Soft, dry snowflakes drifted into orbit around me, blanketing my hair and melting onto my skin, evaporating in the steam rising steadily from the hot tub. Tall, uniform pine trees encircled the pool area, dripping with snow with such perfection that it seemed contrived. A full round moon pierced gently through the hazy sky, gazing over Maggie and I as we rested our sore muscles. Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes and breathed in Aspen.
Change is in the air. The sharp, crisp air verges on winter when it cuts through my lungs now, and the days fall from the calendar like the final leaves that parachute to the hardening ground from the ashy branches above. And each day I wake up the same, slightly different person in the same unfinished room I left vacant a year ago. Laying in bed in the early morning, blinking last night's dreams from my eyes, my memory hears conversations from last fall, in the very same room, where I packed suitcases and wondered aloud with friends how my life would be on a small island.
"Well you should be, because you're wrong about things being different because they're not the same. Things are different except in a different way. You're still the same, only I've been a fool... but I'm not now."
"Oh."
"So long as I'm different don't you thing that... well maybe things could be the same again... only a little different, huh?"
-- an exchange between Cary Gran and Irene Dunne, in The Awful Truth.
I am driving down the Merrit Parkway on a Monday morning. Tree boughs dripping with autumn kiss overhead, burnt oranges and deep reds contrasting against a light gray sky. Already a few trees stand naked, shivering in the fall wind. Around me cars weave in and out of traffic, filled with people moving forward, to meetings, to work, to shop, to breakfast. Though perforated by holes of civilized society, like asphalt and guard rails, the mere sight of the sloping treeline, a breathing Charles Wysocki painting, makes my heart swell slightly in my chest.
Since high school, I wanted to get away from New England, its SUV weilding stepford wives, congested highways and overpriced neo-colonials sitting squarely on every inch of postage stamp-sized lots. New England, Connecticut in particular, simply wasn't for me, I would lament to anyone who would listen. More importantly, I was not New England. Yet, after every adventure, from a move to North Carolina for school, a stint in Europe, and living abroad in Costa Rica and Palau, I migrate back to the same habitat, much like the turtles that enraptured me before.
There is something about fall that moves me. Whether it's the fact that the metamorphosis is a metaphor for the changes inevitably occuring in my life each year, or the august beauty of the colors of fall, changing and deepening with every day, every rain. The vast hues of gray that color the sky, gentle and hushed, serve as a muted forbearing of the silence of winter to come. I've seen the sky from a few continents now, arching and bursting with different colors and streaks of light.
Sage and I drove out to Westchester for a birthday party on Saturday, on windy New York back roads, stirring cyclones of fallen leaves, crimson and paper browns in our wake. We gazed at the small, well kept store fronts of the main streets bisecting the towns, breathing in the charm and beauty of the gingerbread white icing and fresh black shutters. We watched dusk fall softly over a ridge of trees, still bursting with the last vibrant leaves of fall, from a perch atop a straw bale, while our hands and faces burned hot from the fire. With my hands wrapped around a cup of hot apple cider, I felt an ease wash over me, a blanket of familiarity that incited a calmness I couldn't achieve while I was gone. Thirteen years after our initial introduction, Sage and I were in the same spot we would be in high school - hands wrapped around cups, warming ourselves by an outdoor fire and flanked with friends. Though our lives were completely different, so much of our existence was exactly the same.
Sunday night I ate dinner with my grandmother, who doted on me, delivering meatloaf and asking me about my travels. At night I lay in the bed that I've slept in at her house since I was a baby, and contemplated the soft swirls of spackle on the ceiling. Around the world and back again, I am the same small girl who wanted to champion causes and see the world. Instead of watching morning cartoons, I sat with my grandmother and had a cup of coffee while poring over the book review from the times. Years later I am now more interested in soaking up her wisdom and experiences than I was before, but my love for her remains the same. And this morning, as my car pushed its way through the scenery, the rotation of the tires against the road evoking a soft rythmic undercurrent, I found myself smiling in earnest, truly impressed with the beauty and uniqueness that evaded me as an adolescent. It occured to me on my ride home, that this is home. The same as when I left it, yet different, in a different way. And I am different, yet still the same. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
"And now, since we have said to you what we feel, you may say to us your good byes," the Floor Leader announced into the microphone, in his signature crackling Palauan drawl. My eyes met Sheree’s, incredulous. Was he serious?
The Speaker began the heartfelt addresses in his low growl, proclaiming that despite the challenges over the recent term, he felt that we were excellent attorneys and wished us the very best of luck. Carrying the torch of good will, the Floor Leader joked that I needed to come back for a second run and going away party, to carry on the tradition of on-again off-again legal representation for which the House has gained notoriety.
Minutes later, my heart raced a little in my chest as I passed Sheree on my way to my spot behind the microphone. I took a breath and fiddled with my hands, trying to think of something to say.
So many things flew through my head. I envisioned angry outbursts, "And YOU! YOU were the worst. I mean, you were SO mean that day? Remember? But YOU, now, you were pretty cool, and I liked that project..."; emotional digressions, "If we can come together as one community, united for change"; succinct emotionless cliches: "It’s been real. Take care of yourselves (shoot the gun and wink)". Nothing fit, though. I didn’t have a singular impression of Palau. Like any extended experience, it hasn’t been singularly bad or good. It was simply a journey in a new place, with ups and downs, lulls and excitement. I leaned toward the microphone and in a slightly tremored voice, rambled on for roughly two minutes about how wonderful Palau was, how thankful I was to have worked there, and how sad I would be to leave. I think I may have quoted a speech I wrote for the Speaker once, I’m not sure.
