeliner and oral hygiene, get the heck out of my own way…

And WRITE.