A Year Off Page 8

  To our surprise, our guides greeted us with faces of shock and awe. “You guys are crazy!” they laughed, saying they had never expected us to get quite so close. David seemed surprised by their response, as I think he thought he was just following instructions. I felt exhilarated and connected again to David. When I turned around to smile at him, I didn’t feel afraid.

  As the weeks went on, things began to get easier. Leaving the more familiar world of New Zealand and Australia for the chaos, heat, and newness of Southeast Asia felt oddly comforting. Because everything around me was so utterly different and unknown, I felt instantly more alive and present. The instinct to get lost in my thoughts was usurped by the bigger pull to see and experience everything around me. I didn’t feel afraid hanging on to the sides of tuk-tuks as we whizzed through dense streets without any semblance of traffic laws. Although David still reminded me quite often that it was okay, I felt more comfortable not making so many plans, booking a room for one or two nights before deciding whether to stay in a place for a while or move on to the next. As our pace began to naturally slow, I could feel myself slowing down too, and a couple months in, when the charming allure of Luang Prabang, Laos, sucked us in for a two-week stay, I began to really feel like a traveler.

  Letting go of the expectations I held for myself would continue to be as much of a journey throughout the trip as the trip itself. Two sayings often came to me: “No matter where you are, there you are” as well as “If you travel far enough, you’ll meet yourself.” I began to see that the trip wasn’t about discovering a new version of myself; rather, it was about being more accepting of who I already was.

  BALANCING PLANNING AND RESEARCH ON THE ROAD

  While a long trip is inherently flexible, the right amount of planning can bring great rewards. Too much planning can waste time and cause unnecessary restriction, but too little planning often results in needless runaround and wasted money. When done right, planning is a tool to help you save time, hassle, and money, as well as get the most out of your experience.

  We also found that the right amount of research not only gave us a leg up on where we wanted to stay and areas we wanted to explore, but also enhanced our general experience of a place. Knowing a little about the culture, history, and language of a country or city before arriving enabled quicker engagement and contextualization.

  Through our experiences, we developed a few simple tricks to help navigate when and how to plan while on the road.

  1/ Do Your Research on the Go:

  During the stretches of time spent in transit from one place to another, we settled into a routine where we would read the Wikipedia pages on the country as well as cities we planned on visiting. We were often shocked at the quality of each entry and were always sure to read at least the history and culture sections. They provided us with a free, readily available crash course on the basics of a place and its people. Using transit periods for research not only made the most of our time but also helped us get excited for what was to come.

  2/ Planning Days:

  After several frustrating and exhausting evenings spent planning on our computer, we decided to formalize the process. Rather than peppering out our planning across a couple days, we would dedicate an afternoon or morning to one planning session. By the time we were ready to plan our next destination, we were usually familiar with wherever we happened to be and had the time to find a café or bar with not only an internet connection but also great atmosphere. We also gave ourselves a time limit, which helped us be decisive and focused. This technique proved invaluable for helping us stay present and not get too caught up in our next stop before leaving the current one.

  Driving the Loop

  Chiang Mai, Thailand

  DAVID

  18.7061° N, 98.9817° E

  It was almost seven in the morning, and Alexandra was sleeping peacefully next to me. The sun was creating sharp, bright lines across the room as it angled through the old wooden shutters. The air was warm and smelled like dry wood, tuk-tuk exhaust, and fresh cut fruits. Our little corner was beginning to bustle, and the energy felt kinetic. Chiang Mai was waking up. I heard Tony chatting downstairs as he took orders and Mae rattling pans as she prepared breakfast. I didn’t want to wake Alexandra, but given that she sleeps like a retired spy, I knew my efforts at not waking her were likely to be futile. Trying my best to be silent, I slowly walked across the room and opened the rickety old door leading to a narrow balcony.

  “Where are you going?” Alexandra sprang forward before her eyes were even all the way open.

