Geographic Bachelorette

Ordered departure from U. S. Embassy Caracas has brought with it a variety of challenges and more learning experiences than anyone really needs in such a short period of time. I have memorized the end date of every thirty-day increment between now and July 22. I can tell you daily amounts for lodging, M&IE, transportation, etc. for the Washington DC area for January through July. I can sort SEA payments vs. TDY payments, send GSO contacts, liaise with WHA, collaborate with CEFAR, and submit reports for FLO. Basically, if it is a series of capitalized letters that mean nothing to anyone outside of the State Department, I’ve got it covered.  Also, on the more personal and awkward side of the learning curve (because who doesn’t love a bit of semi-public embarrassment?), I now know that when stress-induced stomach problems arise (these were lovingly given a politically insensitive name that I’ll not divulge here), one chewable Pepto tablet (cherry flavor, please!) every forty-five minutes keeps me professional and functional. Two qualities not to be underrated.

Exile status has also created another wrinkle in my day-to-day life. Thanks to our expulsion, I am now geographically single and have been for the last five weeks, with an end date yet-to-be determined, but maybe late March.

Hold the presses.

I just heard that the TBD date on the TDY is potentially getting pushed back even further.

Hey look! More acronyms! If this EFM thing ever doesn’t work out, maybe I can get a gig on Sesame Street doing letter games with toddlers and Grover. Or Cookie Monster. I was always a huge fan of Cookie Monster, although slightly horrified as a child by how much chocolate chip cookie he wasted in his cookie-eating frenzies. My letter-joining prowess would also be a good foil to the Count and his many numbers and my pasty skin would pair well with his purple hue. So, when life as a Foreign Service spouse gets tiring, I’m moving to Sesame Street to spend my days with Cookie Monster and the Count. Imagine those blog posts…

But back to the main event.

After arriving back in Washington DC, Thad was summoned to Managua to help fill in for their deputy consul position, a good fit for him professionally and a chance to spend time in another consular section. From there he has continued to do his Caracas work as well, so he is really working two full time jobs while living out of a suitcase and a hotel room. But he has volcanoes to hike, beaches to visit, and rum factories to tour, so don’t cry too many crocodile tears for him. And while he is hiking and snorkeling and drinking, I’m in DC and possibly going a bit feral.

Granted, I am good Monday-Friday from 7-5. Every weekday morning I’m up and showered and dressed, and I enjoy a bowl of cereal with real milk as I sit on my living room floor, scrolling through my blog stats (it’s a quick scroll!) and catching up on “must read” lists for the month. Soon enough I’m out the door, donning dusty mauve Chuck with my Calvin Klein dress in a style that can only be called DC-professional commuter. (I’ve rocked a similar look in Chengdu, Kuala Lumpur, and Caracas, but there is something that is just so “DC” about a woman in a dress and kicks of any kind. It’s not good, really, but it beats the heck out of hiking in heels.) Work keeps me busy. Answering emails. Making calls. Setting up events. Coordinating with the management team. Filming evacuation videos. (Two so far!) And just generally touching base with the officers and family members that are in DC, in Miami, around the country, and back home in Caracas. Days are demanding.

But, evenings and weekends are another story. As a bit of a homebody to begin with (don’t try to reconcile that statement with the fact that my preference would be to travel all the time), I am happy to walk in the apartment each evening, peel off the tights that are squeezing my guts but creating a smooth silhouette (shouldn’t we band together as women to banish Spanx-anything from our lives?) and hop into a pair of leggings, a t-shirt, and an oversized knit sweater. I’ll shuffle around the apartment in slippers like an old lady every night of the week if I don’t have something penciled in on the calendar. (Yes, penciled in. I love a pretty calendar to keep track of days and weeks. If it’s not scrawled in the agenda, it isn’t happening!) Home is where my books are piled on the nightstand, my computer is queued up to Project Runway All-Stars, and I’ve got makeshift writing space set up in the “dining room.” (Note to self: find a cute writing desk while in DC that will fit within the UAB parameters for your return to post.)

As content as I am changing from night pajamas into day pajamas on the weekends, it’s probably not the best option in the long term. But, I’m with people all day long. I definitely get my words for the day in. (If I had a Fitbit-type contraption that counted my words each day, I’d have all the badges. Maybe I should invent this. Instead of having to go out in the cold and walk to get “steps,” the wearer could work on their social game by upping their daily word count. If they don’t talk enough in an hour, the device would buzz on their wrist, reminding them to go chat with someone and get some human contact. At a preset number of words for the day, the wearer would get a nice little congratulatory message with some fireworks and more buzzing. When my ChatBit becomes a real thing, I’m going to be rich!)