Everyone clapped politely as I made my way back to the relative safety of my seat. I think I could have belched the alphabet and gotten a better reception. In retrospect, I think maybe I should have. Perched above a glass of turning red wine, I glanced over at Kristen.
"You know, I’ve never heard Palauan music performed live?"I mused aloud.
"If they don’t have a synthesizer, I am leaving," Kristen dead-panned.
We watched from our table as the band warmed up. Suddenly, a melodic canned riff from what could only be a Casio synthesizer tumbled through the air. A wide smile spread across Kristen’s face. I laughed.
"Yesssss!"
Parties Palauan-style are quite casual, yet also organized and orchestrated according to cultural customs. For example, the invitation for this, Sheree and my going away extravaganza, read a start time of 8pm, "American Time", however everyone knew that most Palauans would filter in 45 minutes to 2 hours late. In addition, people arrive wearing island attire, flowing dresses and flower print shirts, flip flops and flowers. Carefully prepared food was spread in dual columns along a long table, in quantities to feed an army. Perfectly formed squares of rice abutted platters or marinated cucumber, poke, fried chicken and grilled short ribs. Jars of mayonnaise and soy sauce littered the table. As an honor, we were asked to begin the traverse through the buffet. And after our awkward speeches, the festivities began.
Palauan music is an acquired taste, mainly large bites of Top 40 American Music with Palauan words echoing at astounding decibels. Under the lone rainbow disco ball, Palauans shuffled in time to the music, slowly turning and rolling their lightly fisted hands, as if pantomiming locomotion. It conjured up images of Bill Cosby dancing at the beginning of his show, shuffling and tapping randomly, his stomach proudly protruding as he shook his head to the rhythm. A bulbous man walked the length of the dance floor in my direction, extending his hand in offer of a dance. I shook my head no, a saccharin grin smeared across my face in an attempt to hide my embarrassment, and he walked away, shaking his head. Cultural taboo or not, I just didn’t want to dance. I felt off balance, out of my element, and tired. Another man came up, making a lassoing motion, inciting laughter as he tried to "rope" me onto the dance floor. I blushed hot, and again declined. Sober and anxious to board the plane home, I just didn’t have it in me to feebly attempt the cha-cha on an empty dance floor in front of tens of my coworkers, staring and commenting loudly in a language I didn’t understand. I’ve never really been much of a dancer anyway. Glancing at Kristen, who knowingly smiled in support of my abstinence, I still felt a pang of guilt, which was only amplified by Christopher, who offered my a sideways stare of disapproval. "You’re in so much trouble," he joked.
Later, I ventured out of the safety of my houle table and sat next to Elena. Dressed in vibrant red with her long black hair tied neatly in a single braid that streamed down her back, Elena smiled warmly at me.
"I’m going to miss you, Emily,"she said sincerely through her ruby lipstick and betelnut stained lips. For a moment, I felt a flush of emotion, and a small lump form in my throat.
"I’m going to miss you, too, Elena," I replied. I meant it.
The cratered road to Airai seemed to grow longer with every minute we stayed, so Kristen and I made a hasty exit somewhere after eleven. Rumbling along the asphalt and gravel patches, I thought about Elena, and many of the other staffers who took time to get to know me during my brief stay on their island. Legal counsels are somewhat faceless to most staff, as they seem to spin through the revolving hiring door for one reason after the next. Like any resort area subject to the traffic patterns of tourism, the locals develop different attitudes toward the new visitors and transient residents. Some people are indifferent, simply going about their tasks, others are resentful and cold. And a few are open and kind, inquisitive and generous. I count to myself the number of acquaintances I’ve made since arriving, and recall long car rides to the Capitol, laughing and practicing new Palauan words, or Elena slipping a pair of earrings into my hand. I can hear Joyce’s laughter as we wove our way through the pools of icebox, peering into the dark water to see cultured clams.
Though unique and comical in its own right, Palau has many parallels to any other place you might visit. Its dynamic is comprised of a myriad of personalities, and daily life has the same expectations and draw backs as it would anywhere - long commutes, boredom, frustration and challenges. It’s just the setting that’s different, perhaps acting like a magnet for absurdity. Maybe when I get back, I’ll pitch a pilot for an island version of "the Office"?
“Oh, um, we don’t know if we can go to Helmet today,” the woman behind the counter said to me. I could feel my face dropping.
“Seriously?” I asked, the pitch of my voice resting somewhere between a dog whistle and a whine.
“No,” she chided, a satisfied grin spreading across her face. “You are going.”
Sarcasm. My weapon of choice. There’s nothing like dying by your own sword. I grinned sheepishly and forked over my money.
My last dive in Palau. Admittedly, I did not take to diving like most people do on this island. Diving and I had a few dates, but I didn’t really see any relationship potential, so I didn’t really pursue it until recently. But over the past few months, my interest has resurged, prompting me to venture out more. I still back roll off the boat like a frightened turtle flipped onto its back, but the anxiety I had over mask clearing and the general condition of breathing underwater has subsided, enabling me to actually enjoy my dives. And, as of last Sunday, I still had two pressing items on my list of to-do’s before I boarded the plane: a wreck dive and chandelier cave.
