Training for a figure competition had its challenges and stressful moments for sure. But, overall, the process was rewarding and fun. That’s why I made it my goal to compete again. This time, because I’m naturally a smaller framed person, I decided on a bikini body building competition.
But this fitness journey was different. So, as soon as I found a home in California, I found a gym that specialized in personal training and bikini competition training. Seriously, at my gym looks like a gorgeous fitness model. When I started having to travel 30 minutes to the gym for a 30 minute workout then back again, I started thinking maybe priority one when relocating should be find a gym I liked, then find a house near it. I started my ritual: up at 0430, booty in the car by 5am, at the gym by 5:30. Home, shower, eat and to work all by 7:30. I’d end my day just in time to meal prep, or do one activity in order to be in bed no later than 8pm or else I’d struggle to wake up the next day.
One of my coaches spraying PAM on my rear. December 2014
The goals and priorities of a bikini competitor differ from a figure competitor. Instead of focusing on getting stronger, the focus was on sculpting my body to look a certain way. The goal for bikini is to look lean, not too strong. So big biceps are not ideal. Working the bis and tris were not a priority. Instead my focus was on getting rid of my excess fat on my belly, thighs, and booty. I didn’t do squats. My leg day never crippled me for three days like they did during figure competitions. I did leg presses…but not too much in order to avoid quad striations. Instead, I focused on the Elite Fitness Gym trademark workout — Donkey Kicks and Monkey Lunges, to isolate my gluts without adding bulk to my legs. And man did they work. I saw booty results quickly and so did everyone else. But I couldn’t do as much physically. I was unable to perform pull-ups or run like I used to. I felt like something was off.
At my figure competition. May 2013
In contrast, was at my peak of fitness as a figure competitor. I could do eight perfectly executed pull-ups without any problem. I could run a sub-seven minute mile. Each week I exploded past my personal records and impressed myself by being able to lift more and more. As a bikini competitor, I was just thin with a gravity defying rear end. I didn’t feel fit or in shape.
That’s when I realized I defined fitness for myself as what my body is able to do rather than how it looks. My fit body can run a mini-marathon without training. It can run a mile, relatively fast, without being winded. It can lift things, push heavy items out of the way, sprint itself out of danger if needed. Being able to do deliver these tasks does not necessarily mean my body is going to show cuts and muscle definition.
I recently started questioning if fitness competitions are worth it. Through some introspection, I got my answer, Yes. And here’s why:
1.It’s worth it because it inspires others. That alone makes it worth it. Lauren, one of my fit and fabulous friends, said I was her role model. Now, I know I look to others to inspire me but I have never considered that I was inspiring others. People get motivated by seeing someone they identify with and relate to do something they always wanted to do. I always thought a marathon was out of my league until I saw my cousin complete the Marine Corps marathon. She became my inspiration. I always thought being a fitness competitor took some out of this world ability until I saw my friends Lea, Terri, and Suzanne, who are all just regular girls like me, make a decision to commit. If I can be a link in a motivation chain that motivates another who will inevitably motivate others to make healthy changes in their life then I’m proud to continue.
2. You learn your own body. Fitness isn’t a one size fits all equation. Just like everyone’s skin reacts differently to the sun, or to shellfish, peanuts, glutton, or medicines, everyone’s body reacts differently to different stimuli. Some people put on muscle by picking up a backpack. Others can lose fat just by changing their soda to water. Carbs affect bodies in different ways. When you are clean eating and on a regimented eating, workout, and sleeping schedule, you can identify the cause in a change in your body a lot more accurately than when the stimuli of your sleeping, eating, and workouts are sporadic. You learn what works for you and what doesn’t.
3. Starts each workout with the end in mind. Training to compete gives you a time frame to work within and a goal to work up to. Without, I’d just stagnant and become complacent. I’d settle for good enough or fit enough. I’d maintain the standard. I’d become complacent with a light jog a few times a week. some jumping jacks, dance around my room to a Taylor Swift song and call it a workout. With a fitness competition as a goal, I have an end point in mind. But when I have an end in mind, I stay focused. I start setting mile stones to get from point A to point B. The competition is really just a display and culmination of a lifestyle. It isn’t the focus, but a showcase of my focus.
4.It breaks through perceived limitations. Fitness competitions is what turned this uncoordinated girl with a general rule of “no contact sports” into an athlete (of sorts). And even though I still maintain my no contact sports rule, I shattered a physical barrier I thought I had. Fitness competitions took my fitness to the next level. No more accepting good enough when I know I can be better. I learned that I have amazing will power when I tucked away Girl Scout Cookies for four months until after my show! I learned I can make a commitment to healthy eating and regularly scheduled workouts. I learned what you are capable of from the planning to the execution.
5. You reap the benefits of an active lifestyle. The physical and mental benefits of a regular fitness regiment are numerous. Your physical capabilities expand. Your mind maintains a positive, happy outlook. You find balance. And this gem:
6. Your abs become your resume. It’s your credentials and fitness credibility. You might not have your physical trainer certification yet, but you know a thing or two about how to transform bodies and perhaps people will feel comfortable coming to you for non-professional guidance and help. It also keeps those pesky gym pick-up artist at bay or at least challenges them to come up with some more creative pick up tactics…like, “Don’t try to hit on me with your unsolicited workout advice, look at my abs and bis, clearly I know what I’m doing.”
Michelle Lewin…My girl crush. Love her abs!
7. Confidence. Whelp, there goes your shyness. Once you’ve gotten up on a stage and catwalk in a tiny bikini and clear plastic stilettos, there’s really nothing you can’t do. Once you shattered this fitness and confidence barrier, you’ll start to wonder, what other barriers can I shatter? Mental ones? Can I master a challenging topic?
8. Fun, Fit Friends.
The women you meet at fitness competitions tend to be amazing people. Not only do they motivate, inspire, and encourage others to greatness but they are motivated, inspired, and encouraged. They are about living their best life. These are confident, goal-oriented women who understand the difference praise and positive feedback makes. Being surrounded by that type of positive energy is just refreshing!
When you compete, you are competing with other women not againstthem. Your only competition is challenging yourself to be stronger than you were yesterday. Sometimes you just need a team of your own personal cheerleaders who understand what you are going through and value your story.
9. You learn the Art and Science of Wellness. So many fitness and health trends come and go. But having a basic knowledge about the relationship between diet and muscle functions to affect the metabolism will help you discern what is legit or not. I’ve learned massages aren’t just a luxury and needing mental health shouldn’t carry a stigma. I’ve learned different goals like getting leaner, growing muscles, gaining agility, getting faster, stronger, training for different sports will hall have different paths. These paths are often overlooked in magazines like Seventeen and Cosmo’s fitness sections. Getting the right trainer to explain the “whys” and “hows” of the body works makes your workouts more effective and efficient. You end up working exactly what you want to work out in minimal time. Having access to the experts in the field can equip you with the awareness to make healthy choices.
The gains are so much greater than just muscles and a great figure. I’m going to continue my fitness journey but do it more my way. I’ve followed two different styles of competition prep and I think it’s time to combine what I’ve learned for my own style according to my values. Looking fit without actually being able to do something with it is of no value to me. So I’ve committed. As I sit here, typing and eating my donut, I’ve made a Bikini Fitness body by Spring Break my goal. and I’m ready to sacrifice more than I ever have before to get the results I haven’t seen before! Kicking it up a notch in 2015.
This December I participated in my fist bikini fitness competition. This is not to be confused with the figure competition that I previously competed in while in Stuttgart. As common with most tests of determination, there were times throughout the course of prepping that I asked myself, is this all worth it or should I just walk away? Here I highlight the struggles I faced in hopes of encouraging those going through the same process to stick with it! It’s so worth it!
Turning Point One: Thanksgiving and Travel
Training for a fitness competition has its challenges and those challenges are only amplified during the holidays and complicated by travel. I’m not saying the availability of clean foods is a problem. It isn’t. You can eat clean just about anywhere. Even McDonald’s serves salad and grilled chicken. But for me, food is usually a focal point of my travels. One of my favorite ways to explore a new city is through its local cuisine. It took training for this competition for me to realize that eating, along with exploring, is easily one of my favorite pastimes.
So when I traveled to San Francisco, a city known for its haute gastronomy, for Thanksgiving, I knew I was in for a test of self-control. Who wants to go to San Francisco and be surrounded by world class cuisine and have to order a salad? Keeping in mind that I don’t like lettuce or raw greens anyway. I was looking for some grub at a Grab and Go refrigerator shelf at a Wal-greens in Fisherman’s Wharf. The Grab and Go hosted the typical selection of disposable plasticwear of salads, sandwiches, & pasta salads. But I viewed the selection as a container of carbs, container of fats, and container with a little proteins. I knew I hit a turning point in my dieting when I started seeing food by their make up of protein, carbs, and fats rather than the actual article of food. Fortunately, a belle can always count on coastal areas being fish friendly. The Bay area has so much fish diversity and eating healthy was a pleasure more than a struggle.
Turning Point Two: Unexpected Social Events
My Post-it note wedding invitation.
My co-worker comes into my office at 3pm on a Thursday talking about how he “cannot stand going another day without being married” to his all around Amazing girlfriend. Crazy romantic huh? He plans a whirlwind, spur-of-the-moment proposal and subsequent wedding in Vegas for the very next day. Of course I wanted to be there. But it destroyed my training! After waking for my 5 am workout, putting in a full days worth of work, then going to Las Vegs, I was awake for 23 hours. I ate at some iconic greasy spoon resturuant. Drank my fill. Didn’t workout a bit over the weekend. Monday morning guilt came when I stepped on the scale. Three pounds gained since Friday! Fortunately, at six weeks out, I considered myself far enough from stage time for a minor slip up…so I thought. The day before the competition, my work hosted a dinner party. Food was being passed around, toasts were made and I couldn’t even drink the water.
Me, the groom’s friend, the groom, the bride, and the bride’s friend.
Turning Point Three: The South
The weekend after thanksgiving I traveled back home to The South for a family event. Who wants to go home to The South and not eat the glorious deliciousness? All I could do was think about all the marvelous food that I couldn’t eat. I’m in my food element here. I can’t help but be enticed by all the familiar restaurants and menu items not available in Southern California. Cracker Barrel, O’Charley’s, Cheddars, Ritzies, Rally’s instead of Pollo locos and Del Tacos. It was really being back in my food element that I considered just throwing all my work away to enjoy eating!
