A belle will always get asked to dinner. It doesn’t matter if she’s visiting a new place for a weekend or in an austere location, she should still expect a dinner invitation. Knowing this, a belle always needs to be prepared.
My bestie Kristen agrees. Kris and I met while studying abroad in China during college. Since then, we’ve both chosen careers that allow us to globe-trot and develop our individual travel philosophies. One of hers is always to pack lip gloss, perfume, and something to wear to dinner. I’ve since adopted that practice, and it hasn’t let me down. Even when I got deployment orders to Southwest Asia, heels and dresses went into the duffle. Yes, I brought a cute dress to a deployment. Then I bought some more online. Then I bought one when I went out on the town. And you know what? The invites came, and I never felt out of place due to being overly casual at dinner at any restaurant.
While it’s perfectly standard for Westerners to walk around the Middle East in sneakers, jeans, and tee-shirts, the belle in me required a more feminine approach. Plus, not to be outdone by the local women who dress to the nines all the time, walking around the Arabian Peninsula in cute dresses is kinda my thing. The regional requirement of modesty made the challenge more creative. Not that finding modest fashion was a challenge –it wasn’t at all– it was just a different consideration from my usual.
If you’re not a girlie-girl like me, you can ignore this entire post. If you are a girlie girl and disagree with everything I’ve recommended, let me know. Either way, you’ve got to travel to South West Asia and see for yourself. This is my list of things you’ll have to remember to pack when deploying or traveling to the Arabian Peninsula.
A few swimsuits and while you’re at it, a beach towel, and your beach tote
“You know, when some people deploy, we actually go to war,” my fighter pilot friend teased. I was lamenting that it escaped my mind to bring a beach towel. Now I’d have to buy one on amazon. He pretended to be disgusted that I dipped in a pool while deployed. But believe it or not, impromptu pool parties were part of life in Kuwait, as are beach days and jet ski outings. Swimsuits are a must.
Day Tote.
You’ll need something that looks chic to stash liters of water, sunblock, hand sanitizer, and whatever else you’ll need for a day out on the town.
While themuslimgirl.com caters to women of the Islamic faith, some things like friendships, family, love, and fashion are universal. The blog is informational for all modern women.
Maxi Dresses & Maxi Skirts
These dresses have been summer staples in the West for several years, especially jersey knit. These pieces can be dressed up or dressed down depending on the accessories. I referenced a great blog called themuslimgirl.com for more styling tips.
Scarves & Hats
Now, it’s probably not the most culturally correct fashion to wear a hijab if you’re not a Muslim woman. You will be thought to be a Muslim woman, and that comes with the expectation to observe the culture. However, headwraps are a different story. Kuwait, Qatar, and the like are great places to wear your own cultural head coverings without attracting unwanted attention like it would in many places in The States. Again, headwraps are also culturally specific although many cultures have some sort of hair covering so do take care to select the hair covering that is appropriate for you.
Fashion by the wraplife, modanisa, and EmpressaK. You can also follow EmpressaK on IG @empressAK and her head fashion accessories at @empressivefinds
Diva Shades
I always thought the Southwest Asian women were just being posh with their diva shades but really, with the lack of cloud cover and the oppressive wind storms, they are most assuredly a functional necessity.
@Modanisa_en is one of my favorite modest fashion shops.
Nice shoes
One sure way to identify Americans abroad is their incessant need to be casual and their preference for flip flops and sneakers over any other sensible shoe. Casual wear has its place, but when you’re having a night on the town or going to a restaurant in the evening, it’s nice to ditch the leisure attire.
Blazers, Cardigans, and Denim Jackets
These are all versatile wardrobe staples that can alter the look of the exact same outfit.
Photos from The Muslim Girl
Facial moisturizer
Whatever your skincare regimen is at home, it’s not going to work in the harsh desert environment. You’re going to need a night moisturizer, moisturizing cleanser, and a day moisturizer + SPF. You’ll probably even need a mid-day face wash to get the desert dirt off your face.
Fresh-faced Modanisa Model
Riding pants and boots
If you’re a rider and you’re on the Arabian Peninsula, do not overlook the opportunity to ride gorgeous Arabian horses and take lessons from world renown trainers and coaches. Of course, you can always buy equestrian gear in-country if you don’t bring your own.
Your own Abaya
You’ll need one to visit the Grand Mosque. The mosque provides abayas but if you can slay in your own, why use a loner?
Fabric, Pattern, and picture of your favorite fashions.
It seems like every seamstress outside the Western World can design the outfits of your dreams just by seeing it. West Africa, Korea, and the Middle East are known for their custom reactions. You can always find your own fabric in fashion districts in the country.
Favorite Jewelry & accessories
Speaks for themselves.
My friend, who executes people from the sky for a living, mocks the concept of leisure time while deployed and overpacking. He laughs that I’d even have time to go swimming while deployed, let alone go to a pool party. We live different lifestyles for sure, and I recognize that. But every time I think of a location as an excuse to dress frumpy, I think of my très fashionable friend Kari, who supports looking cute regardless of where you are. “Just because we’re in (city x) doesn’t mean we have to dress like it, “she often reminds me.
I was scrolling through Pinterest while sitting in a salon chair on a Wednesday trying to find the perfect hairstyle for my friend’s upcoming Texas wedding. It’s unheard of to move to a new city and discover a salon home on the first try, but thanks to the help of Yelp, I found a professionally ran salon with multiple stylists who can do my natural hair. I remember giving the heads up, like I do every time I make an appointment at a new salon over the phone, that I need a stylist with experience with black hair. When I lived in Germany, the stylists gathered around in shock to hear me tell the challenges of getting a simple blow-out at just any American salon because competency with textured hair is a novelty that most salons do not have. Even when this salon confirmed they could, I was still skeptical. I’d heard that claim before. But with multiple visits with multiple stylists, they have never disappointed. Here, I don’t need a separate salon for braids, extensions, curls, processed, cutting, or my straight hair, I have it all in one here. This just doesn’t happen. In spite of Back Bay prices, the search is over.
I need these gowns in my closet!
When a gorgeous formal, European-cut gown in West African fabric popped up among the different natural hair options, my stylist and I both gasp in delight. Perhaps I should track down a dress like that to wear to the wedding. That would be a show-stopper for sure.
Can you believe the girl to the right was told by her teacher than African dresses were too tacky for prom!?
“You know, there are Africans that don’t like us wearing their fabric,” I told my hairdresser, an immigrant from Haiti. I recalled a blog of a British Nigerian woman accusing African-Americans of cultural appropriation of Africans. My hairdresser paused in near disgust before responding in her sweet, girlie accent, “Well, that is their opinion. We can have ours.”
A discussion continued between me, her, and a Brazilian hairstylist who also does a great job with my hair but most would not visually identify as being part of the African diaspora. Who are “they” to exclude “us” from “our” heritage, we all agreed.
After my hairdresser had me looking like a chic it-girl, I attended a monthly Black Young Professionals mixer. This is the one time a month that I get to interact with other black people in Boston. In five months the only times that I’ve actually seen other black people is if I intentionally coordinate to meet up with a friend I met via social media (we had too many friends in common not to meet) or take an intentional cruise through Roxbury. I spent two years in SoCal with minimal black interaction. Outside of the hair salon or a deliberate visit to Englewood, I went two years without face-to-face interaction with black peers. I committed to not going another two.
I drop my car off with the parking garage attendant— a man with an accent. I ask where he hailed. “Africa — the original land,” he responds with a smile.
In Boston, there’s a significant Caribbean and African population. Out of curiosity, I asked him to specify where in Africa. He indicated Ethiopia.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
I wrestled with this. I always wrestle with this. What answer should I provide? Often I claim to be from the Air Force which explains my nomadic lifestyle. Most often I proudly claim Kentucky with Alabama roots even though I wasn’t born in either. I sometimes claim “The South” as a whole. But in this instance, I wondered if he was asking me to identify an African country, and I can’t. He sees the bewilderment on my face.
“You are also from Africa” he answers for me. He claimed me as part of him. And I was content.
Inside, a spread of young professionals with a beautiful array of skin hues still in their work clothes filled the space. I join a circle of women and make small talk about our careers, the upcoming cuffing season, and travel. You’ve got Harvard engineering graduate students, STEM professionals, accountants, classically trained musicians, and performers–all networking, discussing current events, and planning bougie black people activities like apple picking, weekends at the cape, going away parties for week-long vacations in Thailand, and upcoming NSBE galas. In this space, no one needs to ask what NSBE is, regardless of their discipline. The mixer is a refreshing space free of micro-aggressions, having our hair touched, being petted, conversation topic avoidance, explanations of who we are, and all the various other forms of small talk often used to “other” us from the in-group. It’s a place where all the young women have melodic names printed on their name tags. My own doesn’t stand out as unique, and people confidently pronounce it correctly on the first try.
A guy joins the circle and takes a look at our name tags and asks if we’re all from Africa. Everyone except me nods their head. I would never have guessed, even after talking with them for a half-hour. Most of the girls initially identified different hometowns but when explicitly asked if they were African, they each surprised me when they dropped a different country.
This dude is one of my favorite people to talk to.
Later, in the evening I get asked where I’m from, and I proudly proclaim Kentucky. That response elicits blank stares before the guy responds, “Ok, so regular black.” Wait, What? There is nothing regular about a Kentuckian I think to myself. I’d never been labeled such a thing as “regular.” I understand the distinction he is making. Since then, “regular black” and “just black” has become the Boston norm in identifying Black Americans who could not identify what country they come from. The only other time I had heard of “regular black” was when I asked a friend if he considered himself light skin. He responded, “No. Regular black.” At the time, I took it as a color reference rather than a cultural reference. I also thought it was funny. In the span of one evening, I had been called “African,” “Just Black,” a member of the “African diaspora,” “Regular black,” and called “of African descent but not African.” So naturally, that evening, along with the blog opinion by the British Nigerian rejecting my American African-ness, got me reflecting on associations and identity. At what point did we stop being African? Is African-ness something that can be lost, stolen, or stopped?