  “Just to the balcony,” I replied as I looked back to see her relaxing her muscles and getting comfy again.

  “We have a big day today. Are you excited?” she asked, to which I replied, “I really am.”

  After some time watching the traffic pass and attempting to follow the tangle of wiring linking the buildings around me, I wandered downstairs. We had been staying in this old traditional Thai building for about a week, but it already felt like home. Tony greeted me, giving me a look that explained what he was about to say, and I replied before he found his words. “Yeah . . . granola would be awesome, thank you.” I sat down and waved to Mae, who was cooking just a few feet from my seat. Several minutes later, Alexandra joined me and noted how unusual it was to have me downstairs first. I felt an unfamiliar mix of excitement and peace and wanted to tell her about it, but saying that would have made this simple feeling contradictory and complex. Instead, I simply said, “I cannot wait to get on the bike.”

  Tony’s Big Bikes had been recommended by a good friend in San Francisco, as was the Mae Hong Son route we were about to embark on. From what I had learned, it was an endlessly windy and picturesque route through some of the most beautiful country in northern Thailand. I had been missing motorcycle riding immensely.

  After breakfast we strolled down the street to Mountain Coffee, the beloved coffee stand we had found on our second morning here. “What would you like today? Two cappuccinos?” asked our thoroughly eccentric and loveably rude coffee roaster and barista. He was giving me a cockeyed mischievous look, which immediately made me smile. I replied with an enthusiastic, “Yes, please!” to which he exclaimed, “Oh, good, I love taking your money!”

  His family grew the beans in the mountains about an hour’s drive north, and he roasted them here in the city using wood fire and a self-modified cement mixer. Beneath his multipatterned garb and Technicolor hat was a brilliant and curious man. A few days earlier he had invited us to roast coffee with him, an invitation we had happily accepted. Like himself, his operation felt completely self-made and totally unique. Alexandra and I had been quite taken by his eccentric and lovable personality and were impressed with the life he had carved out for himself.

  Chatting a bit about our upcoming adventure, he continued in his morning patter and asked, “So I won’t be able to take your money over the next few days then?” He slid our coffees across the counter to us. I shook my head, then looked down to notice he had drawn a lady with large bare breasts in the foam of my coffee and a cowboy in Alexandra’s. “Safe travels. Come back so I can take more of your money,” he said with a look that revealed his genuinely soft and caring nature. We drank our coffees quickly and as we waved goodbye, Alexandra said, “Don’t miss us too much! We won’t be gone long.”

  We strolled back down the lane to our guesthouse, where we packed up our bags and tidied up the room. I got great satisfaction from our ability to pack and unpack quickly. Beyond the gratification of being organized and tidy, our minimal packs felt symbolic of how we valued our time. Our time belonged to us, belonged to living and experiencing what life had to offer us that day; it didn’t belong to my stuff. Within thirty minutes of leaving the coffee shop, Alexandra and I were in a tuk-tuk on our way to a new adventure.

  I had begun mentally riding motorcycles around the age of three. Utilizing my index and middle fingers as wheels, my stable of motorcycles was always with me. Up and down the
banisters, over kitchen counters, and even some off-roading on the wide-wale corduroy of our couch—I could ride anywhere. Inside my little-boy imagination, the bike was realer than real, and to me, my tiny voice sounded like the roar of a finely tuned engine. Heeding the pleas of all who loved me, I ignored the voice inside until I couldn’t. Twenty-two years later, I quit a job I hated and spent every penny of my savings on a stunning red 1974 BMW R90/6. This move symbolized the start of my pursuing the things I loved, even if this choice and further ones were seen as less than smart by people in my life.