I seem to have digressed a bit. (Shark Tank, watch out!)

The point is, my days are filled with people and planning and purpose and now that I come home to an empty apartment, I’m embracing the solitude- maybe too much. Yesterday, in one of my shuffles to the kitchen for Pop-Tarts (seriously, it has come to that), I realized I was talking to myself. Not in the “ask the wall the temperature because you are too used to Alexa” kind of way, but in a “hey, you’re cool, I’ll chat with you” kind of way. I can’t even remember what it was about- probably something having to do with thinking through plans for the week (what are the chances I am able to get that White House tour booked?) or what I need to get at the grocery store (Uncrustables!) or whether I remembered to book a manicure appointment for next Sunday afternoon (no, but they seem to be fine with walk-ins and manicures have become my ordered departure guilty pleasure), but I distinctly remember stopping mid-shuffle with the epiphany that I am possibly going a wee-bit batty.

I can’t blame it on lack of sleep and excessive stress like I did my fantastical packing skills. I can’t blame it on an upset stomach. (Those were nine miserable days. Really. The internet pretty much had me convinced that I had some kind of terrible intestinal cancer. Thank you, WebMD. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t know how to navigate the health care system in the US, or I’d now have a bill for a visit to a doctor to tell me I was stressed out and it made me poop. A lot. That’s a bit of ordered departure allowance saved!)

I blame it solely on my geographical singledom.

The irony of this all is, while writing about how living alone has turned me slightly less domesticated, I’ve added two new social events to the calendar. Seriously. Just in the last forty-five minutes. And of course, I said yes to both. (I want to do both, but I feel like I would have been obligated to say yes even if it was an invitation to a gall bladder surgery.) First, I am meeting a friend for dinner and a lecture about female animators at the Smithsonian. (It is cooler than it sounds, I promise. And even if it weren’t, I’d go because this is my first chance to meet said friend’s boyfriend. She and I became close in Kuala Lumpur and I’ve not met her new beau. She could have invited me to a hanging in Victorian England and I would have said yes, just to meet the guy she is spending her free time with these days. I’ve already promised not to tell any embarrassing Malaysia stories, although if he asks the right questions, I’m likely to spill all the beans.) And then I’m booked with a shopping and dinner date with a different friend and her son. (Wow. I just realized that my social life as a geographical bachelorette is entirely made up of being a third-wheel! I feel like there is some dissecting to be done on that topic…at a later date.)

Ordered departure has been many things in the month and a half I’ve been out of Venezuela. It has been walking away from colleagues and friends and a life in Caracas- at least temporarily. It has been way too many hours of unmentionable stomach issues. But it has also been reuniting with my colleagues and friends at Main State in Washington DC- at least temporarily. And it has been weekends of changing out of llama pajama pants and into turtle sweatpants. But, until the weather gets better and Thad gets back from the sunny days in Managua, I’ll make the best of my solitary hibernation and my slow slide into the nuthouse.


The Lighter Side of Heavy Bags

Being unceremoniously kicked out of a country is not a lot of fun. (Okay, there was some ceremony. Mr. Maduro made our expulsion very public and was seemingly thrilled with sending the Yankees packing.) There is a lot of heartache and tears in the process. Simultaneously it feels like you are abandoning your colleagues and their fight but also some (guilt-filled) relief that the next time you go to the grocery store there will be food to purchase and your queue wait-time will be minimal. This whole crazy situation is compounded by the fact that we have no idea what is going to happen or where we will be a few weeks from now, a couple of months from now, or by mid-summer. Back in Caracas? (Hopefully!) In D.C., still assigned to Caracas, continuing to work with the embassy and Venezuelan people? (Possibly.) Reassigned and looking for a new job/building a new community in Wuhan? Singapore? Lagos? Copenhagen? Panama City? (Not impossible.)

Going on ordered departure, saying goodbye, wrestling with conflicting feelings, and living with a daily dose of uncertainty are not easy, but that doesn’t mean this whole experience hasn’t been without its moments of levity.