In 1787, Richard Allen, Absalom Jones, and others founded the African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church in Philadelphia after white Methodists physically pulled the black Christians up from their praying knees. Even though the founders were born in Delaware Colony, they still identified as Africans. At the time of the Civil War, American colonies hosted 10 generations (over 200 years) of people born in America but originating from Africa, and yet they were still called Africans. The Articles of Secession from both Georgia and Texas discussed the servitude of Africans even though the document had been 53 years since the last legal arrival of imported Africans. In 1868 Africans were granted citizenship by the 14th amendment but without the benefits of citizenship and not the identification of Americans. This was the time frame that Africans shifted from being logged as taxable property items to being counted on the U.S. census. Mulatto, quadroon, and octoroon were labels forced upon black people in relation to their relative whiteness before utilizing “colored” as an all-encompassing catch-all (although I had classmates in Kentucky still using all of these dated terms in the 2000s). Ida B. Wells (1861-1931) used the term Negro before switching to Afro-America as a conscious effort to connect to her ancestors. Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) wavered in the usage of Negro and Afro-American. MLK, Jr used the term “Negro,” and Malcolm X used, “so-called Negro” during the 1960s. It wasn’t until 2000 that the U.S. Census had “African-American” as an option; however, Jesse Jackson highly encouraged the use of the term back in 1988. Then there’s the widely popular, more inclusive “Black” which includes everyone of a certain skin hue range (although there are those with the same skin color who identify as brown) and the more segmented “Black-American.” Perhaps more beneficial to the quest to understand when we stopped being African, is to discover why we ended being African.
In the past, I’ve identified as Black-American to make a distinction from African-Americans who had direct ties to a specific country in Africa. My grandmother, who has navigated life as a white-presenting black woman always scratches out the “African” in “African-American” when identifying her ethnicity. She is adamant about identifying as just as American as anyone else…no qualifier needed. Sometimes, people at doctor’s offices don’t even ask and mark her as white.
I have to go abroad to be an American. Rarely am I treated as “just American” while I’m in America. In subtle ways, like Almay calling Carrie Underwood’s look the, “true spirit of American beauty” to the not so subtle demands to, “go back to Africa” when someone disagrees with me, or a US representative warning the American president to, “Watch out, Real America is coming,” I am too often reminded I am an outsider in the land I claim.
I’m realizing now that my grandmother was identifying as “just American” and me recognizing as Black-American erases our connection to Africa. And perhaps that’s by colonial design. I think it may be instinctual to disassociate with Africa because Colonizers crafted a negative perception of Africa. For those who have not visited, Africa brings the connotation of poverty, disease, “jungle savages, cannibals, and nothing civilized.”
We both identify as black, but we aren’t always recognized by others the same way.
Likewise, for first-generation Africans and Caribbeans, Black-Americana holds the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow characterizations of blackness and various other unsafe, negative stereotypes. And thus, we disassociate from each other. Perhaps Black Americans claim the American label tighter in an unconscious effort to prove our American identity…something denied to us for centuries. Maybe we more closely identify with America since we’ve never lived in or perhaps even visited Africa.
Nevertheless, when a Black American and Black African travel the globe, no one sees nationality. Everyone sees the continent. I cannot count the times Europeans have told me I look like the people from some African country they visited. Or just assumed I spoke French. Or Spanish. I’ve been pulled aside in international airports and asked if I’m coming from Kenya. Like, why, of all the countries in the world would they ask me, of all people, if I’m coming from Kenya? In America, Africans are regarded as the same as Black Americans.
Going back to Zipporah Gene’s original blog post, she states, “I’m not trying to start a war, but I would just like you all to realize the hypocrisy of seeing someone wearing a Fulani septum ring, rocking a djellaba, painted with Yoruba-like tribal marks, all the while claiming that this is meant to be respectful. It’s a hodgepodge, a juxtaposition, a right mess of regional, ethnic and cultural customs and it screams ignorance and cultural insensitivity.”
Going back to Zipporah Gene’s original blog post, she states, “I’m not trying to start a war, but I would just like you all to realize the hypocrisy of seeing someone wearing a Fulani septum ring, rocking a djellaba, painted with Yoruba-like tribal marks, all the while claiming that this is meant to be respectful. It’s a hodgepodge, a juxtaposition, a right mess of regional, ethnic and cultural customs and it screams ignorance and cultural insensitivity.”
After many cries of foul play, Zipporah Gene wrote a follow-up blog post ironically titled No One Can Take My Africanness Away. In it she states,
“What people fail to understand is that unlike those from the diaspora, I can never look at the elegant wrappers/kente of Ghana and decide that I prefer their styles to my tribe and wear it. It is a near unspoken rule. We have our lines, and we don’t cross them.”
But what the author fails to understand, the thing about being part of the African Diaspora is. Those lines havebeen crossed. That is precisely who we are. We are a mix of Cameroon, Ghana, Angola, Senegal, Nigeria and more.
We are all of Western Africa rolled into one. Gene may only identify as Nigerian. It may very well be inappropriate for her to mix elements of cultures. But American-Africans are that hodgepodge, juxtaposition, and “right mess of regional, ethnic and cultural” identity. Colonialism and imperialism dislocated and built arbitrary borders where there once were none. For her not to recognize that screams of ignorance and cultural insensitivity right back.
Further, she identifies as both British and Nigerian and perhaps she’s not altogether familiar with Black American history. In what sounds like African elitism run amuck, she states, “Unlike a lot of people from the diaspora, I do know my tribe.”
I contend that American Africans have developed a new tribe out of many. Every tribe and every nation in Africa is different. There is not one thing that unifies Africans but Africa itself. If 4 million Yoruba people migrated to Norway, their attire, foods, and activities would change to adapt to the new environment alone. To survive, they will take on the language of their new land. Norwegian history will not magically become their own. They will not magically turn into Norwegians although their citizenship may say so, they will still be ethnic, native Yorubas, doing the things Africans would do to adapt to the Norwegian climate. Likewise, American Africans live the way “African-Africans” would live had they been kidnapped and treated like livestock for half a millennium. The culture, ethnicity, and identity fused and evolved but never dissipated.
I cannot help but notice that the author, Zipporah Gene, bears the same name as the wife of the Biblical figure, Moses. Moses, although adopted, given an Egyptian name, and raised in Egyptian culture (he wasn’t even circumcised and neither were his sons), never stopped being an Israelite. When he learned of his heritage, he felt an immediate kindred spirit when he saw the mistreatment of an enslaved Israelite. Moses didn’t learn all the cultural aspects of his true identity overnight. He had to grow and learn and fortunately he had people willing to show him the way. The Israelites, when they lost their way by abandoning their customs and worshiping the false gods of Egypt, never stopped being Israelites. Your location and practices may shape your experiences, but it doesn’t define who you are.
The British colonization of Africa left a similar inheritance of displacement that African-Americans experienced. The Brits relocated Sudan’s Nubian population to Kenya. When the British pulled out of Africa, they granted British citizenship to the Chinese they cajoled into fighting in their military but the Nubians who did the same lost citizenship to both Sudan and Kenya. They became stateless—belonging to no African country. This was the state of most Africans in America until late last century. It just so happened, that Nubians were dislocated within the continent of Africa that they uncontestably maintained their African-ness even without citizenship of an African nation. The examples of dislocated and relocated people who adapt yet keep their identity are endless.
Being from Kentucky, I am conscientiously southern. It is an identity that I defend. Perhaps because New Englanders, although never visiting the state have always assumed it was mid-West. Perhaps because some Southerners question belonging to the group I am hyper-aware of claiming southern as my identity.
I ponder if a Southernermoves to Wisconsin, and maintains southernisms, can that person still claim the south? If that same individual’s child grows up in the mid-west and learns ice-fishing, eats cheese curds, knows how to drive in the snow, doesn’t get gussied up to attend football games, can’t identify a grit or worse — puts sugar in them, is that descendant still a Southerner? Southernness is more than a geographical designation. It’s deeper than the superficial eating of grits. So is African-ness. Perhaps in claiming Africa, I’m continuing the 400-year-old resistance to having my identity taken away.
No doubt, we do not have to all agree on how to identify ourselves. Identities are often fluid and based on relation to others (i.e., I never needed a term for “Just black” until I was around a diversity of other black people). Even people within the same family identify in different ways (my mom, her sister, and their mom have different last names but all family) so expecting 41 million people self-identify the same way is fruitless. It is pivotal to recognize that race, nationality, and ethnicity are not mutually exclusive. Instead of identifying as this or that, consider identifying as this and that. It is possible to be Black, American, an Islander, and African. Recognizing alternative options on what fits you best be it Black-American, African-American, American African, or American And African may be beneficial and most accurate.
One of my last courses for my Master’s in International Relations required us to define our own culture. At the time I just didn’t have the resources, perspective, or time between deadlines to give the assignment justice. The task was more fascinating than I realized at the time and a fun conversation to have (with the right people). Perhaps I’ll devote more time to research and explore this later.
So this guy is just a google.de image of a German man (come on guys, I can’t really just go around snapping photos of the beautiful strangers I run across on a daily bases). He is just an example of the serious cuteness that wanders the streets of Germany.
Okay, let’s talk about guys. That’s what people really want to hear when talking about Europe…guys. Do you know, when I told everyone back home about me moving to Germany, they all said something tantamount to, “Prince Charming is over there waiting for you.”
No one ever said there was a Prince Charming waiting for me in China (which with high ratio of men to women, would probably be more likely but that’s a whole other story to discuss at another time).
Here’s my take, thus far, on European (and more specifically German) men.
The German Men
How cute is this Deutsche Olympian?