  About four hours later, Alexandra and I were fulfilling a near-lifelong dream of mine. We were exploring the glorious unknown on a perfectly running and maintained motorcycle, ripping around roads that were smooth and never straight. The only difference between dream and reality was I was not alone on this adventure. I had Alexandra there with me, fearlessly leaning deeper and deeper into the turns as we adjusted to riding together and our surroundings. It had not been part of my plan, but as was the case with nearly every truly incredible thing, it never could have been. I had hoped to feel this way someday in my life but hadn’t expected it. The feeling was far from needed, but I would have given all I had to keep it if it was threatened. In that moment, I could without a doubt say all the bullshit life brings was worth it, that I had no regrets and a partner in the realest sense of the word. It was a glorious mix of presence, life, and love.

  Krishna, Krishna

  Vrindavan, India

  ALEXANDRA

  27.5650° N, 77.6593° E

  “Leave your shoes here,” the driver said, pointing at the floor of the auto-rickshaw. Our friends removed their shoes without hesitation, but as I looked around, taking in the chaos of the street, the meandering cows, flower peddlers selling garlands of marigolds, a street vendor frying pakoras, I wavered. I looked at David, who seemed to be feeling similarly, but with our friends waiting, we took off our shoes and placed them inside the auto-rickshaw, wondering if they would be there when we returned.

  We set off down the nearest alley, a narrow street made all the narrower by the throngs of people and animals choking the passageway. It was the end of our first full day in India, and we were walking barefoot down the streets. My mind was reeling. There was so much happening around me I could barely focus on one element before darting to the next. Marigold-robed sadhus, Hindi holy men, lined the alley, bowls extended with begging hands. Laughing children ran past. Monkeys stalked us overhead, climbing nimbly on a tangle of electrical lines and pissing into the twilight. The air was thick with the smells of urine, spices, incense, and sweat. The alley hummed, and as I followed closely behind David and his friends, gingerly placing one foot in front of the other in a desperate attempt to avoid stepping on shit of unknown origin, I could feel my mind trying to work its way around what was happening but finding itself unable to do so.

  When we landed in Delhi the evening before, David and I had been buzzing with a hesitant excitement. We had both always dreamed of going to India, and thanks to my undying devotion to the Beatles and our mutual love for the film The Darjeeling Limited, we had cultivated a deeply ingrained sense of romance around the country—one that wouldn’t seem to abandon us, no matter how many India horror stories we had heard in our months on the road leading up to our time there. I was also carrying the chip of not wanting to seem like yet another female pilgrim to the temple of her personal India transformation story. I’d had a visceral reaction to the cause-oriented, white-privileged, female narcissists who seemed drawn to India, and I was terrified of coming across as one to every person I shared my excitement over India with.

  I wanted to love India, though, and my intention to do so was stronger than ever once we had arrived. We were staying with Saahil, David’s friend from business school, and his family for a few days in Delhi before setting off on our own, and Saahil welcomed us to India with a humbling level of hospitality and generosity. He sent one of his family’s drivers to the airport to pick us up, gave us a prepaid Indian SIM card, and had booked train tickets. We quickly learned to stop telling Saahil what our plans were, because he would take care of things before we could stop him. On our first full day, Saahil had taken off work, and with another friend from business school, Rahul, had driven us to India’s ultimate tourist destination, the Taj Mahal. It was majestic beyond imagination, but on the way home, Saahil decided to show us another place that, to him, was just as impactful but in a different way. This was Vrindavan, a holy city and the birthplace of Krishna as well as the home to the Hare Krishna community.

  Vrindavan was just off the highway running between Agra and Delhi, a small town nestled near a curve in the Yamuna River. When we pulled off the highway, we transitioned onto a smaller road running through fields with humble but sturdy cement-block houses dotting the way. The sun had started its evening descent when we arrived, and after a simple and delicious vegetarian meal at an ashram Saahil’s grandfather had donated to, we headed into the town with the ashram manager as our guide. Saahil and Rahul wanted to show David and me two of the more known temples in town, particularly the Banke Bihari Temple.