On the plane, I found myself almost to the point of anger watching McDonald’s being passed around a family of passengers sitting around me. The kid sitting next to me licked his Dorito dusted fingers while he took a break from eating his delightfully smelling Panini. And there I was eating hard boiled eggs. I started to have a food panic on the plane. Panicked to the point of buying $7 mini bag of kettle cooked potato chips and putting mustard on them. I could literally feel the calories fill me up and bring me back to life just like you can visually witness flowers perk up after placing them in a vase of water. Yes. I broke down. I ate something I shouldn’t have. Not because I wanted to eat junk…Potato chips wouldn’t have been on my food of desire list. But maybe a lack of constraint due to being hungry and having few other options! Then I felt guilty and imagined the love handles growing in the spaces I’d worked off. After that, I decided to make a list of ll the foods I couldn’t wait to eat when training was all over.
Sweet potato waffles Sweet potato pie High quality $10 bacon cheeseburger Buttermilk biscuits Mint Chocolate chip Milkshakes Toaster Struddles (I’ve had three boxes in my freezer since before I decided to compete) Raspberry Ice cream drizzled with amaretto Vanilla ice cream with bourbon drizzled Lemon bars Margarita Lemon pound cake Pumpkin spiced bread Flaky French style croissants McD’s French fries Waffles with fruit, pecans, powdered sugar, vanilla sauce Sweet potato fries Frozen Italian lemonade Popeye’s chicken Mocha peppermint latte Sweet tea I want something, ANYTHING deep fried.
I’m Hungry! Seriously hungry!I literally wrote that all in my travel journal. I decided sleep was my best option to fast forward through all the food around me and on my mind. In sleep, I dreamed of a bakery that combined the best of both European and American pastries. Pound cakes, fruit tarts, banana nut bread, waffles, crepes.
By the end of my trip back home I was tired of eating halibut and asparagus! I wanted to eat for real! Self-induced, low starvation is emotional. My tolerance level for nonsense went low. My focus wasn’t on my work. Again, I ask myself, is it all worth it? Does the quality of my life increase in anyway by the increase of the quality of my abs?
Walking around the airport with a ziplock of hard boiled egg whites and $4 bottled water I wondered How much had this experience cost me? I calculated the costs when I got home.
What does it cost?
Final Week Meals
$32 for four pieces of frozen halibut (It’s the least fatty of fish with the most protein for your buck)
$3 dozen eggs (An extra dollar added for eggs in California)
$3 frozen asparagus
Meals, Gear, and Training
$600 a month for meals ($500 in groceries for one person! California living is expensive)
$435 Personal training (That’s $145 a month X three months X 30 min sessions X 3 times a week X group session shared with three other girls).
$100 registration the bikini show
$250 Waxing – two separate sessions. Apparently you have to go three times to get the cycle of hairs…pretty sure this was a marketing ploy to keep me coming back. Other girls just shaved. After my first competition I swore I’d never wax again but for whatever reason, I forgot that vow. I guess it’s something like hen women have terrible deliveries and swear never to have more babies but forget the excruciating pain and go through it five more times.
$100 Spray tan. Yes, black girls spray tan too. Black girls benefit from the cuts in their muscles being highlighted and their skin tone being all one smooth, even color just like everyone else.
$60 full set Mani –ped (Did this back home in Kentucky because it’s cheaper than Cali)
$250 Custom bedazzled bikini (one of my team mates bedazzled mine)
$50 Clear, 5-inch stripper heals (I already had my heals)
$30 Blinged out costume jewelry
$500 Hair. Lengthened and dyed.$35 Make Up
$2,448 total
Goodness! I’m sure I could have saved by shaving instead of waxing, finding a cheaper hair option and more frugal food options. For the next competition I’ll already have a bikini, heals, and jewelry. And that’s just the financial cost. Intagible costs also exist. Costs like the meal planning, and prepping required to never get caught without enough healthy food to eat like what happened to me on the plane. Or the mood shifts due to carb and water depletion. There’s having to go to bed at 8pm in order to get up at 4:30. It’s having to skip evenings out with friends because the the main focus of the night is drinking caloric drinks and eating poorly.
The cost of Getting Lean is the most inclusive article I’ve found that really details all the effort required to get the Michell Lewin body I covet. But as I sit and contemplate my 2015 goals, I wonder if I’m getting as much out of the training as I put in. Do I value the abs I’ll gain more than I value sampling amazing food? Do I prefer abs over milkshakes? Biceps or Waffles? Is there a way to have it all? Is the fit-looking body really worth the effort and sacrifice?
Below is where I’d like to be. Very Lean and strong. I should be able to lift things if needed or run quickly for long periods of time. It’s going to take actually weighing my food instead of guessing. Probably doing two-a-days a few times a week to get cardio in, and serious commitment to my diet.
Below is me during training. When I commit to a regimented healthy lifestyle of planned deliberate eating choices and consistent weight training with some slip ups here & there. I usually need a coach or friend to keep me focused and motivated.
Below is me normally. It’s a regular part of my moderately active lifestyle. It includes eating whatever I want but running or Zumba three times a week, walking the dog, taking the stairs, parking further away from the door, and doing some push ups and crunches here and there.
So is it worth it to be a fitness competitor? It all depends on my priorities and values this upcoming year. As for now, the jury is still out.
Note: I am not smiling. This is my resting nice face. My, I am uncomfortable and don’t like it face.
I was cruising along, jamin’ out to Taylor Swift. With the road to myself and blue skies, my mind wandered back to the open road of the Autobahn, hair being whipped around by the wind in my German, drop-top, out pacing other little sports cars…you know the type… the loud ones with horses on the hood. Just as I imagined giving my big American smile as I passed a grumpy face Swabbish German, I was brought back to reality when I saw police car driving the other direction on the highway. I immediately checked my speedometer, sighed with the relief that I hadn’t hit 100 and pulled over to the side. Homeboy didn’t even have to flash his lights. I knew I was caught. And although, being 20 minutes from my Kentucky home and a policeman’s daughter, I probably could have sweet talked my way out of this one I knew I was deserving of a ticket. My dad even encouraged a name drop. I didn’t. Besides, I actually caught a break. He could have written me up for a higher speed but showed mercy. The whole encounter took about 10 minutes and I was back on the road. Having to pay a $216 for 80 in a 70 still made me bummed for several miles. Then I remembered the great deal I got that saved me $600 on my rental car. My budget was made more flexible with the savings. So even with the ticket, I was within my travel budget. Then I wasn’t bummed any more. Welcome home to America where speed limits are strictly enforced. No more 150 on the Autobahn.
Fast forward 50 hours.
I’m cruising along with a group of at least eight cars in both driving lanes in Texas. A police car appears. Even though his lights aren’t flashing cars start moving over into the right lane. Well, since I’m not passing, I wait for an opening, made available after a semi truck (or lory as the Brits call them) exited to move over to the right lane. The police drives my the side even with the side of my car then falls back…right behind me. I thought it was odd until the police car exited the freeway. I shrugged it off. Plausible explanation…he just wanted to exit. But then, at the very next entrance ramp, the police car reappears back behind me! Now I’m thinking this is odd. Then I’m even more confused when his lights turn on behind me. I pull over wondering why I was stopped. The cop comes over to my passenger side asks for license and registration. I had over the rental car’s registration and my license. Under my diva shades my eyebrows are raised waiting to learn why I was pulled over. “You were going a little fast back there,” the police who doesn’t appear to be much older than me says. “How fast is a little fast,” I asked. “A little fast,” he responds back and takes my info to his car. Out of the pack of cars, I was in the back and the slowest of the bunch, yet I was the one pulled over…for going “a little fast.” Seemed weird, weird, weird. And he wouldn’t give me a satisfactory answer as to how fast or why I was pulled over. I took to Facebook to ask the masses if I was just profiled and to document.
Now, to say I’ve been pulled over before would be an understatement. Call me Ricky Bobby ‘cus I like to go fast. I’ve never denied any instance prior to this time was justified. This cop’s driving practice on the highway was sketchy. Had any other driver pulled up to the side of me, then slipped behind me to follow, exited the freeway only to get right back on behind me at the next entrance ramp, I would have called the police on them. But how can you call the police on the police? Then not giving me a specific speed even after asking seemed off. Plus I was calling shenanigans on going “a little too fast.” No way! After my $216 fine I had been contentiously on cruise control. Besides, I was moving with the flow of traffic. Cars ahead of me, behind me, and to the side of me all going a steady pace. I’m pretty confident the common practice on the highway is to cruise at 9 or 10 mph over the speed limit. In fact, from a chart my dad showed me back in high school, the fines don’t even start ’til you hit 10 mph over the limit. From my perspective, I was pulled over for no reason and dude was up to something.
When he returned he asked if I was in a rental. I said it was. He asked where I started my trip. Well, this was a difficult question. Technically my trip started in the Middle East (Southwest Asia). I flew into Baltimore. Went to Alabama, met a friend in Chattanooga, flew to Maine and was road tripping the US. I told him Shreveport this morning but overall in Maine. A bit of over sharing but I was quite proud and excited about this adventure. He asked where I was going. I told him California. That’s when the conversation started going south. “Where are you headed and where are you coming from” are standard police pull over convo. So is “Why are you in a rush?” But the questions kept coming. He asked if I still lived at the address on my card. I explained it was my parents address then I let it be known that I was in the military hoping it would help explain my nomadic movements. It’s summertime, it’s PCS (Permanent Change of Station) season, vacation season, going to college season. He asked for my mil ID and ask what I did for the military. No one ever understands what I do so I kept it 6th grade level. I work with computers. I explained.
He asked why I was taking highway 30 instead of some other one that I didn’t recognize. Since I was fallowing a GPS I really wasn’t aware of all the other highway options or names of highways. I shrug but I’m still wondering why I was the car pulled over out of the pack for going “A little fast” when I didn’t believe I was and really confused why I’m getting the slew of questions. Why does this dude seem suspicious of little ol’ me. Every other police has issued a citation or sent me on my way with a verbal warning. Sometime during the exchange I have my dad on the phone to listen to this random line of questioning. He was aggressively asking questions and I was answering with suspicion. He mentioned that I added two days on to my trip by taking that route. I shrugged. Not seeing the problem here. “Why,” he demanded. Why not, I thought. Speed isn’t my objective. But answered “Because it’s fun.” He repeated my statement back to me. He apparently didn’t like it. This guy can’t answer why he pulled me over but asks me about 20 questions. I’m not sure if he cannot hear or if he’s intentionally being rude but he keeps raising his voice and saying, “What!?” He’s from the south. there’s no reason I cannot get an “excuse me ma’am?” if he cannot hear or understand. He left. The last time I was asked random questions by a strange man, the guy “coincidentally” showed up at my work. And started calling me at work. He was a man in uniform also. Then police came back, this time on the drivers side, knocks on the window and told me to step out of the car.