We had our own boat for the short day trip, complete with our own dive guide, a driver, and some guy who didn’t really do anything but apparently wanted in on the trip. As we sawed our way through the choppy waves to Helmet Wreck, I absorbed so much of what had become familiar to me over the past year. Taking in the lushness of the greens and browns, I realized that over the next week, palm trees would turn into maples and oaks, bleeding with vibrant colors and taking their last breath before falling gently to the ground below. The quilt of blues and bottle greens would become fallen pine cones and tree roots mixed with hard packed dirt and grass, eventually evolving into a blanket of crystallized snow. I wanted to open my eyes wider, soak in the last drops of the Palau that I would tell people about in stories for years to come. We have a love hate relationship, Palau and I, but, man, I missed parts of this place already, and I was still on a boat.
Beneath the choppy surface, Helmet Wreck loomed heavy and somber, its silhouette smudged by algae and rust. In the still silent air, you could practically feel the history of the site. I envisioned ghosts of World War Two leaning over my shoulder as I clumsily finned my way closer to the wreck. Old sake bottled evidenced that life existed at one time before the ship succumbed to gravity, sinking to the depths of the ocean. I breathed heavier, excited and privileged to see a wreck in such an intimate way. Clinging to the ocean floor while manta rays shuttle overhead is exhilarating, and an incomparable dive experience in its own right. But there was something so dark about exploring the wreck that day, so quiet and meaningful. And Helmet Wreck is just the tip of the iceberg as far as wreck diving goes. I could feel the monster of curiosity beginning to hatch inside of me. Key West supposedly has some good wrecks…
After being pelted with rain (Palau should win an award for its precipitation, really. It can go sideways, diagonally, and I swear sometimes upside down, just to make sure that you are completely saturated), we arrived at the small inlet marking the beginning of Chandelier Cave. Short stints of actual dive time make the cave a customary third dive, but with the weather that day, we were all thankful for it to be the second and final. Surrounded by bubbles of air, we descended and swam to the opening of the cave. Eventually the light ceased to exist, and we were left in utter darkness, our direction illuminated only by our flashlights. A wave of panic rolled over my body. There was no “up”, just in case, that sort of random security blanket that the light of the surface provided to me before. I mean, you really can’t just shoot up when you’re diving (unless you feel like risking severe physical repercussions), but that sort of beacon of false security always exists, guiding you. Now it was gone.
I flashed my light ahead of me, making Sheree’s fins light up. She has been on three hundred dives, a number that body slams my meek little handful of dives in Palau. If Sheree is calm, I should be calm, I reasoned, mentally chastising myself for being a baby, if only for a moment of brief nervousness. It was sort of exciting, really, swimming in the dark, not really knowing what was ahead of you, like watching a scary movie alone in the dark. Sometimes in order to have fun, you have to test your boundaries a little, push past the nerves and see what’s out there.
We swam in reverse, starting with the last chamber, and worked our way to the first. Inside each chambers, the rock looked like a used candle, soft bulbs of hardened wax frozen mid-drip. I ran my hand along the walls of the cave, feeling the slightly grainy texture. Our voices echoed slightly as we explored the chambers, swimming to each side for a closer look at the round natural architecture. Anyone with an open water certification can do chandelier cave, but I still felt a little bit cool, emerging from underwater into a cave dripping with stalactites. In other chambers, rock suspended from the ceiling, small stone glaciers of glistening off white.
"I could seriously live in here," I said, laughing.
On the ride back, the wind was cold against my skin, even with the warmth of a wetsuit. I smiled, anticipating the chill of fall, excitedly reminding myself that hot chocolate and sweaters were only a few days away. Wrapping my hands around a cappuccino at the table, I looked at Sheree and Kristen and felt lucky on so many levels.
Earlier that week, I drove through the dustbowl of gravel and stray dogs that is the compact road to pick up Kristen from her trip to Fiji. It was hot in the airport. I could feel a thin layer of sweat start to coat my skin as I leaned back with one leg propped against the wall and tilted my chin to the ceiling. Dark beams met at the top of the A-frame, knitting together like clasped hands. I hadn't noticed the ceiling of the airport before. Now I realized why.
Waiting for Kristin that evening, it dawned on me that I was now the person in the airport, standing in wait for a friend, pacing slowly in flip flops, idly tossing my keys in my hands while chatting with people I knew from work or diving. The only times I had been in the airport before, I was either oblivious to my surroundings from the giddiness of going home or to Bali, or glazed over from the return trip.
I actually know people here, I thought to myself as I chatted with a coworker, leaning on the hard plastic of the conjoined waiting area seats.
Almost a year ago, I arrived in the Palau airport for the first time, dazed and anxious, stale from a thirty hour trip, wheeling my belongings hesitantly across the linoleum floor and looking for people I didn’t know. Watching the passengers now, I can see that in a few of them, scanning the waiting people apprehensively, wondering what they’ve gotten themselves into. But tonight, for some reason, as I flipped my keys and idly paced back and forth in wait, I was on the other side, the tail end of the experience.
Writing furiously in my journal on the trip out to Palau during those excruciating hours cuddled up with strangers in the economy class cabin, I couldn’t have anticipated who I would become, what changes would occur in me over the course of my contract. And though I am not markedly different on the outside, save for a more “relaxed” attitude about my appearance (i.e. flip flops, no make-up and a bun, daily), I do feel different than I was when I arrived.
Granted, only a year anniversary out from taking the bar, I am still coated in newness and naivety just like virtually every new lawyer, emerging from my shrink wrap with a head full of book knowledge and only minor excursions into the realm of reality. However, there are lessons that I am packing in my suitcase for the trip home that I couldn’t have learned in one year of practice or life in the United States. Palau is much like the sugar syrup that adorns every restaurant table in the country – a condensed, boiled down experience that, though seemingly innocuous, wields tremendous potential for life change, if you want it.
