All the Women Who Independent

I've become a pretty independent person.  I haven't lived with my parents for nearly 10 years.  I moved to Chicago for college without knowing a single other person at the university.  I travelled to Rome without knowing whom I would find.  I pay my bills.  I've never hit the 6 month marker on a relationship with anyone besides my debit card.  And I recently found myself traveling alone for a month to cities I had never seen outside of images and fabled stories.  I would make Beyonce proud.

And it always made me proud.  Proud to say I didn't need another person (be it romantic or platonic) to put a smile on my face.  This was a conceit I gathered after years of romantic rejection and a few soiled friendships.  People.  Who needs them?

While in Seattle, I rejected the idea of a hostel for a full week in lieu of couchsurfing.  This turned into bed surfing (poor word choice.  I see that now) while my hostess was out of town and needed someone to watch her cat.  So essentially, I had to keep a breathing animal alive in exchange for a week of free room and board.  Sounds purrfect.  (Ugh, I hate me too.)

The neighbors were incredibly kind.  Checking up on me to make sure I had arrived.  Offering their phone numbers if I needed anything.  It was the kind of neighborhood where I felt like I could leave the door unlocked while I slept.  But it was in a city.  The incongruence felt both comforting and terrifying.

Thanks, but no thanks, neighbs.  Seattle had been five days of isolating myself from people.  No hostel to force new friendships, and no budget for bar hopping to let the cool vocal lubricant of alcohol open me up.  Save for a couple visits from people I knew, I had pretty much spent five days alone.

But that's okay.  Because society is wretched.  I don't need anyone to have a good time.  I have myself.  And my thoughts.  And a fully stacked iPod.  Who needs people?

I had been in Seattle about five days when it happened.  I was performing a task so simple that the next thing to happen felt less likely than an alien attack or getting Rick Rolled.

You see, Seattle is big on recycling.  Like, along with the Space Needle and Pike Place Market, Lonely Planet should include a walking tour of a recycling plant. So with my hostess arriving home the next day, I knew it was probably time to take out the recycling.  So I grab the bag, walk outside, shut the door so the cat doesn't run out, drop the bag into the bin - a mere 30 feet from the door - wipe my hands together like I just did a job well done, and walked back to the door.  I turned the knob.  Sorry, I attempted to turn the knob.  But it didn't budge.

I attempted a few more times.  Nothing.  Then a few more times.  At this point, I wasn't so much trying to open the door as buy myself thinking time that didn't consist of me standing there in a state of shock, scratching my head and waving my hands like a Sim whose hunger bar has dipped dangerously red.

I walked around the whole house, checking to see if any door was unlocked.  There was a renter in the basement, perhaps he was home.  Man, why didn't I introduce myself to him when he came home the other night?

But Mr. Random Schedule was not home.  I knew this before I knocked because his car was not there.  But in moments of desperation, as we already learned, we tend to do the illogical to avoid facing the problem head on.

But wait!  I knew the woman next door who gave me the key the first day!  She'll at least be able to call Carla and ask if she has a spare key hidden.

I knocked on the door, but it was fairly obvious from the moment I stepped into the driveway that the family was already enjoying this gorgeous Saturday morning.

So what to try next?  I know!  It's so simple!  I ran up to the front door of my house and tried opening it again.  To my utter surprise, the door was still, in fact, locked.

To make matters worse, the next door neighbor's front yard was like the Bumpus's.  Throngs of giant dogs barking their heads off while a stranger scurried around the front yard searching frantically for a way to break in.

After what seemed like an hour (real time: about 15 minutes), I walked over to the maddening herd to find a man standing there.  Just sort of taking it in stride.

"Excuse me," I piped up.  My voice shaking.  "I'm housesitting for Carla next door, and I think I locked myself out, and I don't know what to do."

"You want to call someone?" He asked, the dogs barking so loud his offer sounded like hiccups.

"I locked my phone inside and--" I started to cry.  But the man had already disappeared inside and brought me the phone.  He handed it to me.

"--I don't know any phone numbers," I broke down into sobs at this point.

The man kept trying to get me to use the phone, but I kept insisting it was pointless.  "Why don't you look up Carla's number?"

"Sir, it's on my phone.  If I had my phone, I wouldn't need your phone."  I felt like I was trapped in some sort of terrifying version of "Who's on First".

Finally, it dawned on me.  The man who was feeding the cat before my arrival.  He must live around here.  "Do you know Max?" I finally asked.