“Why on Earth don’t they like me,” I asked the small heard of German-speakers at an international cocktail party on the beach in Montenegro. When in an international setting, I now tend to settle amongst the Germans. I am a Stuttgart girl. Germany is home. My question was the response to an Austrian telling me that, in order to learn German, I needed to do one of two things:
1. Get drunk, and then talk to everyone
2. Get a German (speaking) boyfriend.
Getting drunk is about as easy as downing one German-sized hefeweizen. Scoring a German-speaking sweetheart, well, that’s horse of another color.
The beautiful sunny view from the terrace of the hotel where we worked. Germany was gloomy and about 50 degrees Fahrenheit when we left. Montenegro was amazing!
One, I already have a French-speaking American beau that I’m not interested in trading in at the moment. And yes, dating him has improved my French.
Two, while I will say I do have a hint of modesty, I’m well-aware that I possess many features often attributed as standard, conventional beauty. I’m in shape and, like all southern belles are raised to do, I put effort into my appearance. I understand I may not be attractive to everyone. But after a year or two in Germany, no German has even tried to approach. I explained that and my new friends acted shocked that I don’t attract the German men! Ever so often a group of folks from all over Germany working in our IT company travel from time to time to Eastern Europe. This was our second time traveling together somewhere. The first time, they taught me some German and inspired me to continue learning in a classroom. Now, I was ready to practice on the out on the town. Most of the men were named Michael. There was one Klaus.
Me with the German-speaking Michaels (Austrians included!)
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One guy friend said, “No! You know you’re beautiful. Attractive. If you don’t think so you are crazy!” Michael # 3 made a point to make sure I knew and understood my appearance met approval.
“They don’t know how to take you,” Michael #1 explained.
I explained how I asked a cute neighbor, Sebastian, to dinner once and never heard back from him. They asked how long I knew him. I said less than one hour. And they explained that was the problem. Germans get to know people first. One of the Michaels said, “If you asked me to dinner, I would think you were joking to make fun of me,” stating that I was much too beautiful to be interested in him. He said Germans are shy. They all assured that German men are not blind and really are attracted to me… except maybe the “schwul” ones. “Everyone in Germany understands ‘schwule,’ even the non-German speaking American girl. And yet, they don’t hit on me. I even initiate convo in their language. They pay no mind. Hmm…I think, maybe it’s because I’m an outsider. Maybe they don’t date sub-six foot women. The Germans and Austrians I conversed with suggested the key to getting in good with German men is to establish a German female friend base. It is true; the folks I hang out with the most are other Americans or at least other Expats. So, I think I’ll work on it a bit more in a new direction knowing that I am the one who has to show interest and make the first move.
Generally speaking, I’m against objectifying all people. But just for this one instance, I’m taking a moment for revenge on all women who have ever been objectified by objectifying men back. This German guy, is a swoon-worthy object of lust! He’s Badden-Wurttemberg boy, Michael Fassbender who played in Inglorious Bastards and 300!
I see beautiful German men all the time on the train. They are a phenomenal specimen of men. These men are the skyscrapers of men. They can work a business suite like no other. The whole darn country is active and sporty and it shows amazingly well. They have these mysterious blue eyes under dark hair or sometimes blond hair. Germans have very captivating, science & logical minds. And in this group of men, they are a ton of fun and loads of laughs. I think it’s a true indicator of your grasp of a language when you can tell jokes that translate well, and these guys were like a joke factory. After our discussion I decided to research “The German Man” and came across this article. In order to effectively communicate, I must know my audience.
This fella is just one of many gorgeous soccer (ah-hem, football) players in Germany: Bayer Leverkusen.
Why is he so cute?
Anyway, I think as a whole in general, German men follow the values of the old south. Men take the responsibility of being a leader and provider of the home seriously meaning they will work to provide for their family. They are also taught to be polite and not hoot and holler at women as American women (and French ones and Italians) are accustomed. Maybe German women have trained them well enough that men who take the more caveman approach are not successful. Although I don’t think American men who catcall are rewarded by their behavior and yet it seems to happen anyway. Apparently, a German guy could be very interested but never let on in the conventional U.S. fashion that he’s into you. Now, I see German couples all the time with German babies so someone is being successful in getting German men to make a move. The approach to capturing the heart and attention of these men are quite different than what we’re socialized in American, France and English dating culture. Thus, German men are the most difficult group of guys I’ve come across in breaking into the dating scene. But like with all things, if it was easy, it would lose its value. I’ll keep you posted on how my research goes. Now, back to my more professional self.
Climbing Mount Machu Pichu was a transformative experience. I did not expect to gain such a new perspective from this half-day excursion. Here are the lessons from the mountaintop a gained from this experience.
Mental Preparation
“ The beauty of the mountain is hidden for all those who try to discover it from the top, supposing that, one way or an other, one can reach this place directly. The Beauty of the Mountain reveals only to those who climbed it…” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery
The climb is limited to 400 people per day, staggered in two groups. The first group starts at 0700 and the next at 1000. The peak closes at noon for ceremonial reasons. My group’s ascent started just after 0700. We registered our names in a book just in case search and rescue were needed if we didn’t return. I’m glad we started early. We didn’t have to yield to anyone coming down the mountain and didn’t have to rush to the peak before it closed.
I was not mentally prepared for how strenuous this climb would be. First of all, folks kept calling it a hike. Let us be clear. This is not a hike. A hike is when you walk through a nice path in nature with gradual ups and downs across the terrain. The trails at Yellow Creek Park in my hometown are hikes. This was a climb. This was mountaineering. This was alpinism. There were no gradual slopes, this was straight up to the top of the Andes Mountain range. I underestimated this challenge. Had I not been told to bring plenty of water, I would have brought 20 oz. instead of a liter and 20 ounces. I only had one Kind Bar. I should have packed a few. And a sandwich to eat at the top if I’m being completely honest. I could have packed one of those lemonade mixers to add electrolytes in my water. Your body needs to be properly fueled for this hike and I barely covered my bases.
Luckily, other folks on the trail were prepared. One guy had a whole banana bunch that he shared. Others passed along granola. Next time I do a hike like this, I want to be one of those people who have plenty to share. I didn’t bring a ponytail holder. I packed a jacket that I quickly didn’t need, My DSLR Camera, and my iPhone.
Physical Preparation
It took me about 90 minutes to climb 650 meters (2,139 feet) above the Machu Pichu ruins and 3080 meters (10,017 feet) above sea level. I struggled with the altitude. I haven’t had a consistent fitness regimen in about a year. I was irritated with myself that I couldn’t keep up with this Swedish guy and New Zealand girl who were studying abroad at UC Irvine. I never considered that others were conquering their fear of heights or experiencing anxiety attacks at the sight of the narrow paths with steep drop-offs.
My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing. – Aldous Huxley
Spiritual and Emotional Preparation
Being an introvert, I like time to reflect during the hours spent alone on the mountain. Mountains are great for that sort of thing. I love the stillness of empty mountain trails. The Incas were all about being connected to Earth. I think mountains offer a closer connection to God. Moses encountered God on Mount Sinai, the Prophet Elijah encountered God on Mount Carmel, Jesus was tempted on a mountain, appointed his Twelve on a mountain, delivered his most grand sermon, and underwent transfiguration all on mountains. High places, across many faiths, are always sacred. Certainly, when climbing mountains you undergo a mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual change. You are not the same person you were before you started your climb.
Walk Carefully/ Narrow Path sign at Machu Pichu
Pumped up on Outdoorphins, my friend, E, chattered on and on about this great feat. From the summit back down to the base he raved about this antagonizing accomplishment. He talked about how he couldn’t believe that he just climbed a mountain. Even with his fear of heights, he did it! He’d pushed passed his limitations and surprised himself with his abilities.
“Climbing is analogs to life!” He exclaimed, still on an outdoorphin rush!
“Climbing mountains is analogous to life!”
I chuckled to myself because I had the same revelation coming down from Camelback Mountain in Scottsdale, AZ. Many a revelation are had on the side of a mountain.
“I just assumed we didn’t climb mountains,” a friend said.
We, meaning black people. Which I found funny because he breaks racial stereotypes all the time by being an avid swimmer. We being the only black Americans and dang near the only black people we’d seen in Peru all week broke the stereotype that wedon’t travel. I mean, the whole group is a life-living, stereotype-breaking, adventurous group. What’s a mountain to this band of skiers, skydivers, ocean divers, gallery hoppers, campers, and international travelers? Besides, we only make up 13 percent of America’s population. That includes the elderly and children. Those of us who can climb, can’t do everything at once. There’s just not going to be significant representation in everything we do.
“Aren’t you proud of yourself?!” he finally asked after I was silent the whole way down. He was fun to watch all motivated and inspired. It’s fun to see people break through their limitations and do the things they didn’t know they could do.
I certainly was but this is not my first mountain. So perhaps the emotions were a bit different.
My love affair with mountains started the first time I visited Kehlsteinhaus (Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest) in Austria (elevation: 1,834 m/ 6,017 ft). I rode a bus up that one. I’ve climbed down the Grand Canyon and up again (7,000 ft). That was rough and exhausting and I have no desire to ever do it again. I canyoneered Zion Canyon (3,000 ft) and climbed parts of Mount Whitney (14,505 feet). Heck, the hike to the Hollywood sign from the Bat Caves was a struggle (1,708 feet). Although Machu Picchu Mountain was certainly my tallest peak to climb, we only hiked 2,139 feet of it. For reference, Camelback Mountain is 2,706 feet. I climbed all of that. With each hike, I had the same feelings of euphoria Eric was experiencing now. While the climb was challenging and the view at the top amazing, his ecstasy and sense of accomplishment was my favorite sight to see.
In the spirit of Eric’s revelation that mountain climbing is analogous to life, here are my top 10 lessons from the Mountaintop you will likely learn on the mountain that also apply to life.