When a dictator gives you 72 hours to leave a country and then your leadership and security teams decide that safety requires a more expeditious departure, preparing to go becomes a bit of a circus. For clarity’s sake, here was our “out of Caracas” timeline:

-Wednesday (mid-afternoon)- Mr. Maduro PNGs entire embassy

-Thursday (6AM-8PM)- Working at the embassy, getting officers and families ready to depart

-Friday (morning)- On a plane out of Venezuela

There’s not a lot of wiggle room there. And I’m not really a wiggly person, but I am a planner and it doesn’t matter how many times I talked to people about being prepared, there is no way to be fully ready to turn your world upside down in a matter of hours. For me, this  (along with the literal zero hours of sleep Wednesday night to Thursday morning) played out in some very strange packing choices.

After a day of controlled chaos at the office, I came home to find my suitcases laid out on the bed and ready to be packed. (For some reason, Thad, who had worked overnight the night before, so was home earlier than me, didn’t want to do my actual packing. Sometimes when I look at what I did/did not bring, I think he may have made better choices. At least then I may have had a winter-weather appropriate number of socks.) I started with work clothes, knowing that I’d be coming into the office in Washington. Dresses, skirts, blouses, camisoles, cardigans, blazers, ankle pants. I’ve got a pretty extensive and random selection of things to wear into Main State each day. (Thank you packing cubes! It is amazing how much more I can get in a bag with the Tetris-like assistance of these miracle-working plastic bags.)

Great. Office-wear is covered.

Next, casual/weekend clothes. This is a bit trickier as with the amazing weather in Caracas, jeans and a light shirt or a cute dress were my go-to options outside of work. Getting kicked out of amazing weather in January left me short on options that were DC-in-winter-appropriate. I grabbed what I could that would layer- mostly the couple long-sleeved cotton shirts that I kept for airplane travel, since I am always freezing as I rocket through the sky at 30,000 feet.

So far, this is all fairly standard. But this is where it all started to fall apart.

You see, late in the day we found out that American Airlines was going to give each of us a third checked suitcase for free, knowing that we were in a difficult situation. I feel like it is this bonus-bag that was my undoing. With two good-sized REI duffel bags cradling the load, I stared at an older paisley-patterned suitcase that has seen many overseas trips. What would I do with that extra space suddenly available?


That’s right. With packing seemingly under control, and pushing 10PM, I decided it was absolutely necessary that I load an entire suitcase with shoes. Black pumps, black dress sandals, gray heels, nude pumps, nude dress sandals, dusty rose Chucks, sky blue Chucks, bright aqua Chucks, black flats, brown flats, riding boots, tennis shoes. All of them strategically layered into the bag to ensure maximum space usage.

Did I not know I was coming to the land of DSW? I can get on the metro just a block from my apartment and be at two different DSWs on opposite sides of town in less than 20 minutes. Why did I need to empty my shoe closet?

But that’s not all.

You see, my shoe-tcase also had a huge pocket on the inside of the opening flap. Not big enough for shoes, it still seemed a waste to not fill it, so in when the scarves. Yes, scarves. Not winter scarves that would ward off the below freezing cold that I would walk to work in each morning for the next month (and counting), but fun and colorful “fashion” scarves, meant to pull an outfit together, but not necessarily to provide warmth of any measurable amount.

Which scarves made the cut? Let’s see. Blue and white with red crabs, gray with forest critters, magenta with tassel-y fringe, white pleated, coral and pink stripes, purple Count of Monte Cristo, blue chevron, Old Navy floral, Johannesburg teal with white elephants, and pink variegated. Yes. I brought ten non-functional (other than cute!) scarves with me on evacuation.

Don’t judge.

It isn’t over.

So, three suitcases (and one backpack) are packed with clothes and accessories, but my handy-dandy luggage scale says I still have some weight allowance and I know, especially in those expansive duffels, I have pockets of space left.

If you are packing up your life, what, other than clothes do you take?

The answer was easy: books.

I had a couple of piles of unread books on my nightstand, which I dreaded leaving behind. (Again, it did not seem to register with me in the fog-of-PNG that I was headed to the land of Amazon 2-day shipping, Barnes and Noble, and airport bookstores.) In went the books.

I evacuated twelve books from Caracas.

Yes, twelve.

A dozen.

When push came to shove, it was books that I was pushing and shoving into the crannies of my bag, smashing everything together so that the zippers would close.

But wait!

Before those zippers made their final onomatopoetic slides, there was still time for crazy to find a few more ways to wriggle into my luggage. Because, as I am figuratively watching the world burn, of course I need to shove my favorite throw blanket and a super weird and random stuffed sheep into the bag. To be fair, the throw blanket is the one that rests on the back of the couch and I sit under every day regardless of how warm it is outside because I love the coziness of a blanket anytime of the year.