"Oh sure.  He lives right down there." He pointed a couple houses away.

The man walked me to the house, my face covered in saltiness at this point, and I knocked on the door.  Max had a key.  The key fit in the door.  The entire problem was solved.  And I was able to venture out to Seattle for one more day.  Because I finally dropped the facade and asked for help.

I've always considered myself a pretty independent person.  I prefer spending time alone.  I make decisions by myself.  I rely on nobody but myself.  But that day, I realized that these things don't make me an independent person.  They make me an isolated person.  A person who chooses the company of her own person over the rejection that comes from inviting others.  A person who makes her own decisions without consulting others because she would rather push people away than be pushed.  A person who relies solely on herself because it's easier to trust yourself than another person.

But you can't isolate yourself from others out of fear.  Sure, you can live for 40 years alone in the woods and be happy, but only if you do it for yourself.  Not because you're scared of getting hurt.

I used to believe I was a fairly independent woman.  Then I travelled alone for a month.  And now I realize independence is about surviving on your own.  Not by yourself.



*I'm skipping the day to day and writing pretty much however I feel at this point.  But if you want to catch up on how the rest of Vancouver went, click here*

Something Like a Phenomenon

A strange phenomenon occurs when traveling alone.  It lurks in the shadows.  Creeps up when you least suspect it.  Echoes of the unfamiliar shudder down your spine.

It's your voice.

I learned very quickly on my first day that I could not complete this journey on my lonesome; my interactions relegated to the hospitality industry.  Because when I ordered a sandwich for lunch, the sound of my own voice shocked me more than the sound of "Your 2016 Republican Presidential Candidate, Donald Trump" ever could.

I spent my second day in Vancouver on Grouse Mountain.  Rejecting the idea that riding my bike on the flat Chicago terrain made me physically fit enough to scale the mountain, I opted for the tram.

WEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

The mountain activities were included in the initial fee, but I paid extra to go ziplining.  Hell, this was my adventure.  And I was going to live it up.

But since my departure time was still a couple hours away, I decided to escape the hubbub of Grouse Mountain: Tourist Adventure and enjoy Grouse Mountain: Mountain.  I grabbed some overly priced (but not really, because Canadian Dollars...) lunch foods and headed down the mountain a wee way to enjoy a serene lunch.

Looking out on beautiful Vancouver and Mt. Shasta, I felt "This is it.  I'm going to have my epiphany.  My stroke of genius.  Here it comes... Here... It... Ewwwww, that's a really loud bug.  I hope it doesn't COME OVER HERE!  GAH!  GET AWAY FROM ME!  And there goes my bag of chips.  Can't litter in Vancouver!  The punishment is worse than death!"

Man, so even this didn't inspire my Kerouacian breakthrough:

I must be dead inside

After an entertaining lumberjack show that I didn't think was a thing, it was time to fly.  Five lines of awesome until I realized that the first "practice line" was included in the five.  But still!  Four lines of awesome and one photo op!

Ziplining was the perfect amount of adrenaline that didn't tire me out the way I imagine skydiving or going on a date with Ryan Gosling would.

"Hey Gurl, I picked some lilies from my backyard.  They're for you."

"I had egg salad for lunch and now the smell is coming out both ends."

So I zipped and, for all intents and purposes, I lined.  They were breathtaking views that I had about 4.2 seconds to soak in before concentrating on how to land without snapping my neck Buffy-style.

But it was lovely, and I don't regret doing it for a second.  Because, Canadian Dollars!

After checking out the grizzly bears and watching the Birds of Prey show-

I'll take any excuse to show off little Daenerys

-It was time for me to leave Grouse Mountain.  The prospect of missing my shuttle and having to figure out alternative means of transportation back to Vancouver did not suit me in the slightest.

Back in Vancouver, I hiked quite a ways to find a sushi place Lonely Planet had recommended.  It was lovely, but the sun hadn't even set yet and I was out of ideas for the day.  (I decided the moment I planned the trip that my money would not go towards partying at night.)

So I headed back to the hostel where two of my roommates were getting ready to go to the beach and then see the Celebration of Light fireworks display.  They invited me along, and I agreed because I couldn't bear to listen to the sound of my thoughts for another 5 hours before falling asleep.