As a budding nation, Palau is still a rough sketch of what it will be in the future. Living in such a raw, new country exposes you to issues that every country in the world faces, but on a more intimate level than you were previously allowed. In professional and social circles, the relatively small population fosters a higher level of personal scrutiny, placing each of us under a new magnifying glass every day. And even when confronted with the smaller challenges of daily life, such as the acquisition of a driver’s license or visa, can test the limits of an East Coaster’s patience and expose you for the petulant young woman you truly are (not that I’m talking about me or anything).
I’m not boarding the plane on Friday some miraculously different person. Hell, I’ll probably wear the same outfit I wore on the ride out here. And no one needs to cue the Breakfast Club theme song when the plane starts taxiing (though that would be cool). But I do believe in serendipity, and in the fact that nearly every experience can be a lesson if you look for it. I am, by nature, emotional and impatient, impetuous and easily frustrated. Palau can be stubborn, unmoving, unhurried. It responds to temper tantrums by silently tilting its head, eyeing you up and down, and squirting betel nut saliva from its lips into a tin can. Even in its youth as a nation, Palau has seen its share of young lawyers come and go, and remains unfazed.
My time in Palau was a mixture of what I wanted, what I needed, and what I didn’t want but definitely needed anyway. I wanted an adventure and a challenge. I needed time to be alone, to figure out which path I wanted to take with my career and with my life. I didn’t want to be hung out to dry or placed in water so deep that the sink or swim method seemed like the only viable option. I needed to learn to deal with less than ideal situations, and to cultivate patience in the face of frustration or adversity.
I took a leap of faith and flew out, relatively blind, to a small Pacific Island to see what life would bring me out there. I fumbled for a while, and finally reached a small degree of balance, and made some amazing friends and memories along the way. I can digress about the negativity and frustrations that abound on this island, about the social injustices and general inadequacies of the governmental infrastructure. But I can also digress about the amazing people, vibrant and fascinating and brimming with stories, and about the abundance of staggering natural beauty that pervades almost every facet of life here. Basically, I can just digress. I’m glad I came.
My ears pop as I wiggle my jaw, pressing my teeth into the mouthpiece of the regulator. I am suddenly heavy, descending slowly to the floor of the ocean. What I am starting to love about diving is the initial spark and vulnerability that ignite in your psyche and stomach, the internal reminder that it’s okay to breathe under water.
Jason has a Mohawk and bright yellow fins, like mine. He’s easy to spot as we align ourselves behind him, a pod of inexperienced divers, anxiously finning to keep up.
The underwater sounds wrap around me, muffled hisses and the ebb and flow of my breath through the regulator. Bubbles swarm me like flies, obstructing my view as we make our way through the side opening of the blue hole.
We are encased in subtle blue darkness, sunlight filtering softly through the top opening and casting shadows into the reef. Diver groups from different tour boats are already exploring. It is an underwater amphitheater, a party. I like the feeling of being enclosed, blanketed in sea life from all angles. Jason peers into the wall, showing us an eel. Buck swims underneath me, oblivious to the world, and my bright yellow flippers until they almost tangle with his hose. I float up and turn to look at Kristen, who rolls her eyes. Our laughter emerges from our mouths in buoyant bubbles, expanding and floating to the surface. I like diving with friends.
On the boat, we shiver as the wind glides against our wet skin, and shield ourselves with towels and raincoats. Maggie stretches her legs, leaning her arm against the back of the boat. Chris sits beside her, earbuds drowning out the sound of the engines, his view cast on the rock islands freckling the channel. Chris and Kristen huddle together, Kristen’s lips blue from her first dive. Buck and I sit across from each other, discussing which engagement ring he should buy for his girlfriend, expectantly waiting for him back in California. Christopher and Sheree are side by side, sunglasses on, Christopher wielding his camera in all directions, absorbing moments, preserving our memories for us. The water is a geode, prisming layers of blue and green, smiling sunlight back into the atmosphere. We are the only people in the world today, slicing through German channel, whirring and foaming to the buoy.
At the cleaning station, the current picks up slightly, gently plucking us from our kneeled positions and pushing us into each other. We are rag dolls in the current, swaying and off balance, still new and awkward with our fins and tanks. I laugh bubbles again, pulling myself to the floor, ungracefully paddling my arms to prevent from slow motion side-tackling Chris. No black manta spaceships hover overhead, swooping deftly and dramatically, hushing you more silent and still than you already were, making your heart swell in your chest. Not today.
We bubble along, turning, rolling, finning, suspended in space. Diving makes me quiet, makes me internalize, and I enjoy it. My breathing is methodic, deliberate, my mind is slow. You can’t try to come up with witty quips or nervous chatter when you dive; it’s only for you.
The water is slightly murky, pixilated. Reef sharks knife through the water, zig zagging overhead and to the side, their silhouettes inking through sunlight and paperdoll cutout schools of fish.
I turn back to Kristen, who shrugs her shoulders at me. We watch a napoleon wrasse wiggle its way past us, mechanically opening and closing its mouth. Maggie is ahead, following Joedyn on her final certification dive. Her black and white flippers make her legs look cartoonishly long, spindling beneath her tank. The wrasse heads for her, joining her behind Joedyn. Kristen and I laugh as Maggie spies the wrasse, and frantically kicks away.
Pulling herself from the ocean minutes later, Maggie leans on the metal ladder and looks up at us, water spilling from her wetsuit onto the boat.