Top 10 Lessons from the Mountaintop That Apply to Life
10. Perseverance is developed by persevering. Each one of us had different times that we asked ourselves, “Why am I doing this?” Each one of us had a moment we considered turning back. No one would even blame us for turning back. But if we did, we’d miss the triumph of reaching the top. There was nothing fun about climbing that mountain. It was dangerous. I suffered from high altitude and low oxygen. We were exhausted. But with each curve of the mountain, conquering each drop up and each cliff, we challenged our resolve. Our stamina grew. What used to be a limitation—like narrow paths on steep cliffs — was now something we’ve already conquered multiple times. The longer we journeyed up the mountain the greater our determination to master the peak grew. Giving up develops nothing.
“I’ve learned that everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but all the happiness and growth occurs while you’re climbing it.”
9. Don’t compare your journey.
We all have different abilities and struggles. I was disappointed that I couldn’t keep up with the Swedish and New Zeeland duo. But what did it matter? We all rallied at the top of the mountain. There was no special prize for being able to keep up. It didn’t matter when I got there, so long as I got up there safely. So go at your own pace. Be patient with yourself and take your time. Be patient with others as well.
“Ain’t about how fast I get there, ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side, it’s the climb. –Miley Cyrus
8. Camaraderie is forged in peril.
You will meet some of the best people while on a climb. Literally, everyone was so nice and encouraging up the mountain. We were chatting, getting to know each other. Folks sharing their food supply and passing along advice and care. A young Puerto Rican girl was doing a solo tour across South America but still regarded Puerto Rico as the most beautiful place she’d ever been (she’d never been to Kentucky). I met a young guy from Indianapolis who sandwiched the trip in between two business trips in Argentina. I met a whole athletic German family whose mother didn’t hold back any feelings she had about American politics. Another man was a classmate at U Penn with the current star of American politics. I met two students, one from Sweden, the other from Australia, both studying abroad at a UC in SoCal, and were spending their summer break exploring the hemisphere. You’ll develop friendships and partnerships along the way with people going where you are going. No matter what your fitness level, you’re stronger together. You’re stronger when you have someone checking up on you, passing a banana or granola, and telling you you’re almost there.
Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity” —John Muir, Our National Parks
7. No one can do it for you.
While you may have cheerleaders and coaches along the way, no one can climb the mountain for you. Mountain climbing isn’t something that can be outsourced like lawn mowing, dog walking, house cleaning, or even novel writing. If you want the view, the glory, the triumph, the growth you’re going to have to work for it. There’s only so much friends can do for you on a mountain. Perhaps others are good for companionship, encouragement, to share with you. All the rest is up to you. I was motivated by Langston Hughes’ Mother to Sonwhile I climbed.
“The biggest adventure you can take is to live the life of your dreams.” — Oprah
6. You’ll lose some along the way. You might not all get to the mountain top at the same time. Some may turn around. When I climbed Camelback Mountain, I met this amazing woman who was a breast cancer survivor. She talked about how she and her daughter had conquered the mountain together before her diagnosis and this was her first time back. It was one of her favorite memories with her adult child. She said she took a picture of her flexing her muscles at the top because she became her own hero. She told me of things to look out for and how I’d know I was almost at the top, but she had to turn around. She had gone as far as she could this go around. I loved talking with her. I traveled alone for a bit before there was someone else to pick up where she left off. Hopefully, you’ll meet at the top, or coming back down, or waiting for you to return back at the base, but not everyone stays with you the whole way.
“It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” —Edmund Hillary
5. Share the knowledge to those coming after you. Just like the Cancer Surviving mom helped me, my friends and I were able to help and encourage those still ascending while we were coming down from the peak. One friend in our group hikes the tallest peak of every state she visits. She had plenty of experience and wisdom to share on safety and best practices coming down the mountain.
“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again… What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.” – Rene Daumal
4. Focus on the next steps in front of you—especially coming down.
Don’t get distracted by how steep the side of the mountain is. Don’t be so busy looking at the top and how far you have left to go. Just focus on putting one foot in front of the other and keep going. Look at where you are planting your feet. Even calculate the next few steps without getting too far ahead of yourself. Once you are at the lower end of the mountain, people think it’s the easy part. That’s when people start moving faster and getting careless. That’s where injuries occur because you end up moving more swiftly and falling, twisting an ankle or otherwise getting hurt. Even when you miscalculate your steps, learn from it. Slow down. Brush yourself off. Hold on. And keep moving.
“So, boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps. ‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.” — Langston Hughes
3. Take care of your body. Age is a quantifiable measurement of how long you have been alive, not an indicator of your abilities or limitations. I almost discounted my parents as too old to do the climb until I met a 70-year-old couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary at the top. A guide told us the youngest person he had on the entire Inca Trail was a fearless 7-year-old girl and the oldest was 83 (also a woman). You want to be able to use your body for as long as you can, so keep it in its best working order.
“What are men to rocks and mountains?” ― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
2. Be prepared! I often over-estimate my athletic abilities and underestimate the amount of water I’ll need. I did no research before attempting this climb. The lack of research might have been to my benefit since there are YouTube videos about people falling to their death on the mountain. However, knowing that this was a 90-minute vertical climb instead of a leisurely, winding curved hike probably would have been helpful. Thank goodness this southern girl could “depend on the kindness of strangers” one of which was carrying a giant bunch of bananas and wanted to get rid of the weight, and another girl had granola to spare.
“Mountains have a way of dealing with overconfidence.” —Nemann Buhl
1. It’s so worth it!
After you’ve climbed your mountain, you’ve entered a highly exclusive community of other adventurers that understand the physical, mental, emotional, and motivating accomplishment of climbing a mountain. I can only describe it as similar to the feeling you get when they put you on the bus after your field/basic training and all the officers salute you goodbye. Or graduating with honors and offers. Or finishing your first marathon. Or a physique competition. Or having both feet back on the ground after sky diving. That’s what it’s like. You’ll have a renewed understanding of Miley Cyrus’ It’s the Climb.
“You never climb the same mountain twice, not even in memory. Memory rebuilds the mountain, changes the weather, retells the jokes, remakes all the moves.” —Lito Tejada-Flores
Christianity has an incredibly violent past. No one is more aware of this than its victims and descendants of its victims. As a Christian, traveler, historian (with a degree, not just a hobby), and descendant of Christianities violence, my time in Peru helped me connect dots to similarities in Christian experiences and raised questions.
As we explored ancient Inca ruins in Peru, several tour guides discussed the violence of my faith. By contrast, history tour guides in America (the Boston area specifically) never mention the destruction that Christianity supported. On my road trip across America, I had the opportunity to talk to three separate groups of Native Americans — Wampanoag American Natives (Plymouth, Massachusetts), Taos Pueblo Indians (New Mexico), and the Dakotah/Lakotah Tribes (more commonly known as the Sioux, in North Dakota)— and learned the American history that my undergraduate degree in the subject seemed to forget. Unless you ask the Natives, you’d be unlikely to connect the dots to how similar the stories of Christianity in the United States stories are to the stories of South America and Africa. Sure, we all know the generalities of Native ethnic cleansing. However, for the first time in my history education, no one sanitized the story.
Christianity Comes to Peru
Our guide, an Inca descendant, is a Christian but he still practices the same spirituality that his ancestors practiced thousands of years ago. He kept it real when he told the Christian history of Peru. He mentioned the brutality of Christianity multiple times. According to him, the Spaniards were not interested in learning agricultural techniques from the natives. They only wanted their silver and gold. Instead, Spaniards forced the Incas to build opulent, gold-adorned cathedrals in Cusco and along the trail to Machu Pichu. The Spanish used this method, “Just to convert us to being a Christian,” explained our guide. Thinking about it, there are no colonial cathedrals where there isn’t any gold.
When the Spaniards tried to force their God onto the Incas in 1528, the Incas/Quechuas determined they would not be worshiping someone with skin like their oppressors. So they covered a statue of the European idol with llama leather to make him look more like the people. Over time, the leather got darker due to centuries of contact with candle smoke in the Cathedral. Thus, creating the Black Jesus attraction — or at least that’s what I was told.
At the time, the people of Peru wore Sudarios, a knee-length skirt. It was a unisex clothing item as they found no purpose in wearing gender-specific clothing to publicly annotate what a person’s genitals look like—that was a European practice. The statue has a whole wardrobe of Sudarios that gets changed based on the occasion.
After conquest, the Spaniards forced the Quechua artist to learn renaissance-style paintings to paint scenes of European and Catholic values. The Spanish didn’t let the artists sign their names to their artwork. The local artists found ways to incorporate their heritage right under the nose of the colonizers without them noticing. The Incas were able to conceal symbols of their faith within the catholic tradition as well. This was best done through art. Several “Last Supper” paintings feature Jesus eating cuy (guinea pig) and drinking a local drink with potatoes on the table. Peru highlights so many intriguing Last Supper paintings. It is a wonder why Da Vinci’s is the only one that is discussed in art history, humanities, and world civ classes. The Cathedral in Cusco basically serves as a gallery of European domination and a testament to Quechua resistance.
Christianity and The Wampanoag American Native Tribe
The story of resistance amongst the Native Peruvians reminded me of the Wampanoag American Native tribe history I got to hear from a descendant of pilgrim massacre survivors. At Plymouth, Massachusettes, just a short drive from south Boston, you can visit the Pilgrim Plantation. There you’ll hear the happy fairy tales you read in sanitized history books. While touring, I listened from the sidelines to a Wampanoag woman tell a class of elementary-aged students the story. I waited on the sidelines while they asked their elementary questions. Once they moved along I started asking mine. The Wampanoags kept the faith of their ancestors. They only pretended to convert to Christianity in order to survive. Like the Native Peruvians, they still practice the faith of their ancestors from 600 years ago.