Here I got my first real taste of the ocean.  Salt in my hair, fly infested kelp beds.  It was delightful.  And the ensuing Celebration of Light did not disappoint.  Landed itself in my top 3 fireworks displays of all time.  Who rounds out the list?  I don't know.  They're fireworks displays.  Probably something in the month of July.  And probably not my dad setting off the value pack in our backyard.  (Sorry, Dad.  Your efforts have always been greatly appreciated.)

So here I was.  End of day two, and I had seen some spectacular sights while ending with a couple gals who not only allowed me to have a better time than I could have had myself, but broke me free of the phenomenon.  Granted me respite from the chaos of uninterrupted thought.

I Move Faster When I Don't Know Where I'm Going

Prior to taking flight to Vancouver on July 31, 2015, I had two expectations for this trip: 1) Don't have any expectations for this trip, and 2) I expect that this is going to change my life forever!!

Obviously, one of those was easier to accomplish than the other.

As hard as I tried to stay grounded before take off that Thursday, I couldn't help but romanticize.  I saw myself waltzing into markets and sampling everything from fresh strawberries to raw squid.  Meeting strangers who would enlighten me on my path to salvation.  Staring into the face of a fawn as we connected on a level reserved for hippies on their fifteenth hour of a mescaline binge.

Vancouver grounded me.

It took awhile for my adventure to fully begin.  There was an ample layover in Seattle before hitting Vancouver, which would land me in the Great White North around midnight.  "19E" was what my ticket read.  A-B-C... D-E... It didn't sound like a window seat.

And it wasn't.  A diminutive young lady decked out in Pepto pink from head to toe got the window.  And, to my lack of surprise, a largess man with a propensity to sweat despite being completely and utterly inactive on a plane blowing cold air directly onto his face.  After the Pink Lady sat down, John Goodman in a Spin Class turned to us and said, "Thank God I'm sitting next to two lovely ladies instead of two big, fat guys."

I'll leave the irony right here...

I had many beautiful music moments on this trip, but it got kicked off bright and early on my first flight.  I had been napping when Frenchie with a Neck Pillow opened up the window.  The sun hit my eyes at the exact moment The Postal Service arrived on my iPod.  "This Place Is A Prison" boomed into my ears as I looked out the window.  "And you may case the grounds from the Cascades to Puget Sound..."  And I could see nothing but golden rows of the Cascades for miles in every direction.  Suddenly, Martin Short's Twelfth Straight Hour in Jiminy Glick Costume next to me didn't seem quite so bothersome.

That wasn't my only amazing flight view, however.  I slept, yet again, on my very brief flight from Seattle to Vancouver.  I awoke as we circled the airport before our descent.  Although the lights were shut off, the entire plane was illuminated.  I looked out my window and saw the full moon reflected in the Pacific Ocean, blanketing the mountains with a soft blue haze.  It was breathtaking.  So much so that the guy behind me preferred to witness it through the lens of his iPhone.  Jealousy has never raged harder.  Neither has sarcasm.

I had created a loose itinerary for Vancouver based on recommendations by a few friends.  As an avid Chicago biker, I knew I wanted to bike in every city I visited.  Thankfully, the west coast wants you to bike in every city it has.  So rentals are both accessible and reasonable.

The man in the bike shop had given me directions to Stanley Park - essentially the only place tourists have on their agenda when they rent a bike.  As I pulled out of the shop, I got a very immediate taste of Canada when a strange man approached me.

"You goin' ta Stanley Park?" he asked, his Tim Horton's coffee in hand.

"Yes," I replied.

"Ya know how ta get there?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah.  The guy in there just told me," I signaled back to the bike shop.

The man proceeded to give me the same set of directions, just in case I wasn't 100% clear about 30 seconds prior.  I thanked him and headed on my way.  Wow, Canadians are so friendly, they seek out being helpful.  Even when help isn't necessary.

While breezing through the ample bike lanes on the streets, I couldn't help but smile.  I was here.  I was doing it.  I was... about to go up a steep fucking hill.  When your legs are trained to bike Chicago terrain, you will never be fully prepared to bike west coast terrain.  No matter how often you bike.

So I hit Stanley Park and couldn't believe how beautiful the Vancouver coastline was.  Mountains in the distance, trees in every direction, dangerously low water levels.  Eh, so the drought is less than savory to witness.  But it couldn't detract too much from Vancouver's beauty.

The one interesting aspect about Vancouver that I should point out is that I was without a cell phone.  My sad little dumb phone is not equipped with international service.  So when I say I was alone on this leg, I really was.