“What the hell was that thing?” She laughs.
At the bar later we lean on our elbows over blackened sashimi and beer, our conversations overlapping each other into meaningless static.
“Did you see –“
“It was so funny when you ---“
“Did you get a picture of –“
“How cool was that –“
We are fresh and new and surprised by what the ocean has to offer. The sun begins to cool itself, dipping its toes into the ocean, melting the sky orange and red.
Maggie fidgets on her stool next to me, turning to face me and smiles. “That was awesome. Want to go again next weekend?”
I swish wasabi into my soy sauce with my chopsticks, green and black abstract. I smile back. “Definitely.”
"Emily, have you gained weight? You look good," he said, eyeing me up and down as I came back into my office and handed him the bill.
A flash of white girl weight issue panic iced its way down my spine. I mentally checked myself, scrolling through a roster of potential responses: (a) scream. Just scream incoherently, run around the office. Maybe karate chop the printer that never prints, Chuck Norris style; (b) say, "I think so, and it really bothers me, but thanks for noticing, even though you are my boss and it’s completely inappropriate to comment on my appearance. Since you can barely read, though, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend like that was a well intentioned compliment"; (c) say, "yes, sir, I’m trying to fit in with the culture, but apparently I still have 50 pounds and a diabetes diagnosis to go. Any suggestions?"
I chose (d)."Probably. Thank you. So, go ahead and review that and let me know about any changes you’d like to make," I said, sitting down at my computer.
I sat for a second, looking at my screen. I often wonder if, during one night at a bar while filling out a sweepstakes form I accidentally checked: "Yes, it’s okay to transport me to a small island where I will unwittingly star in a video documentary for inappropriate workplace behavior." I don’t think I did...
Truth be told, I have gained weight. My size four pants don’t fit, my body has curves that my mirror hasn’t witnessed since my return from the patisserie circuit that is Europe, and no, I have not been diligent with my cardio over the past year. There are days when it truly bothers me; I long for the body I had in pictures from last summer, toned from the excessive gym time spent mainly as a distraction from my bar exam flash cards strewn about my bedroom floor. I’ll look at pictures of me, flanked by Sage and Maggie, proudly smiling in my bikini at the Adirondacks. But my waves of panic over my personal appearance are lessening, to a small degree.
"What the hell are you supposed to do here, when there’s no fresh food and it’s a million degrees out?" asks Maggie, peeling herself from my couch to get ice water from the refrigerator. "Think about how active you were in the states, and what everyone does here. You’ll be fine, I promise."
Maggie is known for her candor, whether wanted or not, and it’s one of the things I love most about her. I take her at her word and the balloon of worry, tied around my wrist for safekeeping, begins to deflate.
"Anyway," she proceeds, looking at me over the top of the water bottle, "you were a neurotic mess last summer, totally upset, in a crappy relationship and freaking out about the bar." She did have a point. I can still recall the chalky taste of protein shakes in the morning because my stomach was too acidic to handle anything else, and my feverish bouts on the elliptical trainer to waylay the impacts of the stress of the impending bar and imploding relationship I would have to eventually face at some point. I don’t think I would go back to that place, even if it meant tighter abs.
Bottom line, though, I didn’t go to law school to win beauty pageants, and I didn’t plan my life around becoming a swimsuit model or trophy wife. When considered objectively, aside from being physically fit enough to do the things I love, my weight ranks fairly low on my list of elements crucial to happiness and success in my life. Instead of acquiescing to the fears that often tear through my psyche when confronted with comments about my weight or appearance, I am now beginning to bristle. And all of that prioritization crap aside, my appearance, whether good or bad, is not something that needs to be a subject of discussion at work.
Not to get all Gloria Steinem, but I don’t need this at work, even if it is guised as a compliment. I came into work to draft climate change legislation, not to be praised for my looks, and not to be questioned about my weight.
So what is the point? I wonder this as I stare at the bill on the computer screen, 12 font Times New Roman crap spilling down the page, contained by 1.6 inch gutters, that no one has read but me. This bill probably won’t get passed. If it does, it will be mutilated and torn apart and pieced back together in unrecognizable and ineffective form, its teeth ripped out and auctioned to interested parties to wear on strings around their necks.
I wonder this when I am being berated by a man who is vigorously and unabashedly picking his nose or clipping his nails, accusing our department of making an unforgivable mistake that, well, wasn’t exactly our fault. I wonder this when I am being blatantly stared at by men loitering outside of my apartment building as I walk to get my laundry.
Palau is a co-dependent boyfriend. It insults you and has temper tantrums, desperately needs your help to get by because it wasn’t given the same advantages that you were. It suddenly turns moody and gray, spitting rain inexplicably, pelting your windshield as you bounce and swerve your way back to your apartment. And when it makes you feel so low you are about to leave, it shines ethereal sunlight on you and opens its blue green waves, revealing turtles and sharks and bug eyed napoleon wrasse. And you stay for another week.
You tell your friends and family that you can’t deal with it anymore, the lying, the insults, the underhandedness, and they tell you to just leave. But it’s not that simple. It’s not all bad, you guiltily confess, thinking of the handful of amazing personalities that accompany you on your journeys, the ones who you commiserate with, the ones you make you laugh, the ones you teach you about your life, and who inspire you with theirs.
I’ll miss Palau, undoubtedly. I’ve had moments in this country that have made me believe that there had to be some greater power creating this universe, when the ocean and sun conspired together to make the most beautiful days I’ve ever witnessed. I’ve met people I couldn’t forget if I tried. But the bottom line is that we just don’t work as a couple, Palau and I. In November, I am scheduled for departure, and when the plane makes its ascent from the patchwork runway, I know I will thank myself for not believing in long distance relationships.