The Cathedral had a no photo rule, but how could I just pass up my first time seeing a Black Jesus prominently displayed in a cathedral without a photo!?
Christianity reaches the Taos Indians
In Taos, New Mexico, it’s the same tale. The Taos Indians are not a nomadic tribe. They do not have a history of reservations, the Trail of Tears, or the Long Walk. They have lived in the same Pueblo buildings as their ancestors for the past 1000 years (with modern upgrades as well, like wifi). Theirs is the longest, continuously inhabited community in America. I remember when I lived in Europe and saw all the centuries-old structures, thinking America had nothing like it. Our earliest buildings had to be in Massachusetts from the 1600s which was almost modern day in comparison to Germany’s Medieval castles. Even majoring (temporarily) in architecture and history, I never knew anything about this ancient civilization, with its impressive architecture in my homeland that rivals the historical architecture of Europe.
Taos Pueblo, New Mexico
But the Spanish came. Enslaved them. Forced them to build a Church right beside their pueblo (remember, there are no Colonial Catholic Cathedrals where there aren’t resources). Then the Brits showed up to unleash all kinds of hell in the area. Spaniards and English folks ran around chopping each other’s heads off, blaming it on the natives, and trying to force people to speak their language and believe in their God. The Brits tried to force their Protestantism while the Spanish forced their Catholicism. The locals just wanted to be left in peace. Both European ethnicities arrived and forbid the locals’ traditional practice & language (kinda like the Japanese in Korea). The locals pretended in order to survive but, like David in the Old Testament, strengthen their own faith during all the adversity. Today, the Taos Native Americans observe both faiths. But they lost nothing of their own.
Christianity in North America
Afro-Caribbeans also were able to maintain their African faith by intertwining Orishas with saints. Oshun easily resembles the Virgin Mary.
This brings me to the conversion of Africans in the United States. Africans in America did not pretend to accept Christ. They did so wholeheartedly and lost the spiritual traditions of their ancestors. How did this happen? My theory is, unlike the Incas, Wampanoags, and Taos, Africans in America were mixed up with other tribes who had different faiths and languages. Oppressors separated Africans from their families and cultures. Thus, ancient traditions and practices could not be taught. Protestantism practiced in America gave fewer opportunities to intertwine religious symbols with saints and imagery.
If history is the best indicator of future performance, then today’s Christians have a lot of overcoming. John tells us we will be able to identify Christians by their love; Matthew by their fruit. Constantly, for centuries the fruit claiming to be Christian has not been love.
Cusco
While I’ve always been aware of Christianity’s less-than-Christ-like history, it seemed emphasized more on this Peruvian trip. The way the guides presented history — without sugar-coating, justification, or glossing over stood out. This was the first time I’d heard colonialism described this way. Not ironically, this trip offered the first time the history of colonialism was formally taught by a descendant of a survivor — rather than a direct beneficiary.
The same history passed down from generation to generation of the treatment of natives from Plymouth to Peru never make it into history books and uncovered an interest in the subject that I never knew. I was just going on vacation to Peru for cool photos. I wasn’t expecting the history lesson and unique, new perspectives this trip provided.
Last week I introduced this series of “Best of America” posts explaining that my buddy was making the move to America from Germany. He’s never even visited before, and just like I was in his country five years ago, he is eager to start exploring mine. These are cities in America that I can’t wait to return for a visit and where I would never pass up an opportunity to live. Some towns a great for a short stay but these are towns where I’d consider saying forever. People ask where I could see myself settling down. Here’s my short list of contenders. If you have the chance, spend some time in these places to get a feel for all of these very different but very American cities.
1. Nashville, Tennessee
Nashville is like the boy who lived down the street that you never paid attention to until you see him all grown up and your like dang, have you been this awesome all along? I grew up just up the interstate from this town and it took leaving the country and returning to party on my “Welcome back” tour before I really learned how great this big town is. Granted, the possibilities of Nashville change dramatically once you turn 21.
It’s urban, country, hipster, and Christian all wrapped into one quintessentially southern city. This town takes pride in its culinary offerings. Sure, the southern classics are on point here, but this town is cultured enough to showcase foods from all over the world (try living in a town with one Chinese restaurant and one Mexican place and you’ll come to appreciate food diversity). Parks, landscapes, professional sports, SEC Sports, Parthenon, universities, museums, boutiques, music (not just country and bluegrass), and the people are the sweetest in the south.
Now, few people have learned that if you want anything out of me calling me sweetheart or darlin’ is a smart start (actually don’t, because I’m going to call you a sexist and get you a gender studies lesson so long with so much vehemence you’re going to have a complex about uttering those words to anyone else for the rest of your life). But the folks in Nashville (and southerners in general) can get away with it every day. And it’s hard to walk around grumpy when you’re getting called sweetheart all day every day.
2. New York City, New York
There’s nothing left so say about this city that hasn’t already been said in song. Whatever you want to do in life, you can do in New York City. In my short time spent in one borough, I walk the scenes of a black and white photos I’ve seen in history books. I got dressed up and went to Broadway. I experienced the crazy guy in the subway. I had to change my route to avoid getting catcalled. I got my hair down and got offered socks, and flashlights, and toothpaste. I ran a marathon in Central park (ok so I ran like a 2K on the same path as a marathoners were running, close enough), I ate well, I went to the shops, I went to the museums, I found long lost buddies living in the city. And this was just one section of a big city over the course of three days. There’s so much more! And although the real estate is steep…who needs more than a room with The City is your back yard?! New York is our American movable feast. New York is our everything and more.
3. San Diego, California
Back in our initial training, we were asked an ice breaker question about our favorite towns. Everyone mentioned some faraway place from a vacation memory of long ago. Everyone, except my bunkmate who proclaimed, “I’m from San Diego, and I think it’s pretty awesome.” How right and unbiased she was. San Diego is a great place to be young and single (old and single, or married with kids).
Let me describe my lifestyle if I lived in San Diego. After spending the night dancing the night away in Gas lamp, I’d meet up with friends for yoga in the park by the bay. After our sun salutations, we’d head to one of the dozens of options for tofu scrambles with mimosas. Mine you, I’m a carnivore, but I will eat the heck out of some teriyaki tofu. Maybe I’ll spend the afternoon with surf lessons or in a library or watching the game with UK Alumni Assoc. (because they always come on extra early west coast time). I’ll grab street tacos…which have ruined me and turned me into a Mexican food snob (Chipotle just doesn’t cut it any more). I’ll spend my years in flip flops and shorts. My dog will experience the chill life as well. With Dog parks, dog beaches, doggy day camps, pet resorts, all-natural, gourmet pet bakeries, and pet friendly shops and outdoor dining he will have an active social life. He can meet and be friends with sea lions in LaJolla(aka water dogs). Anytime there’s a concert, sporting event, performance, I’ll be there.
4. San Francisco, California
I’ve never fallen in love with a city as fast as I fell in love with San Francisco. Maybe I was having Euro withdrawals. Maybe I got to walk around in the setting of Princess Diaries. Maybe it was a perfect escape from SoCal. Whatever the case, I’ve never felt more at home in any other new city. The city’s layout with iconic cable cars remind me of Lisbon. Expensive real estate, that forces the acquisition of smaller apartments create the European social culture that turn coffee shops and restaurants into extensions of one’s living room to host and socialize with friends all night. The city doesn’t bat an eye at drinking wine in the park before noon. Plus there’s Little Italy and I’d argue the best China Town in the country. And that’s just lifestyle. Work-wise, industry, technology and startups thrive in the bay.
The walkability, active living, fresh food living, public transportation, ecofriendly, expats, food culture, sidewalk café that Le Corbusier lamented infested Paris are the pieces of sophistication that make San Francisco ideal.
5. San Antonio, Texas
If you’ve ever met a Texan, you undoubtedly are well aware of their almost scary, obsessive loyalty to their state. These are the kind of people that if they have a tattoo, it’s a permanent scar of their state. Or their state’s flag. Or both. Their homes, offices, and cars are decorated with Texas paraphernalia. These are the type of people who, while in labor, will hold their child in side until they can get some doggone Texas dirt under their bed and/or the Texas flag hung overhead so their offspring can be born on Texas soil and under the Texas flag. You know how guys who are taller than 6 feet always seem to find a way to let slip their height into the conversation? Like “Hi I’m brad, 6 foot and a half an inch tall.” Or Morehouse grads like to slip in that they are a Morehouse Alum within the first three sentences of meeting? Like the dude at the gate, after checking my ID, says, “Good Morning ma’am. Where’s you commission out of? Oh, I’m a Morehouse man, have a nice day.” Well, that’s also the tradition of a Texan. They will make sure you never mistake them as a resident of any other state. Even Beyoncé feels the need to randomly insert mention of Texas no less than 5 times per album. Seriously Bey, Texas as nothing to do with anything else in Daddy Lessons, Countdown, Who Run the World, or Bow Down.Anyway…San Antonio was once my #1 favorite town in the world before traveling everywhere else. It wont take a long visit before this intoxicating city has you wanting to adopt Texas as your home. It’s military friendly in a way that no other town in America is (even all the ones with bases) and blends Texican culture and heritage in a way you can’t find elsewhere. Plus their Missions baseball taco mascot is pretty worthy of fandom on it’s own.
6. Washington, DC
There’s no doubt the DMV is a fantastic area. DC was the final destination on my first flight journey. It’s where I first road an escalator. It’s where I first met someone who didn’t speak English who helped me how to use an automatic sink for the first time. Now that I think about it, I started school with a daddy-daughter vacation and ended school the same way.
When deciding the priority of marvel in relation to the other locations on this list, I had to weigh some odds. You have all four seasons, but one of those seasons, it snows (actually, snow is possible in three seasons). Central location to other fabulous cities (Philly, B-more, Annapolis, NYC) but it snows. It’s on the same side of the country to my family. But it snows. But the capitol building looks amazing in the snow. And after the snow comes the blossoms. In DC, the world comes to you. The moment you step out of your door you can touch education, culture, history, and the best that America has to offer.