As a girl who has been pulled over in dang near every state south of the Mason-Dixon line for one reason or another, this was absolutely abnormal. So I ponder if I should dial 911 for help and verification or my dad. I wind up back on the phone with my dad to see if this was within the realm normal procedures. Dad tells me to comply. But now all that I’m thinking of is the 2004 movie, Crash where a black woman is sexually assaulted by a cop after being asked to step out of the car for no reason.
Since my road trip began 18-year-old Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri was shop and killed by police. Eric Garner was placed in a choke hold until he died after he broke up a fight. Then there was the NYC breastfeeding death hoax that so many believed to be plausible. I have the memories of Edmund Perry, Cary Ball jr., Robert Cameron Redus, Kimwni Gray, kendrec McDade, Timothy Stansbury, Jr., Victor Steen, and Oscar Grant. I recall a black female honor student in the 90s being killed by police.
On top of the statistic that a black person is killed by police every 28 hours in America, all my parent’s safety warnings start racing through my mind. I am a woman, traveling solo being forced by a male in a position of authority, with a gun, to get out of the safety of my vehicle. I’m thinking I’m going to get gunned down on the side of a Texas highway. Or sexually assaulted in some way. And then the police will say I, the intimidating, 5 foot 4 and a quarter inch angry black woman, provoked it. I, of course, will be dead and unable to give my account. It was then that I was relieved I was wearing capris instead of my usual summer sundress. These britches weren’t coming off without a struggle. People who only met me in passing will be quick to give the media character witness accounts that I’m so respectful of authority and nice, and sweet, and not aggressive. I thought of the headlines, “Air Force Officer killed by police on the way to teach at university” or “Police’s Daughter Shot by Police.” “Officer returns from a year deployment to be gunned down by cops in Texas.” OMG Why am I out of my vehicle!?
The officer asks if he can search my car. I say no. Pretty sure the Red Coats started a war by violating colonists with unwarranted search and seizure. Patriots died 200 years ago so I wouldn’t have to endure what they endured. Or at least that’s what I learned on my road trip while visiting Boston. Why on Earth am I gunna let some random dude raffle through my personal belongings? He says fine, he’ll call the K-9 unit. So really it was an ultimatum. Let me search your car or I’m calling dogs to search anyway. Like the Salem Witch Hunts: Admit that you are a witch so we can burn you at the stake or we are going to tie you up then throw you in a river to see if you sink. I’d just visited the historic site of the massacres a week ago. He thinks I do drugs!?! Me!! Someone who has never done drugs of any sort in my life. And so we wait. I’m standing between my car and his in shock and offended the guy thinks I have drugs! Then I consider that he could plant drugs on me just like in the news! And I’m going to lose my job and future employment prospects. And I call my dad back. I think the two of them should talk. I encourage the police to read this blog if he needed proof or explanation to why I was driving this route. He disgustedly says he doesn’t want to read my blog or talk to my daddy because he’s talking to me. Now I just think he is rude and mean and I start documenting via Facebook. If I’m left dead on the side of the road my family and friends will need information on where I am and the police car’s plate. He sees this happening.
The fella gets out of the car again to tell me that all the information I’ll need will be on the warning he is going to give me. I ask if his supervisor’s contact info is on it. He gives me the number to a fella named Mike that I take down in my phone. The sounds of the highway are much too loud for me to start another phone call. I mean I could hardly hear my dad. The dogs take forever to come. The police starts talking to me like a normal person.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit weird for a single woman to take this route to get to California. You just added two days to your trip”. He keeps emphasizing this for some reason. Well actually I don’t think it’s weird. Military people travel all the time and sometimes those military members are women. The military doesn’t issue us travel companions. People in my social circles take cross country road trips all the time. Kate and Suze both, at separate times, drove from Georgia to Colorado. Katie took a cross-country road journey from California to DC. “Bacon” just took a similar route from Alabama to Nevada. When I lived in Europe I went to the Czech Republic from Stuttgart, Germany by going through Switzerland, Belgium, and Poland. Yes, it did add seven days to what could have been a four hour drive. I could make lists for days of all the military people who travel cross country. As for the route…what difference does it make? Why would I ever consider what a cop in Texas would consider odd when making my route? Maybe if I was living in Germany in the late 1930s or in Texas in the 1960s when the movements of certain peoples were restricted, but today? Why is it suspicious that an American is traveling in her own country!?
The whole trailing me, then getting off the highway, then back on was out of the norm. Not saying how fast I was clocked when asked was out of the norm. Asking me a lot of random, suspicious, accusatory questions but not answering me when I asked how fast I was going was out of the norm. Telling me to get out of the car was out of the norm.
We both calm down a bit after we both get some understanding as to why I’m suspicious of him and he is suspicious of me. The police’s perspective, drug cartels use women in rental cars to move drugs from the Mexican boarder to clear across the country. And I was coming from Maine with lots of luggage. He says I’m nervous, face twitching, hands shaking. And that’s not normal for people not doing wrong. It is normal for me when I’m amidst a confrontation. Happens when I think I’m going to be raped or killed or kidnapped. He said people carrying drugs don’t drive fast. They try to blend in, drive the speed limit, hands at 10 and 2. He says he pulls people over and has them step out of the car all day every day. It’s not weird for him. I explain yes, if they are going 20 over. I think, why on Earth would drug runners use black women knowing they are more likely to get pulled and searched?
It’s then that he says I was clocked at 69 in a 65. Four MPH over the speed limit! Four! All this for four extra miles traveled in an hour more than I was supposed to. What is out of the norm is to be pulled over for going 4 mph over the speed limit. Who has time to pull over every car going 4mph over?! If I were in shape, it would take me all of 23 minutes to run that distance. Were talking about a 5.5K over the allotted amount of kilometers traveled in an hour. Jay-Z freakin’ wrote a song about this!!!
I have a shared experience with Jay-Z?!? Say what!? Now, I have lived dang near every Taylor Swift song. Like Taylor, I sat in class next to redheaded girl with a three-syllable name when I was 15 who was my best friend and laughed at other girls who thought they were so cool. I have a boy that wouldn’t let me drive is stupid ol’ S-10. I have a couple folks I’d like to dedicate “Mean” to (here’s you patherette squad). And Twenty Two is just as valid at 28 — it’s my “happy, free, confused in the best way” anthem. But a hip hop song? I usually like the doing the hand movements to the catchy beat but I cannot identify with most experiences in rap songs…until now. In 99 Problems Jay-Z knew a warrant was needed. The police held him until dogs came, just like me. But he was a legit drug dealer. Here I am an over-educated Air Force Officer trying to get to her next duty station after a year deployment and I’m in the same situation. I try to hide that I feel that this is all ridiculous.
In the police car watching dogs sniff my rental
He asks if I’d like to sit in his car out of the heat. I do. And we talk. He said he’s just doing his job. He does drug interdiction, not regular city police patrol. The highway we’re on is used to run drugs to the border all the time. He says he thought the military usually flies its members and that I could have gotten in trouble and kicked out the military but retained the ID. (Then why ask for the ID if it wasn’t proof enough). The tone has changed. I get the sense he’s just a regular guy wanting to get home to his sweetheart and babies. But he is preventing me from reaching my best friend’s house whom I haven’t seen in three years and her baby that was born while I was living overseas. He asks why the storage trunk in my back seat had a lock on it. I explained because I shipped it in the mail from overseas. The others had been at my parent’s house. We talk about my travels. He didn’t think he’d like NYC because he was used to all the land and grass like we were surround by. I told him Maine was similar but not hot and humid. He talked about the deadliest catch being filmed there.
It’s been over an hour from my initial stop when the dog gets there. The dog runs around the car but then slows down in the back then climbs up and peers in the front passenger window. My heart sinks. “Oh goodness” I think. But it is a rental car. I have no clue what’s been in it or how clean it is. The dog handler tells me his dog “sat.” I understand that. I’ve seen military dogs sit for bombs. Now they have probable cause.
I’ve got five police officers there. The police explains the process. He says he needs to get my stuff out and have the dog sniff the individual packages. They open doors, pop the truck and lay out all my belongings. I’ve got two storage trunks in my trunk and another two in the back seat plus two suitcases and a cute leather duffle from Florence that I get complimented on all the time. I wonder if they are going to break their backs lifting these things. They are heavy and my necessities until my household goods get shipped to my new home. I watch them examine my combat boots and cute strappy wedges both laying freely in my trunk of my car.
The young officer emerges from my passenger side with a little baggie. I know instantly it’s my Extra Strength Motrin. It’s got the prescription label on it and everything. The military hands out “vitamin M” for every ailment from sucking chest wounds to hemorrhoids (I kid…a little.. but we do Motrin like the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding does Windex. It’s a cure all). But my heart sinks when I see it. Does this fella think it’s cocaine?! I explain. He says he’s never seen it packaged that way. I continue to photo document because, I still think this is ridiculous for four MPH over the limit.
Amazingly when the dog sniffled my luggage, he “sits” on the one trunk with a pad lock. The very one that the young officer asked me about earlier while we waited in the car. He asks me to unlock. I do. And watch him raffle through fruit loops, pop corn, a cute Italian purse from Florence, my hair supplies, my cutesy bathroom organization caddy, books, and lemon pepper spice (hey, I don’t know how long it will take me to find a home and I’ve been living out of a suitcase for over a year). Well the folks find noting but act confused as to what the dog smelled. They emphasized that they didn’t think I was a bad person just wanted asked questions pertaining to the trunks’ whereabouts for training. I told them all I knew was that I put the trunk in the mail and picked it up in Shreveport’s post office (sent the Air Force base there) that morning. No idea what it came in contact with in between. They all said they respected the military and what we do for the country. I get a written warning that simply states “over the speed limit” and sent me on my way. I later find out from my dad that dogs can be made to sit so police can have probable cause.
