Stardust.

I am not a politician. I have no sway in the ways of the world, and I am considerably uneducated when it comes to the many intricacies of what motivates action and reaction on a global scale.

I am not a survivor. I have been unfathomably fortunate in my life to see and experience the world without major repercussion or fear or danger that others live in on a daily basis.

I am a global citizen. I have been to Beirut. I've walked the streets with my parents, drank in their bars, danced, learned. I have been to Paris. I climbed the steps of the Notre Dame as a child, marveled in the historic museums, ate in their restaurants, loved. I have done this and so much more in fourty five incredible countries that this world has to offer.
I travel because I love our world. I love the cultures: so different they are enlightening, so welcoming they are inspiring. I love the languages: all foreign but somehow all translatable through body language and smiling eyes. I love the food. I love the smells. I love the transformation of a foreign land into something familiar. I love expanding what I think I know about the world and constantly learning more.

This is not a happy post.

I am a global citizen and I am afraid. I have seen so much good in this world. Laughing children in impoverished Africa. Generous hosts in desolate Cambodia. Rescued elephants in rural Thailand. Cultural celebrations at home in Trinidad. I’ve seen open minds and open hearts in every corner of this wide world we inhabit. But I'm afraid that that's not enough.
In light of what has happened not just in Paris but in our world in these past horrific days I am sad and I feel hopeless.

I do not have political opinions or first hand tales of survival. I have feelings. I have feelings that are hard to untangle from my unhappy heart, filter through my frightened mind, and articulate into wise words. I have feelings that are biased, uninformed, and unhelpful. I don't have a suggestion for how to make the world a better place. I don't have encouragement for those who continue on, unaffected by the atrocities that we have all faced. I don't have respect for the people that I am so afraid of. I have feelings. I have fear. Fear that the next victim will be someone I know, someone I love, someone I will never see again. I have sadness. Sadness that so many can say that about people in their lives, not just as a result of the attacks on Friday, but the violence every day. I have confusion. Confusion as to how someone made of the same stardust that binds my bones and pumps my blood can make a conscious and calculated decision to take someone else's life, to devalue another human existence. I have feelings, and none of them are good.

So this is not a happy post. But I will not apologise. Feeling is all that we can do at a time like this. Feeling is what keeps us human, what gives this stardust meaning. Make it worthwhile.

Thoughts from Places: Home

Home is: friends, family, and food. Home is hammocks, heat, and happiness; beer, bikinis, and books; sun, sand, and smiles. Above all, home is fluid.

My home is the one point that I have always come back to. Between the 7 countries I have lived in and 45 countries I have explored, home is the one place I will always return. The place with the memories from as early as I can remember, the place with my family always ready to welcome me back, the only place with pencil marks on an otherwise innocent white wall, marking my growth throughout my life. Some growth is easier to measure than others.

But, through all of this, my home is just as fluid as any of my travels. The house we have had for almost two decades has grown up with us: every time I return my parents have added something here, changed something there - much like the subtle differences in myself that develop between each return.
The friends I have had for my whole life have grown, changed, left, returned, developed and created.
And the country. My country has changed more in my lifetime than I have. It has gone from young and naive to grown and misguided, from safe to dangerous, from corrupt to criminal and back again. But like any growing adult, it has learned. It has flourished and impressed and improved as much as it has struggled. And we keep moving forward. 53 short years of independence cannot be expected to shape the perfect country, but we can - and we do! - continue to try.

My home has taught me more than any far off land ever could, has welcomed me back with more love and positivity than anywhere else in the world, and has shaped me into the person I am today.

For all the things you see and do... never forget the restorative powers of home.

Thoughts from Places: Maine

When in a foreign country it is important to embrace the local culture: do popular activities, eat the favourite foods, and live as the locals do. In each country I've visited I've made a point to try to find a welcoming host to show me how they live. A friend in Thailand, a local guide in Vietnam, an entire village in Cambodia... Back in the states I was fortunate enough to be taken in by the extended family of a very dear friend of mine. And it was the best American experience I could imagine. 

Lewiston, Maine may not seem like anything special. The city centre looks like most American towns (that I know of), the neighborhoods are cookie-cutter comfortable (in my opinion), and the people seem much the same as any other town in the Northeast (in my experience). But, for one action-packed weekend, Lewiston Maine became my best cultural experience in America. A summer cookout with Maine lobsters and tender steaks, followed by afternoon apple picking, a stunning hot air balloon town festival, and topped off baking fresh apple pies from scratch. As I stood like a fly on the wall watching the women in the kitchen and the men in the lounge, every single one with a smile on their faces, I could not help but think I was living the American Dream. 

That may not be everyone's American experience, but for that weekend it was mine. And I thoroughly enjoyed it. 

Even when you've returned, and the backpack is unpacked and you think you've regressed to reality, you can still find a welcome adventure in the most unexpected places. You never have to go far for your next great experience.

Body

In the last twelve months my body has...
Recovered from flu’s and fevers, been exhausted and exhilarated, cried, laughed, and screamed. It has known the touch of a man and the embrace of good friends. It has feasted on cultural cuisines, hiked me up mountains, swam me into waterfalls, and bathed with elephants.
In the last twelve months my body has gained weight, lost weight, and gained it all back again (and then some). My body has had cuts and bruises, tan lines and pimples, stretch marks and haircuts.