Biking alone has never felt very burdensome to me.  I actually prefer it.  Mostly because I hate being around other bikers.  But a lesson you have to learn very quickly while traveling alone is: You aren't going to share this beauty with anyone.  Obvious, right?  But it won't entirely sink in until the first time you see a harbor seal pop up next to you while stand up paddleboarding, gasp, point, and look around to realize you are the only one witnessing it.  It doesn't take away from its awesomeness.  It simply doesn't add to it.

So after a day of biking, I decided to grab some cheap yet highly ranked Vietnamese food and check out the sunset.  It being my first night in Vancouver, I had no idea what time the sun would disappear behind the mountains.  Not wanting to miss it, I grabbed my take out and departed around 6:00.

I weaved my way through the woods, walking my beach cruiser rental through mountain biking terrain.  And though I got a bit lost, it didn't matter.  I was in Canada!  So a Canadian jogger showed up like a mystical forest fairy and gladly pointed me in the right direction.

Third Beach was lovely.  Full of friends enjoying the unseasonably warm Canadian summer.  (Robin Scherbatsky had me believing I had just missed the two weeks of Canadian summer.)  I ate my curry dish and stared at the sun... still quite a ways above the mountain range.

Oh well, no fear!  I came equipped with my writer's notebook and On the Road.  I read for a little bit, but I couldn't find a comfortable reading position on my beach log.  So onto the purpose of this trip: To Write!  I flipped open my notebook and pressed my pen to the paper and... nothing.  Why wasn't my pen bleeding onto the page?  I'm on this trip!  To be inspired!  To live the Kerouacian dream!  Surely I have something to say!

"Those girls just got busted for drinking on the beach."

It's okay.  I wasn't going to beat myself up over it.  Inspiration comes from the oddest of places.  Mine was still out there, somewhere.

The sun had moved about half an inch in the sky.  I still had about two hours to go.  Why did I think I could enjoy watching a sunset for two hours?  I don't have sunglass eyes.

The ocean!  I can enjoy the ocean!  I debated briefly about swimming in my underwear since I was sans a suit, but my lack of towel and desire to wear every outfit at least twice before doing laundry had dissuaded me.  But I could dip my feet!

And dip I did!  I kicked water around.  I balanced on shore rocks.  I skimmed for flatties and skipped rocks.  I was a regular Gidget!

After the water fun, I still had some time.  So I stared.  I stared at the girls continuing to drink their contraband.  I stared at the friends smoking a joint.  And I stared at the guy getting chastised by the lifeguard for smoking a cigarette.

And finally, the sunset came.  It looked like the same thing I had been staring at for the past two hours.  Except now, it was falling behind a mountain.  I wanted to watch the colors in the sky change as the sun left the horizon (the best part!), but I realized that my bike did not come equipped with lights.  Rankled, I threw up my fists to the heavens and headed back with the few moments of natural light that remained.

I wasn't changed quite yet.  But it's okay.  Day one.  I have at least thirty more to go.  And tomorrow will be Grouse Mountain.  Lots of hiking.  I'm sure to find my fawn.

Why I Stopped Posting About My Trip on Social Media

Some of you- Scratch that- Most of you probably don't know this: I just spent a month traveling the west coast.  I say most of you don't know this because unless you saw an exclamatory post about my purchase of the ticket, there wasn't much evidence online about my adventure.

A few days into the trip, I posted my first string of photos from Vancouver.  I sat in my Seattle residence, pleased as a kid drinking punch that the world was about to see how amazing the kick off of my trip was.

I posted this alone.  In a house I was sitting.  Alone.  Tucked in for the night.  My head buzzing.  My wallet not fat enough to take advantage of the night life.  Alone.

Many hours of my life have been - regrettably - dedicated to scrolling through my Facebook feed.  Coincidentally, many hours of my life have been dedicated to being miserable.  My adult jobs have pretty much always ranged somewhere between lackluster and sucking on some hard, demonic balls.  My romantic life has always ranged somewhere between nonexistent and disappointing.  And my goals and aspirations have floundered right around the "what a nice hobby you have, dumpling" realm.  Essentially, I'm a perfect candidate for Voyeuristic Toxic Shock Syndrome (VTSS).  You know, when you leave the tampon known as social media inside you for way, WAY too long.