7. Scottsdale, AZ
To be honest, I can’t tell where Scottsdale ends and Phoenix begins, so installment includes the grater phoenix area, to include Tempe. Spa resorts, professional sports, boutique shops, old west history, desert mountain hikes, cultural developments, active living, fine living, even a really nice church (New City Church) is what draws me to this area of Arizona. Plus, the night life and brunch life are tops. It’s hotter than Hades all summer, but the weather all winter and the amenities make it worth it. The weather is also what makes it a snow-birder’s paradise. To escape the frigid cold elsewhere, folks spend their winters here then return to their second homes elsewhere when temperatures rise.
8. Boston (and the surrounding area)
Imagine calling America’s hometown your hometown. When you almost twist your ankle after your stiletto gets caught in the cobblestone, remember Phyllis Wheatley, Louisa May Alcott, and Abby Adams likely walked in the same narrow alleyways. When you are being cheered on/ or doing the cheering with throngs of supporters in the city’s annual marathon, remember Katherine Switzer who did the same while running away from officials trying to physically remove her from path. When the suburbs get flooded with history enthusiasts in red coats, remember the events that forged a nation that happened right here! During the summer Boston is my #3 favorite city in America. This area would have received a higher rating if it wasn’t so frickin’ cold in the winter. But for the months when it is warm, the locals really take advantage. Boston is a town of runners and rowers. It’s sensory overload with plenty to see, do, eat and experience packed in a little, walkable space. The pride people take in their city adds to its charm. As do the accents and grumpy commuters. Although the night life needs a little help (why is last call at midnight? Why can’t I double fist? Why are happy hours banned?), living in Boston is the pulse of New England.
9. Portland, Oregon
“Why didn’t you tell Portland was so awesome? I know you’ve been here!” One of my (Texan) friends texted me during her recent city break to this river town. She was correct, I had visited and Portland is indeed, such a trendy town. And in en effort to share the wealth, Portland is one of my favorite American cities. Portland offers all the typical amenities that make cities easy faves: professional sports, walkability (with the exception of San Antonio), varied nightlife, art, local food diversity, quaint boutiques, and transportation system. Like California, Portland offers easy access to wineries, beaches, and ski resorts and a laidback style. What makes this city unique is that it’s eclectic. If Portland could be a character, it would be a fusion of Ms. Frizzle and Mary Poppins. Features that I love about Portland include high-end shopping without the sales tax, Saturday Market (which happens on Sunday), free-flowing craft beer, and a very open, non-pretentious attitude. Art is integrated in the everyday lifestyle, from local made crafts to the tattoos. Artful expression can unquestionably be found in the food. I can’t pinpoint a particular niche of food the city is known for, other than fresh and local. The town is constantly reinventing its food with a creative twist. I love that Portland’s iconic rose garden was designed just in case bombs destroyed all of Europe’s rosebushes during World War I. Don’t worry, even in times of war, America is dedicated to securing roses from extinction.
10. Molokai, Hawaii
It’s the most Hawaiian of the islands, unspoiled by tourism. It’s the closest you can get to your own private beach. It’s the tropical version of my hometown where everyone knows everyone else. Except you can sit on your back porch and watch whales. And in the event that this gets old, you’re a ferry ride or prop plane hop to more action packed Maui or change of pace Lanai. And who wouldn’t want to own memories of Hawaii?! My only issue is it seeming to be on the edge of the universe from the rest of the world (AKA my world aka Kentucky & Paris).
A friend from Germany informed me he got a coveted position to live and work in America! He’s super excited and ready to explore all the best America has to offer in his limited, three-year tour. Since I’m the only person living in America that he knows, he asked for some direction on where to start. With all that is going on in our nation right now, which seems to highlight the worst in my country, I got excited to reflect on the best of America. I’m so thankful that I had the opportunity to take two cross country road trips and see the glory of all fifty states. So I have some idea about America’s most interesting spots. But how do you prioritize these trips that took me my entire life to accomplish?
How do you plan a three-year American vacation for someone who has never visited America?
There’s just so much to see and do and never enough time or money. And from the citizen’s perspective, we take so much for granted that an expat finds unique. From historical sites to annual events, you’ve got to get the full American experience and you don’t have countless opportunities to redo the experience. How do you make the most out of America in the three years he’s given? If you only had three years left in America, what would you do and see?
So, I’ve decided to start a “Best of America” series to help a friend plan his trip & for me to quantify all that I’ve seen in the past few years in my American adventures. Stay tune, because I’ve outgrown blogger and in the process of upgrading this blog! But until that happens, here are my quick assessments of my American travels to pass this information on in the meantime.
Usually when it comes to storytelling it’s best to start at the beginning. But this is the kind of story that needs to start from the ending and be told in rewind.
When my feet were back on Earth, I knew I just pressed through a new limit. I felt like a little kid wanting to rush to get back in line for the cool, curvy, long tunnel slide at the park.
Jumping out of a plane or rather, flopping out of a plane, was the thrill of my life. As you start accelerating toward the Earth, there’s uneasiness about it. The initial panic of falling takes hold. And yet, although you feel like you are falling…there’s no land underneath your feet, the Earth doesn’t seem to get any closer. Once you top out at your maximum speed of 120 miles an hour…which is a speed that will get you passed by a Volkswagen hatchback on the autobahn in the far right lane… you just chill and loosen up and start enjoying the ride. You stop being cognizant that you are actually still free-falling. You get their surreal sensation that you are just hanging out in the air, the World far beneath you — out of reach. Floating. Dare I say… flying.
While hanging out suspended in the sky, I learned that a sky diver has an amazing amount of control in the air. You can direct your fall. You can spin, flip, soar along. My photographer soared around Conner, my tandem instructor, and I to get the best shots from all angles. How can he do that? I asked, skill in the free-fall. Conner explained with his arms. In fact, Conner was holding my hands because in my panic, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing with my hands and it was unintentionally moving us around in the sky. We just chilled and chatted a while before the chute deployed. Conner took it upon himself to unsnap the buckle across my chest. What the heck do you think you’re doing?! I expressed so serious concern for things coming undone in the air. He tells me to chill out and to push my butt out…cus that’s a normal thing for a guy who is strapped to your back to say. So I did and, sure enough, I was sitting, comfortably in the sky. The two of us chatted and enjoyed the SoCal scenery from above as we slowly floated back down to Earth. There’s the city, the Pacific Ocean and mountains all down below.
Conner asked me, “So, you think you’ll do a jump by yourself?” While we floated, I thought there was no way I’d hurl myself out of an airplane. I don’t even do upside down roller coasters. To me, jumping solo would be like giving yourself a bikini wax. I might be able to apply the wax, but no way am I just going to yank it off myself. “We need more pretty girls in the sport, “he flirted. Homeboy was working for his tip and it worked like a charm. I just might be willing to fulfill this diversity shortfall (pun!). The ride to the ground was so unbelievable.
Even with all my creativity, floating in the sky was more than I could imagine just 15 seconds earlier.
Fifteen seconds before, experienced jumpers, first-time jumpers, photographers, and videographers all piled in this little, bitty propeller plane. Some folks didn’t even have seats and just sat on the floor next to the door. It took me back to sophomore year of high school when Andrew was the first in our crew to get his license and we took it as a challenge to see how many 16-year-olds could fit in his Honda Civic at one time as we cruised our town’s main street.
The party-like atmosphere in the plane with all the joking and co-workers poking fun at each other made the whole situation relaxed without focusing on the crazy adventure we were about to experience. At some point during our climb to out 15K feet, Conner says, “Let’s do this, come sit on my lap.”
Everyone starts moving about like musical chairs in the tightly packed cabin with bench jump seats. Now I am not a type-A kind of person…I usually go with the flow. But when it comes to hopping out of a perfectly functioning aircraft…Type-A, micromanaging missy arrives. While Conner was attaching himself to me, I was steady double checking everything he clipped on and tightened. I know the value of double checking for human errors when it comes to safety or security. This was no time for a mental lapse. I didn’t even recognize how obvious I was making it until one of the pros called me out on it.
“Man, your partner has no faith in you.” He said.
Conner tells me with the straightest face, “If we get separated on this jump, just meet back at the little yellow square where we started.”
The little yellow box was where divers stood to get the three-minute “pre-flight training.” The training consisted of explaining what was going to happen more than what we needed to do in case of emergency. My boss, who flies and jumps out of air planes for a living, already gave me the run down. He predicted they’d give me a lame briefing concealed as training and omit issues that folks who don’t jump wouldn’t know to ask. So what happens if the jumped passes out of has a heart attack? What are the winds like today? Where’s the pull for the reserve chute? Asking the questions seemed to throw the staff off. They weren’t expecting inquiry. My co-worker and soul sister asked the same questions in her training. And got the same reactions…”These are very intelligent questions but don’t worry about that. Nothing will go unplanned.” No. What happens? She pressed before getting an answer.
I gave Conner my, unamused face. I know he is not playin’ right now! I knew about the reserve chute. I knew the canopy would deploy if, at a certain altitude we were still moving at 120 mph. What I never considered was what if I came aloose from the harness (aloose…my Alabama grandma used that word…if you need a definition, use context clues).
I was strapped to him so tight it was impossible to separate from him. He was basically wearing me something like the adult version of what parents of infants walk around with their baby attached to them. I think there were two jumps before me. Conner stood and I had no choice but to stand with him. Homeboy must have killer quads to lift me like that. He made the decision how and when to flop out of the plane. So there was not backing out. No matter what, wherever he went, I was going too.
My photographer was hanging on to the side of the plane waiting for us just to fall out before diving toward us in the sky.