I have known insecurity, but I have never been able to let it linger for too long: for the strength and resilience of my own small body never ceases to amaze me. When I think I can't hike any longer it lifts me up higher, when I think I can't run any faster it takes me further. Whatever I think I cannot overcome my body proves me wrong. And that is a beautiful thing.

I am proud of my body, and I love every inch of it. Each scar that tells a story, each stretch mark which shows growth, each pimple that comes and fades, each unruly curly hair on my head. All of this is who I am: my body is me, and I am my body. And for that I am proud. And you should be too.

Thoughts from Places: A Return

I wasn’t going to write about this. It’s too personal I thought, too real. But coming back to reality is just as much a part of travel as the amazing adventures abroad, and I know many people who, like me, find it hard to readjust.

The truth is: coming back is hard. It’s hard because everything is the same, but you aren’t. It’s hard because you want to share your experiences, want to relive them by gushing about them to the friends you left behind, but they cannot relate. It’s hard because, believe it or not, life went on without you while you were away. People had their own excitement and joy, heartache and experience. And you missed out on that just as they missed out on you, and everything that happened between who you were and who you have become.

Coming back is hard because you miss the excitement. Because you crave the uncertainty of unfamiliar countries, and long for local cuisines that just aren’t the same in the West. Because you want to see the people you met along the way who you became so close with that you miss them like long lost friends, hoping that maybe they’ll understand that you are homesick for a place that was never truly your home.

Coming back is hard because when a place is laced with old memories it’s hard to find space to make new ones, and you don’t want to let go of all the ones you have just made. It’s hard because in the every day routine that you have returned to all of the wild & wonderful moments almost feel like a dream from another life, another version of yourself that you almost don’t recognise.
It’s hard to approach the familiar as you would the unknown, awkward to do alone here things that you would have been excited by there. It’s uncomfortable to conform to the comfortable.

But the return is just as much a part of the adventure as the journey itself. It may be hard, and it can get lonely at times, but it will never be so bad that the incredible experiences were not worth it. Embrace it; coming back may surprise you.

Travel

I have known many loves.

The love of my family: Never wavering, never questioning, ever present a short reach away. A love that taught me how to walk through the world, how to touch and be touched by my fellow people, of every creed and race.

The love of friends: Unapologetic and without judgment. A love that allowed me to grow from the best version of my awkward adolescence into the best version of my tentative womanhood. A love that taught me to laugh and gave me the safety to cry.

The love of a boy: True and honest, and young and eager, however temporary it was. A love that taught me as much in its ending as it did in its life.

Yet, of all the loves I've known, none is as much a part of me as the love of travel. A love that inspires me, guides my every footstep and dances with my future before I think to look ahead. A love that stole me as a child; creeping into my bones and infecting my marrow, and has wed me as an adult; binding with my blood cells and coursing through my veins. An ever present love, a companion when I need it most, and an ally when I don't. A friend.

A love of opportunity: the opportunity to visit with a family friend, a friendship forged in Trinidad & Tobago, borne in Texas, USA, and stretched all the way to Manila, Philippines. A love that has given me many friends, in every city I have explored. A love that allows me to bathe with elephants, cuddle with koalas, and hike with monkeys. An endless, generous love.

This love I bear is the most devoted love I have known, as much a part of me as my quick legs and restless soul. So even when I travel alone, with no companion but my duffel bag and naïve hopes, I am in the company of love: the love of travel.

Thoughts from Places: Cambodia

The hardest part of travel is not the carrying of heavy bags, not the uncomfortable transportation or even constantly wondering when next you will have a nice shower. The hardest part of travel is always the end.

Cambodia was a dream: a learning experience in the history of the country and the boundaries of my own humanity. I chose to tackle this part of the trip on my own. No tour to guide me, no activities booked ahead of time, just myself and my dreams - which quickly became a reality.

The contrast of leaving the big, chaotic, over-populated, hustle and bustle of Saigon in Vietnam and landing in green Cambodian fields was a welcome change. The tuk-tuk ride from the airport to my hostel was one of the happiest moments of my entire trip. There is something quite regal about traveling by tuk-tuk. With the wind in your hair and the dust in your eyes, the cab is open for all the world to see – and boy do they stare! And then I smile. And suddenly they come to life behind their enthusiastic waves and the excitement in their eyes. “They”, these people I will never see again: Cambodians, preserved in my mind as a passing blur of happiness.

This is my favourite part of traveling. The everyday reminder of the rapid nature of friendships forged en route. I get to know a friend that I already had but barely knew. I meet a girl with wildly curly blonde hair and a European accent, and before I even ask her where the bathroom is I know we are going to be friends. I am taken under the wing of my friendly tuk-tuk driver, and introduced to his family and welcomed into his rural village. I strike up a conversation with a young tour guide in a war museum and learn more about his life than I do about his country (though I learn a lot about both). I may choose to travel alone, but I am never truly alone. I am never lonely: I am constantly in the company of future friends.

I learned so much in Cambodia. I learned to enjoy my own company and to make strangers into friends. I learned about the tragic and violent history of the country, but also about the welcoming and kind nature of its people. I learned about the ancient Khmer empire and the amazing architecture that has survived centuries, tangled with trees. I learned about the circus school that teaches children how to make laughter a career. I learned how to smile in moments of silence when no one is watching. Most importantly I learned about the resilience, and the hope for the country. And I learned to love it.