Palau Pacific Rersort is post card Palau at its finest. The beach is freshly raked each morning, and the umbrellas line the sand, casting symmetrical shadows across the outstretched lawn chairs, inviting guests to relax and soak in the view. PPR is a cure all for any frustrations that occur on island, from personal problems to occupational hazards. A good coffee and a decent read under a giant white umbrella can temper almost any problem. I love post card Palau. Especially on days like this.
After working on Saturday and Sunday, we had the Monday holiday off, and I decided a beach day was in order. I sat on a beach chair, wrapped in a fluffy oversized towel, put on my headphones and sipped overpriced coffee while watching the waves lay themselves gently at the feet of the resort. And then I saw it.
It was in the shape of a "T", and about the width of dental floss. It was white, and left very little to the imagination. Bathing suit bottoms like that rarely made an appearance on the beach here in Palau.
An impeccably tanned, curvy Asian woman strode down the beach, boasting her white g-string and matching top, trailed by her equally bronzed and peroxided boyfriend, who was toting an oversized SLR camera to document the day. Now, I know I'm no Brazillian bathing suit model, but this lady definitely didn't skip the breakfast buffet in the morning, yet still pranced around, seemingly oblivious to the dropped jaws around her. It was great. I laughed and sat up. She dropped to her knees in the shallow water, arching her back and flipping her hair into the wind. He perched, snapping away, encouraging different angles. Others began to take note, laughing and leaning forward in their chairs.
It wasn’t good enough. He backed up toward their beach bags and rummaged around, finally producing a pair of 4" wedge sandals, complete with clear heels. That should do it. He thrust them toward her, and she slipped them on, awkwardly walking along the beach, posing against umbrellas and sailboats. I searched for an MTV crew.
Maggie walked up behind me, her bag over her shoulder.
"Oh. My. God." She started laughing and pulled out her camera.
After growing tired of people watching, we went up the steps for some lunch on the patio overlooking the pool. Several giant men covered in tattoos laid in beach chairs by the pool. Tim informed us that they were the wrestlers from a WWF like performance that took place in Koror last night. (We reviewed the free pamphlet at the video store the night before. My money was on a masked man named "liger," though I didn’t get to find out who ultimately claimed the belt.) So, to complete the day of utter absurdity, the wrestlers eventually took their places at either side of the pool and began to practice their moves, flinging themselves into the air and colliding, landing tangled in the deep end of the pool, and even taking a small Japanese man (voluntarily I assure you), pressing him over their heads and spinning one, two, three times before launching him into the pool. Honestly, when I woke up that morning, I never would have expected to eat a salad while watching a 250 pound white man, adorned with an entire back piece of tribal tattoo artistry hoist a small Japanese tourist above his head and plunge him into the deep end of the PPR pool while small tourist children gaped from the shallow end, clutching their flourescent floating noodles nervously. I feel like my experience here is complete. Priceless. Absolutely priceless. Some days, I just love Palau.
"Oh my God!" I exclaimed as a trunk wrapped around my arm, yanking me towards the edge of the wall. Maggie burst out laughing as I wriggled my arm free, pulling it in to my side protectively. The elephant’s large brown eyes, encircled in long black lashes, seemed to be assessing Maggie and me. It seemed tired, accustomed to the daily grind of hauling people about the rice fields.
"This is Jimmy," the guide explained to us, smiling. "He is from Sumatra, like me."
My knowledge of Sumatra, Indonesia was limited to what I had read on a Starbuck’s coffee label.
"Oh."
Jimmy ambled toward us, a rickety bench placed on his back. At the urging of the guide, we climbed aboard, closing the flimsy wooden "seatbelt" over our laps. The scene wreaked of tourism, from the elephants adorned in Indonesian headdresses tethered beneath the shade of looming green trees to the gift shop with crudely carved elephants and coffee overlooking a murky pond. But it was something I needed to do. Or was it?
I often refer to things that I am afraid of doing yet know that I should do as "elephants." The expression dates back to my only recorded opportunity to ride an elephant, when I was paralyzed with an inexplicable fear and backed out. I regretted that day ever since. And though the burning feeling of embarrassment that washed over me at the time has since subsided and the story now serves as a reminder and metaphor, I ‘ve always sort of wanted to ride an elephant. Except today, I again had reservations before sitting astride the Sumatran pachyderm, those reservations stemming not from a paralyzing inexplicable childhood fear but rather ethical complications.
Standing on the stone platform and staring into the elephant’s eyes, I wondered, is he properly fed? Cared for? Is he abused? What wages to the guides receive? Although we had researched the elephant tours, and had been assured that the animals and guides were dealt with in a fair manner, the entire experience seemed untrustworthy, contrived.
As Jimmy lumbered through the rice fields, his gait uncomfortably long and unpredictable, Maggie and I thanked ourselves for signing up for the shortest ride possible. The views were lovely - a river winding its way through dense jungle, rice fields boasting delicate blades of green, and an ever present balcony of trees - but I think I would have been content just to feed the elephant, which we did at the end of the "experience". Jimmy extended his trunk, gingerly accepting an apple or carrot from our hands, then placing it into his mouth. His pink nose dilated and closed as it stretched toward us, a page from a children’s book come alive. We laughed and took pictures, as tourists do, documenting a memory and an event.