I drove off and crossed the boarder to Oklahoma 20 minutes later not feeling bummed like every other ticket. More shocked. Violated. Embarrassed. I wondered how all the nosey passerbys were judging the situation. I wondered how many cars with white drivers passed smirking that five police were tied up with me while they had a trunk full of illegal substances. I kept trying to understand the police’s position. I recalled the Fresh Prince episode when Carlton gave police the benefit of the doubt that he and Will were pulled over and arrested out of concern, but Will and Uncle Phil knew the deal. The police never said he found me suspicious because I was black but kept emphasizing solo female. A solo female fits the profile of a drug runner. So I was profiled, but not racially. I felt a little relieved for a moment. I was gender profiled. But is that any better? I got pulled over for being a girl!? In America!? You know who else pulls people over for being a girl? Saudi Arabia. Supposedly the only country in the world where woman are not allowed to drive. But apparently here in Texas women cannot drive alone. Especially with my Kentucky plates, I was a little bit too far away from the kitchen. Welcome back home to America were everyone is paranoid that everyone else is going to get them. Why was I pulled over for going 69 in a 65 in the first place? Before getting grilled with questions to which the police found suspicious? He didn’t know my cross country road trip before he pulled me over. He didn’t know my travel route before pulling me over. Out of all the other cars moving faster, why did I get pulled over? Why was I chosen out of the pack to be pulled over in the first place!? I was a few miles away from Texas Women’s University and Texas Christian University. I could have just as easily been an out of state college kid. He perceived me to exhibit suspicious behavior. But I wasn’t showing suspicious behavior until I suspiciously got pulled over.
This stop put me drastically behind schedule. I was supposed to meet my friend, Dillion, at our Alma matrer, the University of Oklahoma, for a lunch cookout but that was long over. She needed to tend to her dimpled toddler and husband. I was supposed to have dinner with four friends in Wichita but it was dang near 10 pm by the time I made it to town. One couple has an infant so late nights are a bust for them. The police search screwed this whole social engagement up. Now I would have to travel some distance in the dark increasing my vulnerability.I wondered what would have happened if I didn’t have the trump cards of a military ID or a daddy in the police force. Or if I wasn’t documenting. My military uniforms being sprawled along the highway may have saved me. Then again, the military is the reason I was on my way to California in the first place. If this can happen to me…a girl who considers her first time living in the hood was living across the street from enlisted dorms (sorry y’all…I got some bougie in me) Heaven help the black people from a less economically privileged backgrounds. this one time was traumatizing enough. I absolutely understand Eric Gardner being irritated that this sort of intrusion happened to him regularly.
What could I learn from this? What could I have done differently? Certainly don’t stray too far from the kitchen. Take a chaperon. Maybe not tell the whole story. Maybe if I would have said Shreveport to Wichita I could have avoided this. Maybe some emotional maturity on my part not to react to the police’s hostility. Overall I think some communication skills and training on the police’s part…the professional who pulls over on the highway everyday…could have avoided it. Telling me how fast right off instead of ambiguity. Not being sketchy trailing me in the car. Communicating why he was asking his questions first off. A Gender-studies and African-American studies class would have shed light on the historical trauma of interactions between police and my demographic. Recognizing that the stretch of highway I was on was in-between two major Military Bases. It would let him know my behavior was justifiably nervous. I cannot control how he behaves and I controlled myself with dignity and poise to the best of my ability, but the body reacts differently.
My phone started blowing up with friends calling to check on me. Facebook comments were multiplying. My mom said she was sick enough to vomit when she saw my posts. My Redheaded BFF’s (the one I was trying to see in Wichita) mom just thought it was horrible. One conversation I had asked what was their probable cause for searching. I answered, “Being a solo female taking an odd route.” Because that’s what the police emphasized. Unacceptable!
“Do you think your white female friends have ever had this happen to them?” Someone asked. I tried to imagine about 10 different girls standing on the side of that road. I wondered if they’d go their whole life without appearing suspicious to someone. My redheaded friend in Wichita did say she was searched by our hometown police because she and our blond friend were sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot without McDonald’s food back in high school. The blonde’s dad called to complain later. At least the two were together to be witnesses of mischief for each other. I recalled a friend (black male) being so upset he was hand cuffed while a cop searched his things on a highway. Now, not only could I sympathize, I could relate. A white female Air Force officer said her truck was searched with her permission while she was PCSing near the Mexican boarder in Arizona as well. One of my black, male military officer friends said his car always gets searched every single time he get’s pulled over. I got outpourings of black male friends who said it’s happened to them at least once. Out of all the white people I knew — keeping in mind the sea of whiteness I grew up in…keeping in mind I didn’t have a single black friend until college (meaning every black person I associate with is college educated) only three had been searched by police. Yet when it came to black male peers, all Air Force officers, into the teens revealed to me that they’d been searched during a traffic stop. That doesn’t include other ridiculous over reactions by police that weren’t traffic stops.I tried to imagine if I were a white man, would I have gotten pulled over for 4 over the limit? Not a chance. A white woman? Maybe, according to this guy, women take drugs to the Mexican boarder. But I imagine they’d be tacky looking women. Not one in pearls and tailed capris and ballet flats. I doubted all this hold up and searching would have happened with my once I explained I was in the military.What was most telling was all the white men who didn’t seem to understand. “Well, the police was just keeping our highways safe,” a white male military officer justified. Other white male military officers expressed that they couldn’t understand all that for four MPH over. But they would never consider race as a factor. They just couldn’t understand. A military officer, and self professed recovering pot head said, “Well I used to smoke a lot of pot and this never happened to me. So there must’ve been something else. they were probably looking for someone.” His confession was little more than bragging about the deeds he got away with.
I saw police pulled over on sides of roads the entire road trip. I tried to remember if I had ever seen a fair complexioned person standing outside their car. This incident gives me plenty to think about along the way to Wichita. I was getting bored and lonely during the drive but now, I had plenty of folks to talk to. This was certainly an experience. A pretty traumatizing one. To know that this man can do anything he wants to do to you on the side of the road and there’s noting you can do about it is incredibly paralyzing and a powerless position to be in.
A fellow military officer described an encounter while deployed and how he thought he was going to be killed. “You don’t know what its like. You’ve never had a deployment like mine,” He huffed. I do know what it’s like. Except I learned what it feels like after my deployment in your beloved Texas. In the country that I defend…not the country I invaded. He is financially compensated for the PTSD he got from the experience.
I’d hate for this to happen to anyone else. But I think it also revealed that this type of thing really does happen for those who deny that some people are targeted more than others. One former co-worker said it was an eye opener for her because she always judged people she saw getting searched on the side of the road until it happened to me — a low likelihood target. Welcome home.
Nashville just became my favorite American city this weekend. In fact, this southern town has me reassessing my rankings for the title of favorite cities in the world.
I grew up two hours away from this glorious southern city and somehow just now realizing the friggin’ awesomeness that is Tennessee’s capital.
How should I explain it…it’s like when you go on the best first date of your life… and you can’t stop smiling and gushing, and reveling in every moment. You just want to keep getting to know the fella better…that’s how I feel about Nashville!
Now I had been to Nashville a time or few before. Once for sure on a school field trip to the Parthenon. Once when UK played in the music city bowl. I have a guy pal who calls Nashville home so I got to experience it for New Year’s once when I lived in Montgomery and of course, it tends to be the go-to spot the bachelorette parties of Kentucky girls. Every time, it’s been a good time. But this time just sealed the deal.
On a Friday afternoon, a motley crew of my friends and friends of friends loaded up our cars and trucks and headed up to Music City for what we pre-judged would be an epic weekend. Ryan scored a super sweet vacation condo rental in the heart of downtown. Ten of us or so made it our home. It was walking distance from everything!
So here was our itinerary:
Friday:
After Pre-gaming & getting ready in the condo, we took the party to Broadway:
Tequila Cowboy– The line is long outside the dance room but go in through the Karaoke bar next door line where all the off-key tourist try their luck in becoming Nashville’s next star. The two bars connect in the back. This bar didn’t have a live band sans Karaoke singers but it does have a mechanical bull, pool tables, and a hip hop dance room all upstairs and toward the back. I discovered (or should I say Chris discovered) the upstairs area for the first time this weekend even though I’d been in this place twice before for bachelorette adventures. It’s bigger than it seems.
Tootsies– Ladies who are singing double and wearing stilettos beware…this place features tons of steps right at the entrance. The ladies room is about half way between the first 30 step and the last. It plays a variety of music, features a live band and a rooftop Terrace. There was no cover!
The Stage– This place was our favorite for the night because it had the most rockin’est band, amazing bar tender, and nice crowd but not uncomfortable.
Part of the group went and got Luigi’s pizza to feed the late night hunger. I took myself to bed. It was too much fun with a lot of getting lost, looking for people, herding cats, getting separated, laughing, singing, dancing, and flirting. The best ever!
Saturday: After making a homemade breakfast in house,half our group headed to Lynchburg to check out Jack Daniel’s Distillery. Us ladies first made a Starbucks run on Church Street and partake in a little homework (yes, we had a mini nerd session). Then we look ourselves out shopping on Broadway because we couldn’t help but notice all the cute boutiques that were closed while we partied.
Why on Earth are there two male restrooms?!
While out, we happened to run into our buds at Rippy’s. Rippy’s offered greasy, fried lunch food and three bands in each dining area. We were not a fan of one in particular. “Douche Rocket” was the name he was termed when he refused to take anyone’s request without first getting $20. Pretty lame homeboy! Play, and then we’ll pay you based on your performance and charisma. But the bartender was a sweetheart named Annalise who kept the yee-haws (some tasty concoction with three types of liquor) coming. She is what kept us until a more personable performer took the stage.
We did a little more day drinking and bar-food eating before taking a mid-afternoon siesta. I was honestly kind of craving something more substantial than tacos, burgers, and pizza but it sure seemed hard to find in walking distance. They did have an Old Spaghetti Factory but the wait without a reservation was too much. I settled for street tacos instead. After our naps it was time for Nashville Nights round two.
This time we checkout out Wild Horse Saloon on 2nd Avenue. I got acquainted with this bar at a bachelorette party. This is my favorite bar! First, it’s huge with a big dance floor. They give line dance lessons every hour in between live music sets. They play DJ music while the band rests. There’s like three active bars meaning very little wait times. They have a $6 cover (waves for military members and one friend). I love this place. Oh, and the gentlemen know how to dance and spin you around the floor and it’s really just so much fun.
Sunday: We checked out a little more of the non-party side of downtown. The Titans play a block away from our condo…perfect location! Then we headed to Lynchburg which was a whole other adventure in its own.
Seven Quick Reasons why I love Nashville
1. They don’t call it music city for nothin’ live bands all day, every day. Everyone plays. Everyone sings. Even the dude on the corner collecting change in his guitar case is freakin’ awesome.
2. Nobody parties like Nashville. I loved the fun-loving people, the dancing, the music. There’s downtown and midtown, both for partying. You’re going to need several weekends to conquer both.
3. The fashion: It’s comfortable. Flip flops, cowboy boots, wedges short, ripped jeans, sun dresses…It’s comfortable and cool. No need for extra tight, shiny dresses or sky-high stilettos often found in hip-hop geared areas.