A few life events brought me to this point. I’d fallen (pun!) into an inactive, slump toward the end of last year and wanted to re energize myself in the upcoming year. So when I came across a discount for tandem skydiving on Groupon back in December, I jumped (pun!) on the opportunity. Plus, I was supposed to jump in Tuskegee back before I turned 25…but my work schedule at the time didn’t allow it when all my friends went. My dream got deferred. I planned to redeem it on my birthday…which, among my group of friends, is a triple birthday weekend. So, our group of 10 —including my friend’s 60-year-old mom, made plans.
I love traveling because it opens my mind to new considerations and perspectives. I learn something on every trip because I’m challenged past my comfort zone. This experience did the same thing for me that an international trip does (at a fraction of the price). I’ll never be the same.
Here are a few perspectives I gained from my 3 mile trip back to Earth.
1. The imagination is an amazing, powerful thing. And you can do so much with it. Here I am imagining crashing into the ground when I could have been using that time to imagine myself flying faster than a speeding bullet to save someone in distress. I could have imagined I was Lois Lane and Conner was superman. I could have been imagining I was a 101st Airborne paratrooper filling the early morning sky with my comrades ready to liberate France. But I chose the less fun and exciting way to use my imagination.
2. In life, the first step or two out of a comfort zone is of course terrifying and overwhelming but pressing through that comfort zone is where you get to the good part. I’ve already learned this lesson a thousand times before, but applying it doesn’t always happen. My friend who also jumped that day had jumped before. She told me it was surreal serenity. When I got out of my fears I was able to understand what she was talking about. All the noise of the world is miles away.
3. In love, I want to metaphorically be strapped with my tandem jumper. No space between the two of us. We go Book of Ruth with it: wherever you go, I willgo. I will go through the falls and shocks with you if it means I getting to soar above the world with you later. After the three-minute training and harness fitting, I met the dude who would toss me out of a flying plane. I put all my trust & faith in another person. I trusted my life to a complete stranger. And because I did, I got to share amazing moments that I’ve never shared with anyone else. Sometimes, a bit of faith is so worth it.
4. Just Jump! The longer you sit there and look…the longer you sit there and look. That’s it. That’s all that happens. Falls don’t last forever. Don’t analyze too much. Overanalyzing to the point of paralysis doesn’t do anything. Getting active is a great way to get out of ruts. Do something different. For Forest Gump it was a cross country jog. For Elsa, It was building a winter wonderland. For me, free falling released months of built-up tension and frustration. It was an acceptance of whatever will be will be. When you say you’re going to do something, commit and just do it. Get in shape, start a business, travel…take Taylor Swift’s advice and jump, head first fearless!
5. I’m pretty sure the writer of Aladdin and Jasmine’s “A Whole New World” had skydiving experience.
I experienced a new fantastic point of view with unbelievable sights, taken wonder by wonder, indescribable feeling, soaring, tumbling, freewheeling on an endless diamond sky. As a little girl I daydreamed about the magic Disney created in that scene and it really happened in real life. I even got told, “Don’t close your eyes, you paid for this view.”
I’ve literally been somewhere over the rainbow. I’ve jumped into the wild blue yonder. I never knew the vastness of the sky to truly love it. And I hope, if you’re healthy and able you get to know it too. They say the sky is the limit and I’ve already visited. Perhaps I’ll make the sky home.
I think the sweetest people you’ll meet in America live in Iowa. Everyone we met went over and beyond in the helpful department. My Airbnb host was one of the best. These ladies we met on a trail offered maps and gave their best picks for must-sees in the area. Even the Secretary of State saw my dad and I (In our awesome Kentucky tee shirts) and took time out of his day to give us a personal tour of the capitol building! The neighbors in the hoity-toity neighborhood where we stayed were just as welcoming and friendly as you could imagine. I think they’d give the shirt off their back if they felt you could use it. Every. Single. One. A solitary stick-in-the-mud could not be found.
Which is completely counter to my introduction to Iowa which was in the form of my high school musical, The Music Man. If you recall previous posts where I mention my Idaho Beau…well, when he too was in the Music Man back in the day so when we were gallivanting around Europe we’d both break out into song and choreography from our respective productions. Needless to say, this musical runs deep within the both of us. Iowa Stubborn is the first song showcasing the entire cast. The defining part of the song states:
“We can be as cold as our falling thermometers in December If you ask about our weather in July. And we’re gosh darn stubborn We could stand touchin’ noses For a week at a time And never see eye-to-eye. But what the heck, you’re welcome, Join us at the picnic. You can eat your fill Of all the food you bring yourself. You really ought to give Iowa a try. Provided you are contrary.”
That is literally the only context I had of the state prior to visiting. My flight got in first thing in the morning. I got to my host’s house and took a nap while I waited for my dad to drive in from Kentucky. Dad shows up, dressed just like me in his Kentucky blue. I didn’t even know my dad had already been to Des Moines before so the typical tourist stops (botanical garden, etc, etc) was a low priority for him. So, the first order of business was off to the state capitol. I did some pinteresting and the law library looked like a place of wonder. We had to get it in before it closed that day Friday since it closes down during the weekend. We were on our self-guided tour when we visited the Secretary of State’s office. First, an intern started talking about the room but then the ever charming SoS, Paul Pate, greeted us and took over giving the history of the ceremonial office and the tour of the archives. We talked Kentucky basketball and barbeque before headed out of his office to see the Senate.
I like this picture because we look the same size. Dad is standing two steps below.
Dad and I were surprised at how everyone welcomed us in to their offices and what appeared to be minimal security. As Secretary Pate explained, It’s the people’s capitol so they can’t make it so secure it is hard to access. I enjoyed learning the history of the building, it’s fire, it’s upgrades through moderation. Although I know plenty exist throughout the country, this was the first state building I’d ever been to without a confederate monument. In fact, they had a statue of fellow Kentuckian, Abraham Lincoln and his son, Tad who died as a pre-schooler.
The law Library was the grand final of the State Capitol visit. I don’t know why I didn’t take to the choreography that is still ingrained in my memory from my high school musical. I’m already a bibliophile and library connoisseur, but being in the gorgeous space took me back to twirling about on stage in the pink gingham dress my grandma made for me to a classmate singing, “I love you madly, madly Madam Librarian, Marina!”
I love you madly, madly Madam Librarian!
Just know, the entire sound track of the Music Man was on continuous reply in my mind as I explored the city. In fact, seeing the Wells Fargo Arena made me want to bust out into cheesy, elbows swinging, choreography “It could be curtains or dishes or a double boiler or it could be…”And the chores responds “Yes your right it really could be..something special! just for me!”
Riverside
It’s not so easy to convince your friends to go to Iowa. “It’s fly over territory” one said. But my proposing the idea to my dad, who retired just two weeks earlier wasn’t a hard sell. Especially knowing he’s a trekie and Riverside, Iowa is the future birthplace of Captain James Kirk.
We got on the road and headed to Riverside to see the future birthplace of Captain Kirk. I went from riverside, California which is on all sorts of America’s best places to live lists, to Riverside, Iowa…which has a population of 1000 and no stop lights. I’m pretty sure they started boasting their tie to Star Trek in order to get some business because I just don’t see any other reason anyone would be drawn to the town.
As soon as you get to riverside, you are welcomed with a Star Trek theme. The city welcome sign has a space craft designed on it. as you enter the town there’s a replica of the Voyager and a museum. Pictures of star Trek crew members are displayed on street signs.
Finding this site was a challenge. I put the address in on my GPS. It took us right to a hair salon. We turned around and stopped at a gas station to ask directions. Not a soul in the gas station knew what we were talking about and pointed us to a monument of non-fictional U.S. Military warriors across the street instead of the Captain James Kirk sign. If this is your town’s theme and tourist draw, I’m going to need the gas station attendants to know where, on this one street town, the “monument” is located. What we learned from google is the “monument’ was actually behind the hair salon.
Dad came prepared with his space uniform.
And that was it. We turned around and made the two-hour journey back to Des Moines. Des Moines boasts a great mix of diversity and a great place for politics. Because of the Iowa caucus, there’s no telling who you’ll run in to because everyone goes through Iowa. And it was nice to be in a place where it actually felt and looked like football season instead of sweltering in SoCal. We just so happened to be there the weekend Everyone was geared up for the Cy-Hawk state rivalry. We left the state and made our way to Nebraska.
Bridges Of Madison County
The interstate goes from one end of Iowa to the other. Driving it, on the way to Omaha, we passed by signs pointing to the John Wayne Museum. I’d seen this Museum on Pintrest but didn’t know where the town was in relation to Des Moines. In fact, all I knew was a list of Iowa towns from the musical, but not where they were on the map. So, dad and I decided a detour was in order. Dad likes to get up extra early so we got to the museum way before it opened and we just had too much to accomplish to wait around for it to open. We did explore what we could of the Duke’s hometown.
On the way out of town we took the trail pointing to a covered bridge. At the bridge we met two traveling friends from Dubuque (like in the song). They jabbered about as if we were long-time friends. They were enamored with all the sights they’d seen and passed along their tourist maps. It was only then that we became aware that we were Madison County of movie fame. There was a trail of covered bridges to see, plus a stone tower, and one room school house. So, why not!
I‘m not going to lie. I came to Montana with visions of cowboy grandeur. I imagined being the star of my own country song. I’m talking about a good 1990s-style country song, not these of today where, for some reason, women always tend to be barefoot. When did this become a thing guys are in to? Back in my day it was snake skin boots made by Calvin Klain, now it’s naked feet. Anyway, I envisioned all the dreamy imagery evoked from songs like the Dixie Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces” and “Cowboy Take Me Away.” I’d be standing in a blue sundress and boots spinning around in a field of golden grain as a camera pans around from above in slow motion. I’d frolic around a mountain covered in flowers a la the opening scenes of Little House on the Prairie. I imagined splashing in a creek with friends. “Fishing in the Dark” by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Should’ve Been a Cowboy, Garth Brook’s Rodeo, Sarah Evans’ Born to Fly and really, who wouldn’t want to be the girl in a chevy truck when it happens to get tuck on a back road with her sweetie after hearing Taylor Swift reminisce about it? All of these songs absolutely romanticized my vision of The West and I wanted to capture it all in picture. I mean, how could I even think Montana could even live up to my high expectations?