  The alley we were walking through now led to the temple, but what we hadn’t realized before embarking was that no shoes are allowed within roughly a one-mile radius of the temple. We had been walking for a while when David and I noticed we had somehow been separated from our friends. Unsure of whether to stop or keep going, we decided to continue. The alley opened up to a bustling square where throngs of people poured into an unassuming but unmistakably important building. The sounds of chanting and traditional music emanated from the walls. This had to be the temple, and as we stared at its ancient stones, we felt hands grab our shoulders. Saahil and Rahul had found us, and with their hands on our backs, we were ushered into the temple with the rest of the swirling crowd.

  The room inside was buzzing with a joyful and exuberant energy. About a hundred people were gathered in front of an ancient stage with a musty curtain. Just as we walked in, the curtain was pulled aside to reveal an amorphous rock mound. The moment the rock appeared, a commotion broke out. Chanting, symbols, and drum-beats filled the air, and everybody instantly dropped to the floor, splayed facedown in a prostrate prayer position. David and I were pushed down as well, and we found ourselves lying on the floor along with everyone else. Just as quickly, everybody sprang back up and repeated the whole operation: floor, arms extended, facedown, belly flat, then back up. In a daze, we were shepherded to a gathering of holy men at the side of the room to complete what we later learned was a traditional puja ritual. Somewhere in the shuffle, Saahil and Rahul had purchased traditional sweets, which we offered to the holy men. They gave us a soft milky treat in exchange, and we ate the sticky sweet mess with our fingers off small paper plates. The men placed wreaths of marigolds around our necks and gave us tilakas, smears of red sandalwood paste on our foreheads. The fragrant sandalwood smell was oddly mesmerizing. One of the men held my face in his warm, sandalwood-scented hands and mumbled a blessing I couldn’t understand, but his eyes were smiling, and I smiled in return. We put our hands in prayer position and bowed to each other before our group rushed out the door just as quickly as we had entered. The whole exchange must have taken less than two minutes, but as we emerged from the din of the temple into the comparably peaceful openness of the square outside, my mind went quiet. It was like a deep hum was resonating through me, and I felt overcome with the most profound sense of peace I had ever known. I looked around me, and the light seemed different, almost rose-colored. It was as if the entire world was glowing.

  The walk back down the alley felt completely different than the walk to the temple. The sights, sounds, and smells that had felt intimidating and overwhelming before now seemed gentle and welcoming. I clearly saw each face I passed, and I felt an undeniable sense of love for everyone and everything. I love India. The thought drifted into my mind, and the moment I heard the words, I knew they were true.

  Our sho
es were waiting right where we had left them when we reached the auto-rickshaw. We climbed into the vehicle, looking at one another with eyes glistening with tears. I was overcome with emotion, and the three men with me seemed to be as well. Saahil would later tell us he had never experienced that sort of rush of emotion in Vrindavan before, even though he had been there countless times. As we drove away from the temple alley, a bright pink flower floated out of nowhere and landed on David’s knee. Saahil gasped.

  “Where did that flower come from?” he cried.

  “It just came out of the sky,” David said.

  “This is a very good sign here in India,” Saahil said. “A very good sign.”

  Saahil went on to explain that Vrindavan was a special place to visit. It was a place people in India came to at the beginning of new chapters and big changes in life. He looked at me, his eyes sincere, and said how remarkable it was for us to be here on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. We all fell silent, letting the proclamation sink in, and as we drove through the darkening town, I closed my eyes and sank into the powerful feelings of love and peace still coursing through my body. There were those moments in life where things felt “meant to be,” and this was one of them for me. To be in Vrindavan not only just before a big birthday but also at the halfway point of the most life-changing adventure I had ever taken felt significant. I’m not a religious person, but on that evening, the ancient spirituality of Hindu traditions and the magic of India suffused my being. I had this feeling of attachment, like my heart would be forever bound to India from that night forward, and in that moment, I knew with utter certainty I would love our time there, that we would love our time there. I opened my eyes and looked at the faces of the people around me, those of my new love and my new friends. We all smiled and didn’t stop smiling the entire way home.