The sheep though.


I have no idea.

The sheep was always on the bed in the spare room- a room that was largely used as storage space for our immense OTC medicine stash we brought to Caracas, as well as home to the suitcases and linens. Why I even wandered into that room on Thursday night is a bit of a mystery and then, as I scanned the space, why the sheep is what stood out as a “must go” item, I will never know! Whatever the reason, the sheep now sits on the dresser in my temporary apartment, judging me with his weird little smiling face on a daily basis.

At the end of the day, stuff is just stuff and I have very little in Caracas or here that cannot be replaced. (My wedding jewelry is already squirreled away with my sister-in-law, having never made the trip south to begin with.) It’s not a matter of what is here or what is there in terms of value, but more just a reminder of how ridiculous the combination of no sleep and lots of work stress can be. My evacuation pack-out brain was obviously not firing on all cylinders (evidenced also by the fact that I used a full ½ of my carry-on space to bring a Costco box of Rice Crispy treats to the airport to share because I was convinced officers and families were going to be starving. I did give out about half of the foil-wrapped treats, but still have probably twenty more still in the box, awaiting, I guess, our return flights to Caracas).

But, for the foreseeable future, if you’re in DC and you’re looking for some size 9 women’s shoes, a cute scarf, of just a sense of humor about this whole departure, I’ve got you covered.

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The Nine Becomes a Zero

Birthdays, especially decade-commencing ones, lend themselves to a bit of introspection. Popular culture tells us that rolling over from an age ending in a 9 to one ending in a 0 is a traumatic experience, and we can’t totally discount the wisdom of popular culture, after all, it is “popular.” Popular culture has brought us musical gems as “Baby Shark” and Rebecca Black’s “Friday.” It has graced us with cinematic marvels like Sharknado and Aquaman. Popular culture has also brought us the abomination that is the Kardashian empire. I realize that it’s quite possible that none of this is making my case that we must follow the dictates of “popular culture.” Regardless, it exists and it tells me I should fall apart with abandon this week. On a positive side, people’s current obsession with the KonMari method is a bright light in popular culture. While I am not on that bandwagon- moving every two years keeps my things at a naturally more minimalistic state and I cannot abide by the idea that I should have fewer books- it does seem like a good overall life-view. Blame it on pop culture or not, major birthdays do summon a bit of nostalgia and contemplation.

It hasn’t been a major dwelling point (Venezuela-living has put enough other things on my plate this last month), but there was no avoiding that the 9 was rolling over to a 0. I could easily get bogged down in the negatives of another candle being added to the cake, but in reality, I’ve got very little to complain about. When I turned twenty, I was newly married and in the middle of working on an English degree at a well-respected university. I was happy, but definitely living month to month and paycheck to paycheck. (Those were the days that we had to check the bank balance to see if we could splurge on a trip to Taco Bell and wandering the Super Target near our house counted as weekend entertainment.) My twenties expanded into wonderful years of teaching middle school English, a job I loved, and then a sabbatical from that passion to follow another, more budding one- travel. Two years of Peace Corps rounded out that decade- a period that forever changed the direction of my life. While teaching was still enjoyable, a bigger world was calling my name.

My thirties brought a whole lot of life changes. I went from being a home-owning middle school teacher in suburban Idaho to living a nomadic lifestyle interspersed with semi-regular periods of unemployment. When my husband joined the United States Foreign Service as a diplomat, I walked away from teaching (with original thoughts of returning, which for a whole variety of bureaucratic and personal reasons has not happened) and started a new life that means frequent moves, a revolving door of friendships, and a whole lot more adventures around the globe. Since I turned thirty, I’ve lived in Idaho, Washington D.C. (twice), Chengdu, Kuala Lumpur, and Caracas and visited countless (okay, not countless- I could count them up, but the list is probably only interesting to me) other cities on every continent except Antarctica. I’ve earned another graduate degree and my annual Christmas card list has addresses on it from six out of seven continents. (Antarctica is really a sticking point for me!)

If anything, my anxiety about turning forty is more about how much I will miss the incredibleness of my thirties and hoping that the next decade lives up to the last.