I’ve said it over and over, there’s no shortage of things to do on a ranch. Most of these activities…like worming sheep, don’t quite lend themselves to mimicking images from a country video. And while a lot of those things to do are labor-intensive — wake up early to make sure all the animals have breakfast…300 sheep, tons of cattle, horses, chickens, the pin of injured or sick animals, the dogs and puppies, and the adorable orphaned calves — there’s still fun to be had.
I asked a French Engineering student spending a summer abroad on the ranch why she chose Montana of all places in America to choose. She responded that Montana is the horse capitol. Being a Kentucky girl, I almost lost my wit hearing this. And so I responded like any Kentuckian would respond. Which she accurately replied, “If I wanted to ride English, I could have stayed in France.” And that’s true. While I know there’s plenty of western horseback riding going on in Kentucky, I’ve only been around English so, from my perspective, Kentucky is more English-riding centered. The raising of horses is different, mostly because of the terrain and weather. There’s a relationship between Montana and Kentucky in the horse industry. I learned that the majority of Kentucky derby winners are bred out of Montana. Anyway, for this Kentucky girl, it was just a dream to spend a week riding. You gotta recognize the privilege when work is disguised as fun.
The People and Animals
Videos of puppies and little kids can easily waste a way a day. Same thing happens in real life when you’ve got an energetic, pre-schooler and a litter of puppies on the ranch. This little cutie, never the shy one, came right up to me and introduced himself and the adults around him (that I’d already met) and led me by the hand to his pack of puppies. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a few hours of an afternoon than with little fella and his buddies. Spending time talking with the many, interesting people the ranch attracts is plenty fun enough.
He asked me to take a photo and replied, “That turned out nice didn’t it?” Such a doll.
Rodeos
Before going to Montana I had a girl talk over calzones with one of my favorite Texans, about my excitement about the western lifestyle and living on an Ranch. She was already an expert and broke down cowboy culture. Now, when I think of equestrian events, my first frame of reference is the Kentucky derby, which is the social highlight of spring. It is the culmination of weeks of shopping for the perfect sundress and finding accenting but comfortable heels, and hours of searching for the perfect head topper. Fashion isn’t the focus for most at Rodeos. In fact, there’s a special name for girls who are focused on the fashion. Buckle Bunny. These are the girls that are a little bit too gussied up to be going just to watch a guy get knocked around on a bull or bronco. So those fully ingrained in this culture travel to the big shows and they follow the rodeo, town to town and get to know the riders at after parties. I never considered there were rodeo groupies. I guess if there are cyber groupies, then there can certainly be groupies for the cowboys too. Rodeos make for great people watching once you know the characters. And here’s where Garth’s Rodeo and Toby’s Should’ve Been a Cowboy came to life.
As luck would have it, Arabella and I made friends with two local charmers who volunteered (or got volun-told…I’m not sure which is more accurate) to take us to the rodeo in Cody, Wyoming. No one who really knows Rodeos gets over-excited about the Cody, Wyoming Rodeo. As one of my local hosts explained, “Nothing that happens every night is special.” Cody is for the tourist. Not the cowboys. Rodeos tend to only be worth a pro’s time if they payout handsomely for a win. However, Cody is a great starter rodeo for first time riders and first time viewers.
In rodeo, you’ve got several events. There’s tie-down roping, team roping, steer wrestling, saddle bronc riding, bareback bronc riding, bull riding and barrel racing. Barrel Racing and maybe team roping are the only events I could envision me actually doing. In addition to the timed events, there’s plenty of other forms of entertainment. The MCs at Cody were comedians. Made me shake my head with how pitiful their jokes were…they sounded like two dad’s who think they are so funny but the boys were were with were cracking up. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. There was a guy dressed like a cow dancing that got me to break my baring and the way the rodeo got the crowd involved was pretty entertaining.
After the rodeo we hit the town. Sheridan Ave in Cody reminds me of Broadway in Nashville, without the population. We started at the Silver Dollar Saloon in the Irma Hotel. The Irma is a historical hotel named after Buffalo Bill’s daughter. Just being in it you can imagine the cowboys and ladies in red velvet of the Old West. We moved on after a a drink (and after we witnessed a middle aged couple forget they were in public) to the Silver Dollar down the road and across the street. This place had a younger atmosphere and pool tables. We played (and trash talked) until the bar closed. It was a fun, comfortable, crowd-free time out on the town.
The next morning after loading up on giant pancakes at a cafe on Sheridan Ave we hit up the Cody Museum and got a history lesson on the Old West, Buffalo Bill, a seriously expansive arsenal of historic riffles, and regional Native American history. Then we went window shopping. All the cowboy gear has something like a 100 percent tourist mark up.
I loved these boots! On the left we have $15K boots (with a sign that says do not touch. Yea right, I’m touching) and on the right $2K. They belong to the wife of the boot maker. Collection plate/ Go-Fund Me link coming soon.
We returned to our Montana ranch taking the Chief Joseph Scenic Highway (Wyoming Highway 296). This winding highwayfollows the route taken by Chief Joseph as he led the Nez Perce Indian out of Yellowstone toward Canada during the 1877 U.S. Cavalry attack. He and his surviving warriors ended up being “deported” by William T. Sherman from his nation to Kansas where he died. This is stuff I never learned in school. The views on the route are breathtaking but the winding roads do have the tendency to create motion sickness in small cars. Careful! The route added about 45 minutes to our time and passed through a few ski resort towns (like Red Lodge) that would be idea for stopping for the night if needed.
Just charming views. We had to keep stopping so I could take pictures.
Fun on the Ranch
Sure, I didn’t have to travel all the way to Montana to play and climb on hay bales but, hey, it’s been a while. Whether it’s climbing on hay, sitting on straw in the barn having conversations about dreams, adventures, and life, or spotting the wild life while outdoors, playing in the country is fun. I think I had so much fun doing regular mundane, country things because it reminded me of home so much.
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). The Wyoming section is 47 miles in length and requires a minimum drive time of one hour. – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). The Wyoming section is 47 miles in length and requires a minimum drive time of one hour. – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
Hunting Montana is a hunter’s paradise. White tail deer just frolicked on front lawns like no big deal. I don’t think there was a single day of the week that I didn’t see an elk. I just kept thinking, my dad would love this place. I love the wild life here. You saw just about every American animal (except alligators) just wild and free. Now, it was not hunting season in August but it seems like the Game Warden takes their job pretty seriously up here. The game warden sets up decoy deer trying to catch poachers in a sting. I’ve been around hunters all my life in Kentucky and just have never heard of anyone ever encountering something like that.
Elk on the side of the Road. They make high pitched trumpet sounds not expected for a beast of this size.
Night Life
As one native said while she was trying to give me directions, the bars are the landmarks. Absarokee has a population of 1,200. That is not to say the night life is a bust. 5 Spot Bar was my first introduction to Absarokee nightlife and thus became my instant fave. When you are the new girl in a one stoplight town, everyone in the bar comes to introduce themselves to you and try to figure out why on Earth you chose to stop in their town. Kinda made me wonder what it would be like to go to a bar in my own hometown considering I’d never lived that since I’ve been 21.
Just across the street is a bar geared toward an older crowd called Chrome. Then at the edge of town is Legends with a dance floor and Karaoke and swings on the covered porch. It’s the place to go with a sweetheart and to hear stories about Jesus and Alcohol. Only deal is this bar is on the edge of town and there are no Taxis so a quality designated driver is a must.
Fun on the River
If a town is lucky enough to have river flowing through it, it’s residents are lucky to have built-in entertainment. We toyed with the idea of spending the weekend whitewater rafting or just casually rafting down the Stillwater River but considering my aversion to cold, we decided against. Instead, we went fly fishing. For something like $30 purchased at a gas station at the edge of town, I got my two-day fishing license.
Now, I’d done my share of fishing before. Just cast the line and wait. Heck, you can put a bell on the line, walk away and do something else and still catch a channel cat. There’s not much to it. In fly fishing, that i not the case. You have so many variables to negotiate. Now, for the first time, I could see how fishing is a sport. My line kept getting caught up. I got frustrated. After the sun and the temperature dropped I caught my one little mini fish, I quit.
That’s not to say I didn’t have a blast. I was laughing at Ty for falling in the water and loving the chivalry of being piggy backed across the river. Oh, and the other pair catching seven fish before I even got my gosh dang line in the water which at the time was not fun but looking back, was quite comical. Every other minute we’d hear, “Caught one” across the way.
I couldn’t capture all the fun I had with the local gentleman and my new international friend on camera to document for the blog. One, for fear I’d drop my camera in the river. And reason number two, and most important, the best times can’t be documented. I couldn’t stop the laughs and jokes and focus on fishing to go run, get a camera and focus on the posing for what I’d pretend were candid shots. I couldn’t focus on documenting the moment, I had to be present and just enjoy the moment that I’ll make into a memory.
It was as I looked at the silhouettes on the river in front of the pink setting sun that I realized it. I had been in the middle of my own country song all week. Pulling up to the ranch in my Ram meeting a boisterous fella roping sheep, road trips to rodeos, trash talking and joking while playing pool, playing on the river, and the conversations and laughs at small town bars are the stuff old school country songs are made of. Two charming, western gentlemen hosting two out-of-state girls chaperoned by two water lovin’ dogs enjoying the final days of summer together. Just right out of a country song.