As you grow and travel, awareness can often turn into a double edged sword. At a younger age, elephants are willing participants in the circus, main characters who love to have children climb aboard their back and enjoy the thrilling experience of sitting atop a magnificent giant, even if just for a moment in time. Youth and inexperience render you blithely unaware of the mechanics and implications of certain situations. I never questioned the animal’s treatment, or our right as humans to subject animals to such a work environment, or captivity in general. As a child, your faith in humanity is unwavering, your personal ethics and naive innocence projected onto the world around you. Of course the circus/zoo/elephant tour workers care about the animal and make sure it is fed and watered and has a happy life. You would make sure of it, so why wouldn’t everyone?
But age and experience changes our faith, and injects an awareness into us that we didn’t hold as children. In a community short on food and shorter on money, animal welfare sits low on the list of priorities, and enforcement in developing nations is severely lacking in virtually every aspect. Needless to say, the unadulterated enjoyment that I would have gotten out of a simple elephant ride as a child was simply not present that day in the Balinese forest. It was a lesson on two levels - to take advantage of the "elephants" in front of me the first time around, and that some "elephants" have simply come and gone, and don’t need to be recreated or sought for a second chance.
I won’t lie; it was cool to see the tricks of elephant training. "Jimmy, smile," our guide instructed, and Jimmy responded by lifting his trunk to the sky and opening his mouth wide. And watching Maggie shriek as she placed an apple into the elephant’s mouth was amusing, to say the least.
After feeding Jimmy all of the apples and carrots in the baskets, Maggie and I chatted with our guide about the working conditions of the Balinese, and the effects of tourism on the economy and job sector. Sitting on our balcony a few hours later, enjoying a cup of Bali copi (the best coffee. ever.) while overlooking our breathtaking view of rice fields, terra cotta roofs and temples, my sheer luck of the draw became ever more present to me.
Despite the ups and downs and minutiae that I can often be bogged down with, I’m a lucky person, to live with such freedom of choice, to benefit each day from my education, to have an abundance health and love in my life. In the Marshall McCluhan-esque figure ground of my life, stationed at the ground level, below my radar of recognition lived rights and privileges people I encounter out here would sacrifice their world for. My simple presence in Bali was an indicator of that personal wealth. Watching the Balinese dutifully offer gratitude each day, formally and ritually and in such an aesthetically beautiful way drove that realization home. I can honestly say it was one of the best vacations of my life.
"Yes? You need taxi? Cheap price!" a young man darts into my path, smiling and nodding. I shake my head no.
He persists, stepping closer, though not in a threatening manner. "Maybe tomorrow?"
"No, thank you," I reply, sidestepping him.
The main roads of Ubud are like a video game whereby the contestant must sidestep taxi drivers, women holding babies, their palms outstretched for money, and persistent salespeople hawking wares that are, indeed, made in Indonesia. Like any other tourism infested "developing" province, Bali is simultaneously beautiful and downtrodden, rich and poor, vibrant and decomposing in all manner of ways. Our days in Bali reflect the complexities and contradictions, forcefully displaying the dichotomy with each and every step we take.
At around seven am, Kadek, the houseboy at Puri Cantik, arrives at our teak door with a tray of the best coffee I have ever tasted. There are no french presses here; the fragrant, freshly roasted grounds intermingle freely with the coffee saturated water, producing a thick, almost grainy consistency and a robust flavor that hardly compares to anything Starbucks could attempt to reproduce. He looms over our shoulders as we stir in our milk, and asks us if we’d like fruit.
Kadek has taken on the role of the loyal servant in the Adam Sandler flick, Mr. Deeds, as he stealthily appears at random, and frequently stands and watches us as we eat breakfast. We practice English with him and politely refuse his best efforts to fill us with coffee or tea at all hours of the day. As Kadek disappears down the marble and stone staircase to the outdoor kitchen below, Maggie arches an eyebrow and says, "very sneaky sir." I laugh and look out over the courtyard.
Dewi’s homestay is arguably the best in Ubud. It doesn’t have a swimming pool, but it has a rustic charm and personality that surpasses any tangible amenity that a hotel could have. A bubbling fountain adorned by the natural growth of Bali’s finest flowers sits sedately in the center of the courtyard, flanked by two stories of housing, mainly open air and brimming with teak and earth toned stucco and stone. The feel is decidedly well kept and strategically decorated, yet homey at the same time. In the distance, red terra cotta roof tops and rice fields freckle the land scape, bursts of color that Palau lacks filling my eyeline as I sip coffee at the decidedly hand made teak table.
After finishing a leisurely breakfast of delicately cut fresh fruit and omelettes, Maggie and I walk to the main road in Ubud. Once out of the comfort of Dewi’s homestay, where one is easily insulated from solicitation and poverty, Ubud seems to come alive in its true form.
Passing a painfully thin dog with patches of dry, scaly skin ambling along the side of the road, Maggie looks at me sadly.
"It’s so easy to exist in a bubble in these places, to stay in nice hotels and to never really look down, you know? But when you do, you see that so much of this is for us tourists, and that it’s not real," she says, gesturing to the mangy dog panting next to her.
It’s becoming a pattern...walk down the road, take a right, past the row of taxi drivers, no thank you no thank you no thank you, no, not tomorrow...past the tiny shops filled with duplicitous artworks and hastily carved picture frames, no, no thank you, I would not like a painting today, no, yes, it is very beautiful...past the boys on the corner selling tickets to see Balinese traditional dancing...no, thank you, not today, maybe another time...