So, forties. I am just not riding the struggle bus on this one. (I’m not saying there is no twinge when I realize I should be a bit more diligent about the nightly face moisturizing routine or that those internet articles labeled “Hairstyles for yours 30s” and “Worst Fashion Faux Pas in Your 30s” no longer apply to me. Rather, I just am not losing sleep about being “old.” Forty is the new thirty, right? Right?) I recognize the significance of the change, but I’m excited to see where the next decade takes me. As we continue with the foreign service lifestyle, we can expect to live in three to four more cities in the next ten years. I have high hopes of doing something more with this blog, especially the book review part of it (somebody help me!) and I can’t wait to find a way to check that final continent off my travel list before 5-0 creeps up on my calendar. There is little to discourage me about this next 0-9 set of numbers. Maybe my random arthritises (not a word, I know, but I feel entitled to a bit of word-fabrication at that point in my life) will ache a bit more often (that’s what drugs are for!) and maybe it’s time to finally said adios to soda forever, but those are small prices to pay for what I can only expect to be bigger and better yet!

“With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.”
― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

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Fellow Flyers

Man, it has been a long time since I opened a Word document with the intention of doing a bit of traveling writing. I’m not sure where I lost this thread over the last year, as it isn’t an issue of not having anything to write about. Since I last wrote a real “travel musing” post, I’ve been to several new countries and even a new continent. As I think about where the writing bug went, there isn’t much to pin it on, other than maybe just complacency since we are back in the States for a stint. Granted, I’ve spent a good deal of time working on the “book musings” part of this site and trying to get my Card Catalog Reviews off the ground, but lately I find myself missing the longer-form writing as well. (Typing on a library catalog card forces me into a 125-word limit—it’s like an old-fashioned Tweet-limit. It works well for quickie book reviews, but not so much to explore explorations.)

I sit pondering the lack of writing over the last year, killing a bit of time in the American Airlines terminal of National Airport in Washington, DC and can’t help but be overwhelmed by the crisscross of humanity that fills this small waiting area. (It is only early November. In terms of sheer numbers, I am terrified for my flight to Idaho at Christmas.)

Airports fascinate me.

They give you a glimpse into real lives; for just a moment you pop into a life, having a small conversation in the security line or overhearing one side of a phone call or catching a glimpse of a bigger picture as someone heads away from home or is making their way back. Whenever I sit in an airport, I can’t help but build stories from these snapshots, filling in the rest of the story from the few snippets to which I am privy. These are just a few of the tales bobbing around in my head as I chill (literally- this terminal is freezing!) with my fellow passengers.

 Grumpy -“I’m pre-check”-Guy

Seriously. What is up with this guy? Yes, the security lines at DCA were surprisingly long this morning, but TSA was doing a good job keeping them moving and getting people through to their gates, but the guy behind me in line was having none of it. His entitlement was painful. To anyone who would listen, he explained that he is pre-check and flying first class and even though it is not printed on his boarding pass, he should be allowed to use that line because his travel agent screwed up and he really is pre-check. Plus, his flight leaves in 45 minutes and how is he supposed to make it through the line in time to make his flight? He announced this many times (loudly) to anyone near him in line and then twice pulled aside TSA agents who were walking by (probably headed to a much needed break from the public) to complain about his missing designation. No one really cared. Needless to say, we made it through the queue to the security machines quite quickly and I figured he’d settle down now that he was definitely going to make his flight, but nope. It was not to be. He got flagged for something when he went through the full-body scanner and the agent wanted to pat him down. Rather than just getting it over with quickly, this guy decided to put up a stink about how he was pre-check and first class and of course they would pull him out of line and make his take more of his precious time to clear security. This whole rant took longer than if he had just submitted to the cursory groping and headed to his gate. Maybe he is someone super important that I just didn’t recognize and he was off to save the world somewhere or maybe his was a fan of the Virginia Republican gubernatorial candidate who lost last night.  For sure his poor travel agent is going to get an earful this afternoon. The best part of listening in on this entire episode is that I too should have had pre-check (no first class for me), but for whatever reason it did not print on my boarding pass, so I too was waiting in that line. The difference is, I planned ahead and had myself at the airport with time to spare so there was no panic as I waited with my fellow travelers to be screened through to the boarding gates. I feel no need to know more of this guy’s story, as we’ve all spent time with a blowhard that is just too full of himself. (Trying to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, maybe he’s headed to a funeral or some other stressful event that has ramped up his attitude, but I get the vibe that this is just the way he moves through the world. Him first. You second.)