4. The food. This resturuant title cracks me up. Didn’t even try to sound Spanish. Around here, they speak Amuriken. And the food is quintessentially southern.
5. The southern hospitality at it’s finest. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear all the residents of Nashville had PhDs in Southern Charm. I basically just started answering to honey, darling, and sweetheart like it was my name. How can you not instantly fall in love with everyone who uses endearing terms for you? Be careful not to buy more just because of all the sweetness! I miss this part of the south.
6. Outside the party district, is academia. Just scholars oozing out of the historic streets. Although it identifies itself as a musical town first and foremost, Nashville is also called the Athens of the south because it’s home to something like ten universities. In honor of this distinction Nashville also features a replica of Greece’s Parthenon. So you can get a little European experience in the south.
7. Shopping. Quaint boutiques and major retailers. This place has them both.
Partying with amazing friends in Nashville after a year in Qatar and two years in Germany was like America saying, “Welcome Home.” This place is quintessentially southern, and quintessentially American. Nashville, you make a girl inspired to write poetry in honor of your wonder. How long has your awesomeness been going on? This weekend you have become my favorite American city. I only saw about a quarter mile of this city on this visit but I have fallen in love. I heart Nashville.
After three years and 26 countries abroad, it’s time I brought my wanderlust back to the United States. But that’s not to say my adventure stops here. I’m back with a few weeks on my hands and kind of, got the spontaneous idea that I should undertake the epic adventure of a cross country road trip from one ocean to the other. This spiraled into the goal of seeing all 50 states. Then got dialed back to the more attainable goal of seeing all 50 before My 30th birthday instead of all in one fail swoop. I was inspired by Forest Gump’s epic run, Louis & Clarke’s trail, Oprah’s cross-country road trip with Gail, and a “how to see all 50 states” map. Then I altered everyone else’s trails for my own. Folks that I talk to still seem a little confused as to why I’d want to undergo such a pilgrimage. Here’s a bit more on what I’m hoping to get out of this journey.
1. This is my re-Americafication. I want to Re-emerse myself in all that is glorious about my homeland.
2. I’ve always wanted to see it all. In elementary school I dreamed of visiting all 50 states. At 18, I put it on my bucket list of things to do before I died. Why not complete it before I turn 30?
3. I’ve seen so much in other countries and so little of my own. I was talking to a German collegue who said he’d seen the Grand Canyon but not Germany’s most popular tourist attraction, Neuschwanstein. Well, I was the reverse. The American who’d seen Neuschwanstein but not the Grand Canyon. I’ve seen he great pagoda but never times square. I’ve seen several American Military Cemeteries in France but never Arlington. On these little, trivial but fun, social media quizzes that ask how much of the world you’ve seen, sights in America are always the ones to lower my score.
4. When I describe America or Americans, I’m really describing the south or southerners. I often think, “We don’t do/have this in America.” Correction! We just don’t roll like that in the south. And apparently, there’s more to America than The South.
5. I always thougt I’d focus on seeing the world while I was young and able bodied and save America for when I got too old to fly or had too many kids for it to be advantageous to fly to europe. But there’s no time like the present to check off the o’l bucket list. My mom thought I should wait until she retired so she could go with me…but who knows when my schedule will allow adventure like this again. Seize the day! This is one instance where I believe in the whole, don’t put off til tomorrow what you can do today, bit.
Since I’ve already been to all the Southern states, in the essense of saving time behind the wheel, they took less priority. One way rental fees will cost a fortune good thing all my lodging will be with the friends I have sprinkled across this grande nation.
I’m crazy excited! On this tour, I’ll travel to see things and learn things more than doing things. I have a feeling this won’t be the last. On my next adventure across the states I’ll focus more on being active and doing things. I expecting plenty of time to reflection and my perspective to be forever altered. I’ll keep you posted!
Maine is the first stop on my cross-country road trip and home of the lovely Carrie whom I met while in Qatar and instantly became BFFs. She met me at the Portland Airport and guided me to her charming home (complete with wrap around porch) a little further north. I flew out of Chattanooga for a Google Flights ticket that ran me under $200. Since I am traveling while everyone else is working, the next morning, after her hubby cooked us breakfast, she journeyed to work and I went out to explore. I made it to the little island of Bar Harbor. Carrie later met up with me after she got off of work.
It’s hard to believe Alabama and Maine are part of the same country. Maine reminded me of the Netherlands with the outdoorsy feel, the active people with their well-behaved dogs and sail boats. The people spoke with such an accent that I couldn’t readily identify as them as Americans or international tourist. For example, locals pronounce the town of Bar Harbor as Ba Ha Buh and Lobster is Lobstah. And they somewhat reminded me of the mom from Bobby’s World (back in the good ol’ days when cartoons made sense). In The South, North Face is a fashion statement to look cute at late fall football games in. In Maine, it and Gortex in general, is a lifestyle staple. They have rocky beaches and people don’t lat and sun bath, but hunt for star fish and shells and skip rocks. Main does Lobster Shacks like we do Barbeque.
I went up to Maine with my southern summer attire packed in my duffel bag. Fortunately, I also brought a jacket (swiped from my sister). So there I was, in Bar Harbor enjoying the refreshingly humidity-free day (never knew this existed in the summer in America) in my sundress and flip flops when, out of nowhere, it poured down freezing cold rain. It was a good time to break for lunch so I ducked into a Chinese restaurant until the rain stopped. Then I was back to poking into little shops. Seriously, Maine looks like the pages right out of Lands end or L.L. Bean that come to life.
Typical Bar Harbor
This was the beach.
I didn’t even recognize this as a beach until I saw masses of people in their gortex congregating.
Carrie and I ducked under a tree as it started to pour down in Bar Harbor.
This is a Maine Beach. Nothing like the Beaches of Florida, Bama, Virginia, Carolinas…
While traveling south from Bar Harbor to Portland I came across another cute little town and had to stop. It was actually the swinging bridge that peaked my interest. That lead to me exploring and coming across the historical Bowdoin College. It was founded in 1794. It’s president was a war hero turned Governor. The Above picture was at his home on the edge of campus which gives tours and sheds light on some of the history of the town of Brunswick, the state of Maine, and the nation of America.
I liked the architecture/engineering of this swinging, pedestrian bridge. And the views from it were breath taking. This is what America looks like!
Visiting Brunswick, Maine is a great day trip from Bar Harbor. Apparently, the southern Coast of Maine is a summer destination spot. The Bush Family vacations here. It’s nicknamed “vacation land.” The next day I explored as I made my way down to Vermont and New Hampshire. Maine has quaint, picturesque little towns and coastlines. The people are friendly. I couldn’t deal with the snow in the winter but Maine will most certainly be my new vacation spot. It’s the type of place you stay for about two weeks. You get a vacation rental, let your children run off with the other tourists children while you relax, boat, swim, spa, and have lobster boils every evening. Then grab the family for hiking excursions or moose sightings.
As I traveled a little further south I made it to Portland . Since you cannot come to Maine and not see a light house, I put in the GPS “Portland Headlight” and it took me here. It’s a historic spot in Port Elizabeth.
I spent two nights in Maine and spent no more than $100 on Chinese food, holiday ornaments, a Maine tee shirt, historical house museum admission, and moose pajamas for my nephew. I saved by accepting the amazing hospitality of my dear friend. Next time, I’ll know to pack for out door activities and a rain jacket. This is not the place for sundresses and cute flip flops. I’ll know that morning is the best time for whale watching and puffin sightings. I did spend some time deciding what to do. Next time, If I come with family, I will know Bar Harbor is great for coastal living and outdoorsy adventures, Brunswick is a charming little town, and Portland is more of the Urban sprawl with pubs and night life. All are all great starting points. I took Route 1 down the coast line and ran into cute little town after cute town. Next time I’ll know to take a full wallet and empty suite case because there are plenty of shopping outlets along the route.
If you visit Bar Harbor, go to Down East Lobster Co — it’s where the locals go. They charge a cooking fee to boil your lobster. Be sure to ask for one pot if you are cooking multiples. You can buy live, cooked, and frozen Lobster there. Not a lot of ambiance but the shell fish is good and cheap. They do a lot of micro brews in this state. You’ll be hard pressed to find Bud Light. So now, when Germans with refined taste in beer think of American beer in disgust, I know I’ll need to send them up north. I liked Sebags and Allagash,
*That’s my quick and dirty observation while trying to stay on schedule while traveling. Stay tuned for updates when time allows(I haven’t even gotten to my lobster experiences).
A year in the desert can lead to new life realizations. Separation from all that makes you comfortable, provides the time for introspection and reflection. Discomfort allows transformation and growth. Jesus, Moses, Abraham, and the Israelites all spent time being transformed in the desert. My time in Qatar was full miserably hot and full of trials and successes that allowed me to develop my own proverbs and life lessons learned on God, work, people, myself, family, and love. Here are my Proverbs.
Lessons on God.
I can’t help but think I was sent to the desert to God to do some work in my life and draw me closer to knowing him better. The Good Lord is constantly trying to get my attention and it’s been amazing to watch God work. Over the past year I was able to view first hand all the promises and truths Kept by my God. I know for sure God loves me like my parents love me. God wants the best for me and hates to see me hurting. Yes, I can disappoint at times but he’s quick to get over it and keep loving me anyway. This year I learned to just chill out and let God be God. Nothing is a surprise to him. And he has it all under control.
I got to see this first hand. God sent so many unexpected, positive, uplifting angels from around the world into my life at the best possible time.
He’s got what seems like chaos under control. Chill.
If anyone is trying to make you feel guilty for anything that God has already forgiven you for, that person is not doing God’s work. There’s freedom in knowing the good Lord was crucified so you don’t have to crucify yourself daily with guilt for your sins. It says right there in Romans 6:23 and 1 John 1:9 that God forgives. So doubting that you are forgiven is doubting God’s word and his ability to forgive. Do yourself (and by “yourself”, I’m talking to myself) just believe what God.
No setback is a surprise to God. Just let God work! He’s got so many things set in motion for an amazing set up in your future. And he says so in one of my favorite, comforting verses:
My mistakes are plentiful but thankfully so is God’s grace. And I’m committing to expand my grace.
Now strut with that confidence.
It is arrogant and self-righteous to believe that you made it to where you are through any doing of your own. If put in the same situation as someone else, you could have made some hard or bad decisions too.
Lessons on People.