It beats you down; staring at the fantastic lives of people you either hate, love, or kind of can't remember how you even met to begin with.  (The answer is: drunk.)  

"Hey, there's Chad swimming with sharks in Borneo.  Wow, that's cool."  

"AnneMarie's new job has a standing Friday night tradition of drinks atop the Wit once a month.  Man, that'd be so sweet."  

"Gloria and Terry just got engaged hiking Mt. Everest.  Hope they make it down.  But still, fuckin' rad, man."

The problem is, however, that no one is happy all the time.  No one is happy all the time.  Let me repeat that once more, NO ONE IS HAPPY ALL THE TIME.  However, most people project a life of happiness to their peers.  Aside from the high schoolers you have randomly befriended on Facebook (I did a community theater production of "Auntie Mame"! I swear! - Don't worry.  We get it), we are used to seeing the high earmarks of each others lives.  Long gone are the mopey Dashboard lyrics and intentionally vague "Wish it was yesterday...:(" posts (hopefully).

So I refused to allow my trip to contribute to VTSS.  Yes, I had an absolutely spectacular time.  And I encourage any and everyone to travel as much as humanly possible.  I also encourage any and everyone to travel alone at least once in their lives.  You will change.  Hopefully for the better.  Please don't come back a douche bag.  We need far less of those.

As I sat alone; lonely, I knew that there was no way to properly convey the lows of my trip - the only antidote for VTSS.  But there were lows.  You can't travel for a month by yourself with a constant smile on your face.  No one is a marshmallow Peep.

Here is a list of bummers I encountered on my trip (that I will get into more detail as I journal for your bemusement):

- Arriving far too early for my first sunset and growing more and more bored as I watched friends together on the beach.

- Getting locked out of the house I was housesitting.  And the ensuing panic attack.

- Walking for hours trying to get to this ONE BAR because I did this trip without wifi.  Ergo, without bus routes.

- Getting lost on a bike for hours with the final dregs of water in my belly and not my bottle.

- My plantar fasciitis kicking in as I realized my bus doesn't run past midnight and Portland is a black hole for cabs.

- Being alone when I've thought every thought I could possibly think.  Twice.

- The only day of rain for an entire month occurring while I camped.

- Not being able to shower for 3 days while still forcing myself to walk the streets of San Francisco in uncharacteristic 90 degree heat.  Uphill.  Always uphill.

- Feeling lonely.

- So. Many. Meals. Alone.

- Breaking the heart of someone I care deeply.

So yes, my trip was amazing.  And the good outweighs the bad.  But before I continue with this series, I felt it was important to inform you all about the depressing lows.  This trip wasn't some fantasy land to which I escaped for one month.  It was just an extension of life.  And life is going to suck a good portion of the time.

Because social media doesn't portray life.  It portrays the cinematic version of it.  The parts we want the world to see.  Edited to reflect a happier version of ourselves than we care to admit.

Please remember that the next time Erica and Frank post pictures of their dream wedding.  Yes, their wedding was a beautiful affair, and deserves to be celebrated.  But they are married now.  And how often are we going to see pictures of their financial woes when Frank gets let off?  Are they going to post pictures of their difficulties getting pregnant?  The affair that Erica had during the seven year itch?  The inevitable distance that grows between them as they realize they bypassed their hopes and dreams to follow a life suited for society instead of themselves?  I may be projecting with that last one.

The point is, I stopped posting pictures because I want to show them to friends and family with a personal explanation.  Not to inject it into the ether of the Internet for near strangers to interpret.  I resisted journaling in web form in lieu of journaling on paper.  On a coast.  Staring at the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.  Listening to Father John Misty.  I ignored Snapchatting airport and train station scenes with a neck pillow draped around me.  Because there's no story in that.  Simply a projection.  A projection that takes zero to little effort for me to post, yet can send an unsuspecting voyeur's world into turmoil.

So the next time you click that button that sends your thoughts into the vastness of cyberspace, think about what you are trying to say.  Why are you sharing this with people you'd probably pretend you didn't see if you saw them on the train?  What's your end game?  To boost yourself by attaining likes?  To show everyone how awesome your life is?  Because remember, someone may not be living the fantastic life you are living right now.  And likewise, you may not always be living your fantastic life.  So in the style of The Most Interesting Man in the World: Post responsibly, my friends.

*I will be continuing this series with a retrospective view of my trip in lieu of posting some day-to-day play-by-play with little creative pursuit.  Up next: Vancouver*