We joke together that the theme song for Bali should be Rick Ross’ ode to hustlin’. Bali is beautiful in a way that other places aren’t. It’s vibrance and spirituality are palpable, interwoven through every aspect of life here. The air smells of the pungent prayer incense, and the people welcome you into their spaces in a way that is far more earnest than any shopkeeper I’ve encountered before. Although you can see the effects of tourism on their society, from the surplus garbage accumulating in the sewers to the stark contrast between the beggars on the street and the rick tourists who sidestep them on their way to get a massage, the Balinese seem genuine in their effort to welcome you to their world.
The shopkeepers also seem genuinely interested in welcoming your wallet to their world. Maggie and I quickly learn that the phrase "best price?" can take you far in Ubud, and that haggling politely is an acquired skill.
We thumb through woven batik prints and examine smooth wood bowls, holding them up to the women who run the stores, initiating the process. Typically they are flanking you from the beginning. You can feel their breath on you as they mentally take stock of every item you linger by.
"You like green? I have lots of nice green, very good price, look, look how nice," they say, holding up swatches of fabric.
"Did you make?" I ask, or "made here?"
A frown. "No, but I know the people. They are my ... cousin. Yes, cousin, and the fabric made in Java. But close. Indonesia."
I nod. "How much?"
A smile. "For you, only 100,000." The currency rate was approximately 9300 rupiah to one US Dollar. To say you were getting anything here at a bargain was a gigantic understatement.
But as a guide book aptly pointed out, and I paraphrase here, despite the rush that many consumers accustomed to locked in prices may get from the haggling process that is inbuilt in Bali shopping, it’s important to keep in perspective precisely how much you are bargaining over. One dollar may not be much to you, and you may overpay slightly if you don’t haggle too much, but it may also mean a better meal for someone who needs it much more than you do.
As one waitress informed me, "it is very good to be a tourist in Bali, but to live in Bali is much harder."
They are hustling, every day, every hour, inviting and warm, the consummate salespeople at all times. But they are hustling for a reason.
"You can bargain for anything here," says Wayan, our driver, who has worked with my friend Brooksie for years. He lives in Ubud with his beautiful family, and takes tourists in his SUV to explore the countryside, acting as chauffeur and tour guide all in one. And he looooooves Bob Marley. On repeat. The SUV glides along the left side of the road, past small villages with ornately decorated family temples within each compound, regardless of the household’s caste or income. Small children in neatly pressed white and blue school uniforms wobble on bikes beside us, while in the background workers hack their machetes in the rice fields, shaded only by the wide brim of their triangular hats. Bali is exactly same as everywhere else and yet completely different. In one moment, you can sip espresso at a café that could be anywhere, globally influenced and completely homogenized by tourism and trade. In minutes, you can be transported to a landscape of meticulously tended rice paddies, each rectangle tiered into the next, some sprouting and others submerged, colorful kites poking from the continuum of green to frighten away bird thieves.
We are all part of the process, with each transaction, each ticket, each meal. It’s inescapable, intrinsic to the idea of travel. We are consumers to be sold to, guests to be hosted, contributors on large and small scales to the evolution of an economy, whether we stay at the Hard Rock Bali or a simple homestay. As scooters and minicars whiz by, Wayan deftly navigates his way through the streets of Bali, transporting us to Jimbaron for the best seafood ever, or to Uluwatu to explore the ancient temple with the sea crashing at its knees. As I gaze out of the car window, I feel a little strange being chauffeured throughout Bali. Maggie seems to read my mind.
"I feel like such a tourist," she remarks, staring out at a couple on a moped with their newborn sandwiched between them, giggling and frighteningly helmetless.
I think for a moment about what that means. Through my limited travel experiences and brief stints of living abroad, I have come to notice that my generation is hell-bent on accumulating as many passport stamps as humanly possible, and that such stamps can often fuel ones ego, as if to prove one’s worldliness. I’ve also come to realize that there is an incredibly negative stigma attached to the word "tourist," as the word seems to conjure up images of pasty Americans wearing tube socks, university sweatshirts and backpacks, romping beneath the Eiffel Tower demanding french fries and croissants. In an effort to shirk the label of "tourist", many of my generational counterparts, myself included, have made efforts to travel below the radar, nonchalantly exploring new cities and trying to blend. Newsflash: no one blends. Regardless of your budget, travel plan, or intimate knowledge of the surroundings via Lonely Planet, every last one of us is a tourist.
Although it often drives me nuts to be sitting on the beach in Palau, reading a book and not thinking about work and to look up to see a full on Taiwanese cover shoot occurring next to me (*cultural footnote: I can, unfortunately, anecdotally verify that stereotype about the cameras at all times), there is something genuinely wonderful about the way that certain people embrace travel and exploration. And despite anyone’s best efforts to blend in, or get a "real" experience in a new place, it’s all amazingly new, and different, and you will sincerely regret not visiting some of the generic sites, or taking a picture of you and your best friend at that really cool restaurant you went to that night.
"We are tourists," I say.
"Yeah we are," Maggie responds, still gaping at the unsafe baby situation. (The mother is now awkwardly making the baby wave to us, which is unnerving because she is even less balanced in her perch on the tiny bike and traffic is beginning to move.)
For the rest of the trip, we do not hesitate to take in the "touristy" sites, photograph every scene we consider beautiful or worthy of capturing on film, or eating at every restaurant Brooksie has suggested. Traveling above the radar has distinct advantages; it inspires you to let go of inhibitions about being that cheesy tourist and truly enjoy your vacation. After all, that’s why you’re there.