My goodness, If I haven’t spent all of my 20s trying to understand the ways of people. We are so complex. It took this pilgrimage to really understand that how people treat you is a reflection of their self and their realities and really doesn’t have anything to do with you and not to take it personality. If someone takes offense or is rude to you, it’s usually an insecurity that you’ve struck. You’ll have tons of people trying to tell you how to be, but they should all be ignored in favor for people who celebrate you. And lastly, I like this concept I got from watching Joel Osteen: 25% of folks are going to dislike you and there is nothing you can do about it. 25% will dislike you but could be swayed otherwise. 25% will like you but could be swayed to dislike you. and the top 25% of people will love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Focus on the top 25%.
It’s just helpful for me to remember not to take it personally if someone is rude to me and to keep myself in check when I’m tempted to forget my manners.
I watched this Joel Osteen Sermon plenty of times before but it wasn’t until my trip to the desert that I actually got to see stress that comes from people pleasing. Freedom comes from God pleasing. Even if you do everything that high maintenance people ask of you, they will constantly find fault and criticize. No matter how good you are to them, they will make you feel guilty for something else. If you change with every criticism, you won’t have a chance. Be free of those who try to squeeze, pressure, and manipulate you into their mold.
I believe most folks are are who they say appear to be. But some folks are master manipulators. They learn your interests, make you think they are just like you, gain your trust, get in your inner circle and destroy all you thought you knew about him.
Why doubt yourself? You have wonderful, valid ideas too!
Magnifying weaknesses doesn’t benefit anyone. The people I consider the best kinds of people that I’ve ever met have all been Masters at accentuating the positives. Those are the people I want to emulate.
Lessons on Family
I love the support I get from my family — those I chose and the ones God chose for me. My family is loud, country, goofy, and fun. We make an amazing, resilient team. And when being away makes me lose perspective, they will always know how to bring me back to reality. When I make a lapse in judgement or go against their warnings, they are there to catch me when I fall just like the safety-net in acrobatics.
Last year, cancer sent my uncle to be with the Lord. He was buried hours before I got home from Stuttgart. I never knew that one last time I saw him before leaving for Europe for two years would be the last time we talked. I wish I would have called to see how he was doing. This year, Cancer threatened to take my mom. But she is a pink ribbon victor. I never considered when she dropped me off at the airport for Qatar that her hug could have been the last. I’ve really got to focus, enjoy, and learn all I can from my family now, while I can.
Been learning this since 1988.
When I saw this I couldn’t help but see myself in the hopeless romantic of Princess Anna. Sure enough, my little sister was so much of the realist shown in Queen Elsa’s character. I lived this story this year.
She’ll stay up all night to talk you off the ledge (even if she’s the mother of an infant).
Lessons on who I am
I know who I am and what I am capable of more than anyone else. In the words of Kanye West, “I have a dope life, and I do dope Sh!t.” Individuals who have only known me for a few months in one aspect of my life can’t possibly know the many layers of me yet so often I take others’ negative opinions of me to heart. Critics are usually those who know me least. But those who have known me longest and best often amaze me with all the positives that they see in me.
My BGF (Best Guy Friend) is known for his brutal honesty and crassness. Dude knows me and my eccentricity well. But when it comes to describing me, he’s refreshingly positive about all that he noticed over the years. Same for my best friend since 6th grade. Every time I talk to her, I think I can rule the world with my smile just because she sees so much in me. And that just goes to show what people think about others is more a reflection of how they view themselves.Someone who is critical of you is likely hyper critical and condemning of themselves and full of insecurities. My big, compassionate heart, adaptability, accepting nature, devotion, optimism, and imagination have been keystones of all that makes up the pieces of me. I go out of my way to help a friend and even sometimes strangers.
I saw so much of me in this phenomenal little woman’s journal. And to think, her dad really got to know who she was and what she was capable of after her death.
Guys, Love, and dating.
It’s amazing how one bad apple can spoil the bunch and completely change your optimistic, wonder struck perspective. But as my newly wedded friends have all said at one point or another, if you don’t have the terrible you don’t recognize and appreciate the wonderful.
I think the ultimate goal of Christian girls who date is to have a husband who strives, everyday, to love her like Christ loves the Church. But a man cannot love you like Christ loves the church if he doesn’t know Christ. If he doesn’t have a good relationship with Christ like he does his buds, he cannot know Christ’s personality or view points. He he isn’t dialing, texting, messaging Christ daily or even weekly and is only relying on what other people have told him about Christ he doesn’t know what Christ does or says.He probably won’t even realize loving you in that way should be his ultimate goal. Find the guy who knows Christ. Then he’ll have some idea on how to love you.
Above all, listen to your instincts. They tend to be on point every time and you’ll just end up upset with yourself for ignoring your instincts or standards when everything goes wrong.
A guy who doesn’t want his girl to talk to other guys, calls his girl names, discredits her and/or her friends, or tries to control how a girl dresses is just afraid one day, one of these outside contacts is going to speak some sense into her and remind her how amazing and deserving she is. And she will leave.Although she might not recognize at the time, guy who ridicules her is showing his insecurity because he knows he has somehow scored a girl out of his league.
Friends
When you are away from all that is normal, it may be a little more difficult to identify true friends. You tend to gravitate to people because they’re fellow Americans or similar age just because there aren’t many other options. This past year I have learned to celebrate the overall awesomeness of the individuals that have been placed in my life to encourage me along my way and to shrug my shoulders to the folks that add stumbling stones. Time is so limited to focus on those who detract from my life. It’s better to have four quarters as friends than 100 pennies.
Your friends wont put you in a position where you have to stand up for yourself and won’t offended when you do.
Womanhood
Nothing like being in a country with rigidly defined gender roles to emphasize the rigidly defined gendered roles that I grew up with in America to the point that we don’t even recognize. It’s easy to point the finger at Islamic cultures and talk about how oppressive they are to women and put a blind eye to how oppressive America’s double standard, puritanical Christian culture is on women. I’m still trying to figure out how to combat this.
Life.
I’ve always believed in the reverse of Murphy’s Law because it’s been true for my life. If things can go right, they will go absolutely, positively right at the bets possible time. So even when it rains, know your rainbow is on the way.
A degree in history, documentaries, first person narratives, war movies, and living in Germany only partially helped me grasp the enormity of the D-Day mission. It took this Memorial Day trip to Normandy to fill the gaps in order for me to better understand what those brave young Americans went through to liberate Europe. Actually being on the beach where these American boys accomplished the impossible left me fueled with such an unexplainable sense of victory and pride in knowing that I’m a small part of this remarkable legacy.Did I ever mention I am a third, consecutive Armed Forces service member? My mom crossed the pond to visit me in May and I promptly booked a chartered tour with Interra- Reisen for the most meaningful Memorial Day of our lives. Bless her heart, nearly the day after landing in Stuttgart, Mama Belle jumped on a crowed tour bus, still jet-lagged, for this mother-daughter road trip adventure I won’t soon forget. It was spent not just remembering the heroic acts of bravery that occurred on the shores of France, but understanding all the events that would be known as D-Day.
Day 1: The bus rolled out at 5:30 am. Mom and I promptly fell asleep until breakfast at a truck stop then back to sleep until we arrived at Giverny, France where the famous French impressionist, Claude Monet spent most of his life. How fabulous to stroll the wild, unruly gardens and the forever immortalized lily-pond that inspired the blinding artist. What amazed me was that his best works were made as he was practically blind just as Beethoven’s masterpieces were written while he was practically deaf. Proving any challenge can be overcome if you’re passionate enough to work through it.
The bus continued on the journey towards Normandy, stopping in Cean for the night. We spent the night in a forgettable roadside hotel similar to a Best Western. It was in a quiet, industrial area of town. There was an unimpressive steakhouse in walking distance. Outside the hotel was also a street car to take visitors in town where there was more lively activity and better selection of restaurants. If you’re saving on money, the outskirts of the town is the way to go. We had such a long exhausting drive and days packed, with a specific adventure that being in the midst the nightlife of Caen was not a priority.
Day 2:
After buffet breakfast in the hotel, we departed.
Biscuits, gravy, pancakes with maple syrup just doesn’t happen in Europe. You do get cold cuts of meat, pastries, and cheese.
Salmon and cheese are also part of the European breakfast but no scrambled eggs and toast.
Our chariot. significant because I have a friend with Monnier as a last name.
The first stop of the day was La Cambe German War Cemetery which contains the remains of 21,000 German military personnel killed between 6 June- 20 Aug 1944. Outside, an engraved stone states, “Kriegsgräber sind die großen Kommunikatoren des Friedens” or “War graves are the great communicators of peace.”
First noticeable difference of German war graves and American are the shape and color of the crosses. I think the dark crosses just add to the melancholy of the field whereas the rows of white crosses at American cemeteries are somber but still heroic.
The figures on both sides of the cross are symbolic of the parent who lost their children. Now they are looking over them. Burried in this mound are 296 Germans, only 89 of which are identified by name.
View from the top of the mound.
One German Solider known only to God. This man was likely to by young…around 22-years-old with hopes and dreams that were never fulfilled. He likely did not chose the cause or to fight but ended up here anyway. Although he was an adversary, and possibly took American lives, the loss of his life is still heartbreaking.
Here, a 24 year old boy is buried with an unknown counterpart.
Final line: “God has the last word”
Mama in the Garden of peace.
After the short pit stop at the cemetery we journeyed on to the village of Saint Mere Eglise where the Musee Des Troupes Aeroportees (the Airborne Museum) is located. While traveling between locations, we watched The Longest Day to set the tone for what we were about to experience.
History impacts you more when you can relate to it…or when you can see yourself in the stories. I have never been able to identify any element of myself in George Washington in the continental Congress. It is hard for me to envision myself as a heartless ruler like Nero or Christopher Columbus. I cannot relate to the violent gladiator culture pervasive in ancient Rome. But standing on Omaha Beach with my mom at this point in my life, American military history was made real. For the first time, being a beach-storming soldier was relatable. Just normal young, 20-something-year-old Americans who went through training, bonded with the members of their units, with hopes, and dreams, and were given a task to accomplish were shot and killed where I stood.
So June 6th began and they came.
At 1 am the French night sky filled with 13,000 floating Paratroopers. Could you imagine being in a sleepy, little charming French town and seeing such a sight!? I was raised down the interstate from 101st Airborne “Screaming Eagles” stationed out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Recognizing their emblem in the Airborne Museum and knowing these boys trained in Kentucky formed a connection and sense of identity. Joining them in the sky was the 82nd Airborne out of Ft Bragg, the British 6th Airborne Division, and the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion. The young American men fulfilled the mission of liberating the village of Sainte-Mère-Église.
This quiet town was taken without much force by Germans in 1940. But four years later on D-Day American paratroopers took the town back with glory due to its strategic location making it the first liberated French town.