I rarely take a flight anymore without at least one dog being in the cabin, which I only have one issue with and that is that the pup is NEVER seated next to me. I would gladly take the seat next to the dog and happily entertain it throughout the trip, but somehow, I never have the right seat assignment. Today’s dog-lady is different in that I’ve been sitting here watching here as I type, her fluffy-blonde dog sitting on her lap as they both enjoy a bit of breakfast- together. The same breakfast. For every bite of the oatmeal-y looking mush she takes, she offers one to the dog. From the same fork. Yes, they are not only sharing a meal, but they are sharing a utensil. It is too early for this. To set the scene on this duo a bit more, I think it is important to note that the woman is rocking the “white, sorority girl” look, with skinny jeans and riding boots paired with a slightly sparkly white top and a puff-jacket that is less functional than it is fashionable. The pup, to fit in with the preppy theme, is wearing a pink sweater and is then wrapped in an animal print fuzzy blanket (I told you it was cold in this terminal!).  With breakfast done, it now appears to be canine naptime. Here’s hoping that pup is 7E!


She’s young and flying solo and apparently has decided to carry her entire closet as a carry-on. (I can’t complain about this a whole lot, as I have done the same thing, not so much to avoid the baggage fees, although those are obnoxious, but to avoid having to wait at the carousal for my bag at my destination. I love just gliding out of the airport upon arrival.) But, on top of having a rather bulky collection of items surrounding her, this fellow traveler needs to go get the requisite airport photos of planes coming and going, tarmac workers loading baggage, and a selfie, because it didn’t happen if there isn’t photographic proof. The problem is, it is impossible to juggle your entire wardrobe AND take a good, high-angle selfie, so she’s asked a random stranger sitting near her to watch her bags. I always find this an interesting exchange, as the stranger never seems totally comfortable with the request, and yet it seems like most agree. I always wonder how this scenario plays out if something happens with the bags. Would the stranger be invested enough to do something if someone else came along, claiming to know the young lady and riffle in or take the bags? I can’t really picture what happens if anything other than nothing happens. Of course, this is unlikely, and today was no exception. Selfies were taken and posted to Instagram (I’m assuming) and the carry-on bags remained safe and sound for their onward journey.


This poor man was probably at work before I rolled out of bed this morning, and for that he gets a certain amount of lenience from the start. Working with travelers all day long is probably a tough gig and I’m sure he’s not rolling in the big bucks for it. On top of this, I think his soul may have been irrevocably crushed by humanity. A small regional jet was loading from the same area of the terminal as my flight to Miami, but earlier, so I was able to observe the entire process, including the frustration as people refused to wait for their boarding group before trying to load on the plane. I’m not fully familiar with American Airlines boarding procedures as I tend to end up on United flights, but they seem to have a slew of boarding groups, going all the way up to nine (!). Apparently, those people in eight and nine were worried about finding places to stow their carry-on luggage because they kept trying to sneak into earlier groups. (To be fair, maybe it was as unintentional mistake by multiple people, but it all added up to a mini-fit by the gate attendant.) After a few of these sneakers, the guy came on the PA system and made a slightly snarky announcement about all the seats going to the same location and the plane would not leave with people still on the jetway, so just get in your actual group and be patient. It was quite grumpy for 8AM, but I get it. Just follow the damn protocol, people.


Flights with babies- they are unavoidable. Doing the Foreign Service thing, we have many friends whose young kids have stamp-filled passports and they get their wings at just six weeks old. Babies fly. And babies tend to not like flying. It hurts their ears, they are physically confined, there’s a whole lot of loud ambient noise, and it doesn’t help that they tend to be with stressed out parents. This little one was up early and I am sure off of her routine, and she was unhappy about it. The wails started in the terminal waiting area and continued down the jetway and held steady, in the seat directly behind me. Yup. I’m not sure how that works, but it always seems like there is a little one within kicking radius of my seatback. This one, luckily, was too little for kicking, but also too little for consoling. She finally fell asleep as we waited on the tarmac for takeoff, only to be awoken by the roar of the engines as we accelerated down the runway. Flying can be no fun and probably less so when you don’t understand anything going on around you, so I try to have a whole lot of patience with these babies and even more compassion for their adult-travelling companions. It is enough work to get myself from city to city, country to country, without tending to a totally dependent seatmate.

As I continue my people watching in Miami this afternoon, there is a whole new crowd of people to ponder about, including the woman who I estimate could have been a contemporary of the builders of Machu Picchu, wearing a beautiful (I am guessing) traditional Peruvian outfit (adorned with llamas!) that I’m just dying to know more about. There’s a story that needs told.

At this point, a truly introspective traveler is forced to ask, what story would someone imagine about me? Yoga pants, hoodie, Chuck Taylors, Jansport backpack. Add them all together and they create the foundation of what narrative? And how close would that story be to the truth?

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