This is the church in the middle of the town where the storied American hero, John Steele, got his parachute stuck on the spire on his way down. He hung there for two hours before the Nazis took him prisoner. Of course, being the American BA that he was, he escaped and took some 30 Nazis prisoner and killed a few. Other paratroopers who got stuck on trees and poles were not so lucky to be taken captive and were just killed on the spot. I can just imagine the night sky filled with floating warriors ascending on the charming ancient town.
A dummy still hangs from the ancient church, memorializing John Steele.
It is humbling to remember these were just regular 20-something year old boys given a daunting mission, knowing that the world was depending on them to succeed.
Lieutenant Colonel and Lieutenant embracing their heritage.
On our journey we stopped at the Liberty Milestone of Utah Beach then spent a lot of time exploring Omaha Beach.
Then
Today
It was surreal to be standing on the same beach where the gory, graphic opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan took place. I could envision the images from the movie on the beach where I stood. The landing craft, barbwire, cliffs, Carnage-littered shore, the dunes, the smell of it all, the sounds of agony, the bunkers where the barrage of German machine guns mercilessly rattled toward the Allies. All the dismal obstacles mounted against them, and somehow they emerged triumphantly.
What I refused to imagine was seeing the friends I’d trained and partied with disemboweled and scatted about. Or being the one in charge of leading troops that were decapitated or going into shock right in front of me and not being able to do a thing about it. I imagine the thoughts that would be going through my head would be something like — “My goodness (maybe some profanity) the slaughter has been going on for an hour and somehow I’m still alive. Why am I still alive?”
Seeing the beach I could understand the description “the longest day.” When would the day end? D-Day was just the first day of Operation Overload. Devastation would continue all summer!
This Memorial Day, my mom and I stood in the same hopeless space where so many Americans fought for their lives just to get ashore. Today there was no hint of the gruesome events that occurred on this very spot just almost 68 years before. The skies were blue. The landscape was lush. The day was warm with a chilly breeze. Birds sang their beautiful song. The waves gently rolled in, and mom and I had a baguette sandwiches picnic on the dunes. A picnic in a former war zone— Imagine that.
Then we visited the American Cemetery at Colleville sur Mer overlooking Omaha Beach.
The trees were intentionally groomed this way to symbolize the lives cut short.
The last stop on our unforgettable journey was Pointe du Hoc where the Rangers made their dramatic landing. Although this Operation took place before all others, we saw it last to accommodate business hours of the cemetery and Airborne Meuse.
Within ten minutes, the young Brits surprised the German guards and took the Ranville and Bénouville Bridges (the latter was later renamed Pegasus Bridge in honor if the British Airborne Solider) disrupting the Nazis’ ability to pursue a counterattack. When more Nazis showed up 2 hours later, Maj Howard held it down.
We sojourned to Arromanches to see the remains of the artificial port then Benouville to see the Pegasus Bridge, where British air-troops landed. In the evening we rested in the lovely village of Courseulles sur Mer, where we dinned on a typical seafood dinner in one of the cozy restaurants before retiring to our hotel.
There were two more days of the tour that guided us to an excursion to Le Mont Saint Michel then of course, you cannot road trip France without going to Paris. However, my pilgrimage to Normandy was the most eventful and meaningful. Disorganization, confusion, and incomplete or faulty implementation of carefully drawn-out plans lead to such pain, destruction and heartbreak followed with courage and determination and resulting in glory and triumph. Seeing how a place so horrific could be turned into something beautiful called to mind Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. ‘The Inferno’ was the war, followed by the finale of today. Out of all the despair and devastation comes hope, renewal, and beauty. Misery, regardless of how bleak and dismal, regardless if you can see the end in sight or not, doesn’t last always.
Mont Saint Michel visited later during the extended weekend. Click to start planning your Normandy weekend.
I believe all service members need to make a pilgrimage to Normandy at some point. The beaches are a standing monument of America valor. I have accomplished some pretty cool feats but whether crossing the finish line of a marathon, or the stage at graduation with distinction, I have never been more proud than I was crossing this battlefield. This was an accomplishment that reached far greater than myself. It happened 70 years ago but still impacted me and the history of the world.
If only someone was taking photos of my expressions there would have been photo booth images of roll my eyes, OMG, holy smack! What did I just put in my mouth? Mmm… good surprise written all over my face. The food was the uncontested highlight of my time spent in Bilbao, Spain.
Before leaving home, a google search for “gastronomie” lead me to the resturuant, Nerua in the Guggenheim Bilbao Museum. So, I booked a late lunch reservation on line at the recipient of the coveted Michelin star distinction two hours after my plane was due to touch down. I entered the restaurant from the outside of the museum on the Spider statue side and wind up directly in the kitchen of the restaurant.
I gave the deer-in-the-headlights look when the kitchen staff all paused and greeted me with “Buenos Dias!” I instantly thought I must have entered somewhere where I shouldn’t be. I backed out of the door but was collected by a server and shown to my table. There was only me and one other table occupied so I received individualized service. It was fantastic. I was catered to like Belle in Beauty and the Beast. The special care I was given let it be known, gave way that this was going to be quite the culinary experience like no other.
Meanwhile, as bread and wine was brought out, I took on the role as food paparazzi. Noticing me taking constant photos, the staff asked if I wanted to take a seat in the kitchen.
I chose the meal option with eight courses over the six, with the chef’s wine selection for every course. The courses just kept getting better. I didn’t even know what I was eating half the time so my mind couldn’t predict what it should taste like ahead of time. Sometimes I was expecting cold, sweet, citrus, but what I got was warm spicy, hearty sweet. Surprise stayed written all over my face. I had 11 individuals working regimentally and in silence on my one meal!
Now I don’t have all the hoity-toity, fancy food critic words to describe each bite. In fact, I was almost tempted to watch Disney’s Ratatouille for inspiration. All I can tell you is this food was divine and the overall experience well worth all I paid. So instead of me trying to explain to you the glory that danced on my taste buds, please take a stroll through my photo essay on my culinary experience:
Dropping local fish skin in hot grease
Sprinkling seasonings
tasty, crunchy flavorful appetizer.
This is Adrian from Argentina. He’s a kitchen leader.
Red miso with warm navy bean broth. Mmmm
The navy bean broth in a jar.
Diligent with his attention to detail.
I have no idea how something that looks like this should taste. What a surprise to my taste buds!
Savory: white turnip, nutmeg, Iberian pork. If my parents made turnips tast like this it would have been my favorite vegetable.
Something this mouthwatering takes teamwork.
Oyster barrage, chive, citronella grass broth
White prawns, barley soup, spinach & whiskey
It takes three guys to make one dish just for me.
Artichokes, Iberian pork delicacies in green coffee extract
Then I had a choice between Foie Gras and Fried Hake. I took the Hake.
My wine pairing.
Would you guess this was warm, sweet and spicy? It’s caramelized persimmon with cinimon and lime.
A different wines and a Spanish beer with each course.
Why yes, I do need two desserts. Pure chocolate & spicy marzipan.
After the meal, I shot the breeze with Adrian, the Argentinian cutie, who translated for the Master Chef. I expressed how impressed I was that young people created such a meal. Everyone in the kitchen with the exception of the head chef was under 30 years old. The were from all over the world but mostly spoke Spanish with one another. My personalized meal started at 2pm. The team was going to take a hike in the distant mountains before returning to cook at 7 pm. I told them about my five-year-old sobrina who wants to be a cook. “Maybe when she is seven she can come work for us,” The head chef joked in Spanish and Adrien translated.
I expressed how it seemed as though they really cared. They must love me if they take the time to have five cooks using little tweezer-like utensils to perfectly arrange little balls of miso in bean broth or just to chat with me afterwards. This was their life’s passion that they shared with me. This team wanted to make sure I had good food to eat. I witnessed no yelling or ego or tempers existed like on the television shows, Top Chef or Hell’s Kitchen. No boxed mac ‘n cheese or mashed potatoes. No microwaves. No prepackaged food. No food cooked last week. No good enough. No secrets. No drama. Just plain fabulous. Superb. Fantastical.
All done. Kitchen is spotless again.
As the staff started cleaning after being open to serve me and me alone, I reflected on all that I had just experienced. So this is gastronomy; cooking with love. Putting your heart, soul, and passion into meals. It was t that moment it donned on me: I was introduced to gastronomy a long time ago by my Grandma Nellie. Although this was my first time dropping some $300 on a meal, this was not my first gastronomic experience. The meals seeped in love offered at my grandma’s gave the same experience.
When I was a little belle, I used to spend the summers with both of my grandmothers. Days at my mother’s mama’s house revolved around meals. Whatever I wanted for breakfast she always had in stock or would get for me. She is that awesome. I remember asking for doughnuts and low and behold she had them. Bacon and biscuits, she break it out for me. Pancakes or waffles, she’d have it. Any cereal I could name, she’d have it for me. At home, I’d just have to make due with the one cereal we had on hand but with grandma, breakfast was made to order! I remember taking a long shot and requesting Toaster strudels which, by the way, they don’t sale in Germany, for breakfast. I saw commercials for them and thought it looked good. She happened to have coupons for them and said ok. We went to the super market that day. Since that summer that I was 8 years old, they’ve been a mainstay on her grocery list and you can count on them always being in her freezer.
Me & Grandma Nellie
For lunch I’d have a sandwich. I used to only do mayo sandwiches. It Grandma Nellie who introduced me to the concept of actually putting meat and cheese on sandwiches. I remember sitting at her table and her asking me what I wanted on my wheat bread and me listing off Mayonnaise. She complied but I think it through her off because she mentioned my choice to my aunt later on. It wasn’t long before she had be trying out deli slices. She’d cut my sandwich bread into fourths or, on particularly grown-up days, halves. Sometime in triangles, other times in squares or rectangles. I remember feeling special and anticipating what shape may sandwich would be in for the day. And I got chocolate milk. Everyday. Sometimes I’d sneak a guzzle Hershey’s chocolate syrup out of the aluminum can she always bought it in. I even got her to buy strawberry syrup for me. She was the one who introduced the addition of cheese on broccoli instantly making broccoli my favorite vegetable. In fact, all vegetables were made better by grandma: potatoes, green beans, carrots. Grandma could cook them so they were edible to the most selective pallet of the second grader.
If I was tidy, sometimes I’d get a dessert served later in the evening in green bowls full of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries that I could eat them in the living room while watching the news with her. And to top it all off… I got to stay up late… ‘til 11 pm. I tell ya, Grandma Nellie’s house was a child’s luxury vacation resort.
When my parents picked me up I was so excited to go home but it wasn’t long before I missed grandma’s attention to detail when cooking. I told my mom how her mama used to cut my sandwiches before serving them to me. My mom confirmed, yes, she cooks with love. This was the first time I ever understood the concept of cooking with love. Grandma Nellie must love me because she cut my sandwiches for me. She cares about the food that I put into my body. Her meals were healthy, not for me to just shovel in to keep me alive. The extra effort and care put into my meals made me know I was, without a doubt, loved by this woman.
My initial experience at Nerua transcended the resturuant and was experienced in all aspects of my Bilbao exploration. There was no settling for good enough anywhere. The attention to detail was evident in service, food, and every angle and curve of the architecture and art. Even the simple finger food appeared to be made with pride. What a fabulous example to apply to life. Whatever you do, put your passion into it. No secrets, nothing to hide. Of course, as the chefs at Nerua displayed, this doesn’t work if your work is massed produced to serve billions and billions. But to your selected few, good enough is not good enough. Put your heart and soul into your work and serve with pride.
My momma is going to want to jerk a knot in me when she reads this post. But seeing as though she is a thousand miles and an ocean away, I think it is safe to tell this tale and remain knot-free (for now). So here goes!
The adventure part of this tale began when I was dinning alone in an outdoor café in Strasbourg. This was my first time in France and first international trip that started in Germany. I never heard of the town until I read in a local travel magazine that it was a great weekend getaway for Stuttgarters. So I seize the day…or the weekend rather, and with nothing but a carry-on-sized suit case and a GPS, I jumped in a rented Benz and headed out.
Two hours later I arrived and wasn’t sure what I should do next.
It was lunch time so why not jump line at the McDonald’s drive thru? Well, for one, I had a considerable language barrier that I did not consider. I didn’t speak a lick of French outside of Frère Jacques and voulez vous coucher avec moi and being in the drive-thru, I couldn’t point to what I wanted or play charades to explain that I wanted Chicken McNuggets and a McFlurry. But with a mix of my newly acquired Schwabbish dialect of German and English…the McD’s hostess delivered my culinary request.
They asked if I wanted American fries. Well, of course I want the fries McD’s sells in America…this is what I got. French fries isn’t a thing apparently. You have Frites and American Fries. No French Fries.
I used the GPS to guide me to the attractions. I spent the day moseying around the river, parks, and neighborhoods just imagining what it would be like to live and work in Strasbourg. Strasbourg has railway streetcars that remind me of the ones in New Orleans that ran through the neutral ground (median). Then it dawned on me, they call it the French Qarter for a reason. Of course when the French came and settled that area of America they’d bring their architecture and city planning style with them.
As the sun began to set and I began to get hungry again, I stumbled upon the heart of Strasbourg. So this is what the fuss was about. This charming, historic, little town on the French and German border is what I’d imagine would happen if France and Germany got married and had a baby. Apparently, the city has been on both sides of the French and German border multiple times through the centuries due to wars. Street signs are written in both languages.
The architecture looks like the real life illustrations of a German fairytale. Down the cobble stone streets I could hear both French and German being spoken but in all the shops I was greeted with, “Bonjour Madam.” I thought for sure they had to be the nicest people ever and the pleasant greeting was just for me! Later, I gathered saying, “hello ma’am” to everyone was just common courtesy here.
So that brings me back to where this story began, at an outdoor picturesque café in La Petite France district of Strasbourg. It was evening. I was hungry and sitting at a candlelit table for one. One of the most pleasant differences of dining in France as opposed to dinning in Germany is the menu. I couldn’t speak a lick of French, but French is the language of food! I understood every bit of that menu. Pinot Noir, boeuf, brie, hollandaise sauce, béarnaise sauce, al gratin, crème brulee…with the french treatment.
Well, a few tables away was a delightfully rowdy bunch of French men enjoying the first weekend evening of September. As I finished my meal of steak and potato at my candle-lit table set for one, the most boisterous of the bunch, calls over to me in French. I’m mid-sip of my white wine. I smile as I do when I have no idea what’s going on and shake my head. He says something again and I tell him I don’t understand. So he tries again in English, “Come on, I am not asking you out on a date.” Well, since he wasn’t asking me out on a date, those were the magic words. I’d spent all day in silence, with just me and my thoughts, I could use some company. I was hoping one of them would be named Henri for the sole reason it was the name of the pigeon Fievel sang “Never say Never” with in American Tail. No such luck. When I relocated with my wine to their table I introduced myself to two men named Claude, Jean, and Ali. Ali, was the loud one. What amazes me is that, while Americans tend to get tripped up by my name, often renaming me something more familiar to them, the French allow my name to roll over tongue with grace, dignity, and ease. It does have French roots. They were all older than me, probably by 10 years or more. And so the discussion began.
I noticed there are three common conversation themes when I speak to European men:
1. Their support for President Obama
2. Why is this American girl doing in Germany
3. The black girlfriend they once had a long time ago.
This post-dinner conversation was no different. It started with a mini lesson in french…all the guys giving me essential French phrases…essential including flirty French phrases. They came to understand how little of their language I knew. They tried to teach me phrases in French that I could use on my French-speaking American beau. I loved how they pronounced his last name the way it should be pronounced vice the American corruption of it. Then we started in on political affairs which was nice because that’s why I was going to school and I could get the French perspective. Now, I do appreciate a lively debate so long as it stays on the topic at hand and does not turn into attacks on the individual. The conversation segued into quantifying the level of racism in America in comparison to France and Germany. It all started when I talked about how much I loved Germany and they talked about how horrible Germans were back in WWII. I do not like absolute terms. Clearly not all Germans are Nazis. I had grown so much in love with my new hometown I felt like Germany needed defending. I just had not experienced the racism in Europe that I had in America, granted I spent more time in America. The French men were in agreement that France was racist and Germany was more so. I explained my German Great-Grandfather who came to America and married a black woman and had eight babies with her. And hey, being a Nazi then could have easily been a means of survival. But with this conversation I could tell the WWII grudge still existed. In America I feel that we’ve more or less forgiven and forgotten. Of course we don’t have the memories or pictures of Nazis marching down our Pennsylvania Avenue in DC like the French have of Nazi troops marching down the Champs-Élysées.
I brought up Josephine Baker and Bessie Coleman who came to France for opportunities they wouldn’t have in America. But they were the crème de la crème of course France will accept the best, Ali explained. Which is why I felt accepted in Europe. “Your father is rich and you are attractive!” Ali raised his voice with his French accent. I’m not sure what brought him to the rich conclusion. Possibly assumed because I had the opportunity to study abroad. Or maybe because we discussed my parent’s occupations. I also wasn’t sure if I was being accused of something. I didn’t have the heart to tell them my mother was the military service member.
“If you were a grand women… like 100 kilos, people would not be so nice to you,” Ali said. “If I were white and 100 kilos they would not be so nice.” I retorted back. “This is true,” Claude #1 laughed. “This world is not Disney Land!” Ali tried to make me see his view.
Ali had just buried his father in Northern Africa. I asked if he had black children. He had to ponder this question. His friends hesitantly said no. I wondered if the hesitance came from the children being more northern African Arab than they were sub Saharan African and they weren’t classified the same way. I would have classified Ali as white…although he had a name that would have most assume otherwise. Goodness, such confusion comes from trying to categorize people into three boxes.
Cafes outside the cathedral
Just then, Ali answered a phone call with his artist friend. I could hear him say magnific and Noir American. Claude translated Ali’s end of the conversation, “He says you are beautiful.” “And black” I finished. Yes, I recognize the word Noir. I watched Claud’s face light up. Even though he knew I couldn’t speak a lick of French, he forgot maybe I would know a word or two.
Our discussion brought amusement to the restaurant host who watched with a smile. Turns out the owner of the restaurant/hotel was Ali’s friend. He spoke to the host in French obviously ordering something. Moments later the host returned with desert! They tried to explain what it was but I could not understand. “Your father,” he explained. Oh, It’s called a colonel. Same word but for some reason, Americans started pronouncing it (and in Kentucky, spelling it) “Kernel”. It’s lemon sorbet with vodka and it is delightful! A traditional treat I wouldn’t have known about if I kept to myself.
It wasn’t long before I learned I was debating with French attorneys! We talked for three hours. Eventually, the patrons of the sidewalk cafes began to dissipate as meal time entered its final hours. We decided to continue our conversation at Claude #1’s house. Being the independent American woman that I am, I tried to pay for the colonel. “In France, this is not possible,” Claude #1 said. Well, so much for that; we were not in Holland (As in going Dutch…I’m attempting to make a joke). Yes, I am aware of the dangers that lurk when a little, young American girl to go off into the night with three unknown French men in an unfamiliar city. Trust, I was texting my whereabouts to everyone I knew. We turned a few corners of the old town, and wound up not too far away from the Cathedral.
The topics of racism, social justice, and international politics had been put to bed. When I walked into Claude’s designer’s dream of a house, the conversation turned all about architecture and interior design. Outside, was all historic and unassuming. Inside, we were in a New York City worthy modern loft. After relaxing, we hit she streets. They trio took me to Les Aviateurs, an American-style bar. I’m not sure how this bar differed from any other bar other than it being decorated in old aviation paraphernalia.
The night dragged on our conversations slowed. Our final discussion of the night was about Marvin Gaye. Apparently Ali had seen the American musician perform in Paris and was disappointed to learn his father had killed him soon after. Ali still seemed quite upset about this. There was no excuse he said. The guy didn’t believe in God or his will. They think I don’t smoke because I’m American and Americans don’t smoke.
beautiful views along the river
Ali basically invited me to stay with Claude #1 saying there was no reason for me to pay for a hotel when I have friends in Strasbourg. Oh yes, I know there were risks involved. So many things could go terribly wrong. I sent texts to co-workers, classmate and friends back in Germany to let them know my address just in case something should happen to me. I so took the offer. After experiencing this town as the locals do, I retired in the hip modern loft.
view from the bedroom I stayed in.
why not spend the night here!?
rooftop terrace view
I know, I know, Americans gasp in horror of me staying in the home of strangers but as the quote goes, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. The world is not a big bad scary place as American news would want you to believe. I’m aware there are some dangerous men out there but I won’t regard every stranger as a threat until proven otherwise. There’s a benefit to traveling alone. You tend to find yourself in situations you would not ordinarily land in had you traveled with a crew of fellow adventures. And most times, it works out better than planned and makes for an interesting story later. I got some interesting perspective through conversations I wouldn’t have engaged in had I been in a group. I got the local tour of the old town, and got an insider’s view on lodging. By traveling with only an idea and not a plan, my weekend trip turned out better than expected.
