Apologies, Lies, and Promises

I can’t seem to grasp this blog. Perhaps it is because the tapping on the keys and the glare of the screen is too rigid, too straight edged, too suddenly-everything-that-I hate.

I was raised on the slither of ink across paper. Nurtured by the percuilar essence of those blue lines jailing the substance underneath to lie still – lay open and pale and white and dead. I inscribed my thoughts with a flashlight in one hand and my own blue-or-black-bleeding heart in another and those words may fade and they may bleed and they may tear and burn and crumple – but yet, those are ok with me. Because they are me. And I can burn and bleed and crumple and if my words bleed, they bleed and the ink sinks back down into the ground. If my words burn, the flames illuminate the night and then will fly high into the twilight as gasses, and sink low to the earth – ashes to the ground. If my words are crumpled, perhaps my trash – one mistake of mine, will allow another to take it, spread it out, listen to the phrases that had been carved into the dead-white page and maybe – that trash of mine will be smoothed out and those words will take on a new meaning to the heart of another.

My words on paper remain.

But on this glass-and-plastic piece-of-shit that society has chained me to, my words are fiction. They stomp across the page in militaristic fashion. They are communism against my cursive-chicken-scratch-script that dances rhytmically to my terror, my agony, my enlightement, my serenity. My words are not alive in the back-lit screen that glares into my irises and dares me to look away. My words are another click of a mouse, another share of a like, another glance in a thousand and another plug pulled. A light switch. A dead battery. A broken screen. An error message. My words – cannot be burned here. They can not be crumpled or torn or bent or folded or coveted. They are gone in a click. Gone in a power outage. Gone like fire without the embers. Bleeding without the black and blue.

 

Forgotten.

I cannot touch, cannot feel. And this is my conundrum in this white-screened world of fictionality. I will attempt at conforming and throwing these thoughts through space time and time again, but truly, as my mind grows numb at the sound of the clicking, as my fingers obediently fly over rigid black squares, I lust after a page of white, a pen of onyx, and a silent world that cannot be googled.

 

 

 

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“Sometimes on the way to a dream, you get lost and find a better one”

When anyone asks me if they should apply for Bus2alps, to begin the process of trying to take flight and become a traveler, adventurer, and tour guide, the first sentence out of my mouth is always the same:

You are an idiot if you don’t at least apply.

I was stuck. Sitting in a glass cubicle in an office that I hated. My headset clamped onto my temples too hard. My eyes strained from looking at a computer program built in the 90’s (don’t ask…the company had many problems. Being computer unintelligent was one of them). I had been out of college for almost a year and I had an hour-long commute to a dreary, cement building by a decaying harbor in the horrible town of Lynn, Massachusetts. On my lunch breaks in early spring, I would launch out of my seat, grab my sandwich and run out the door and down the street to the sand. The beach was the only comfort in that place. I would roll up the legs of my ugly office pants and stand in the numbing water, watching the planes take off from Logan Airport, and wishing I was on one of them. If I had a really horrible day, I’d let my hair down and jump on the swing-set, pointing my feet to the sky, wishing I was looking down instead of up.

And then I was; peering out of the little oval window down onto the same exact beach I had paced for months. The nose of the plane was pointed toward Rome.

I had thrown myself into a life-changing opportunity that began with a delayed flight and a last-minute solo trip through multiple countries. Which was appropriate, according to my track record of travel previously. And then it began. Life as Bus2alps knows it. And it was beautiful, and I learned. 

In the past year and a half, I have accumulated so much knowledge, experience, stress, life lessons, and happiness. I conquered public speaking. Give me a microphone and I can ramble for hours. ( I can even tell people to “PLEASE LISTEN BECAUSE THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT” without sounding like an incredible snot). I have learned to navigate cities I haven’t even been to. I have more patience with people than I ever thought possible. I have learned the art of persuasive speaking – in ways that can make a rainy day seem like just the waiting time for a rainbow. I can communicate in languages you have never even heard of. Not fluently, but, you know, like hand signals and stuff. Try asking for a fork in Croatian and see how far you get…I got salad tongs on my first try. I can also actually communicate in Italian, though it’s broken, and I sound like a two-year old. But I can understand almost everything, and if a bus driver comes at me in rapid Napolitano dialect, I can get the gist of it enough for me to know if I should duck and cover, or simply nod in agreement.

I can stomp up to a hotel manager and demand that his night staff treats my students more professionally, and he actually listens to me.  Like, he actually takes me seriously. I can discover alleyways that lead to perfect views of perfect historical monuments that allow travelers with me to take perfect pictures that make their trips perfect. I am proud of my fun facts and secrets too. I can work my way through the Constant Contact program with ease and send out mass emails like it’s my job. I can give a walking tour of Venice, Milan, Verona, and Florence. (And piece one together in Rome if need be) I can use Facebook, Pinterest, Instagram, Twitter, every major social media program in ways that help build a company, instead of just ways to pass around cute cat videos. (Though I can do that well too) I can make friends in any country, in any language, but I can also make business contacts as well. I can suck it up even when I’m having a bad day – because I have to – because my happiness is the key to others. I can sell you something without coming off as a pushy sales person. That may not mean that I am a salesperson or make millions, but if I am telling you to buy something, it means that I believe that you are perfect for this product and this product is perfect for you. (Sorry I’m not sorry.) I can now explain to you in great detail about international immigration laws. I can find beauty in even the most desolate parts of a town. I can be planning on leaving for Oktoberfest one minute, and be absolutely (ok not right away but I got there) ok with going to Croatia instead. I can navigate the Rome bus and subway system, the Venice vaporetti system, the Milan Subway, and the Vienna subway with ease. I can multitask like a mofo.  I can live out of a suitcase every weekend and be organized enough that I have everything I really need. I have learned how to look completely (ok not completely but close) calm when going through passport checkpoints.  I can pick a movie for a group of fifty individuals and have the majority like it (most of the time). I can give a pretty kick-ass boat tour around the isle of Capri. I can say I have grown to be more confident in myself with asking for directions when needed. I can say that I have matured more in a year than in all of high school and college put together. I can dress so that I look European enough that I don’t get questioned on the streets. I can find cheap flights easier than most.

I have learned so much (that list is only what comes to mind right now but it is so so so much longer than that)  and have been able to experience so much: Flying off into narrow canyons in the shadows of the Alps, diving into the crystal-blue waters off of Capri, making friends in Sorrento, eating too much chocolate in Perugia while winding down its narrow cobblestone alleyways, parading up the same church isle as Julie Andrews, skiing the Jungfrau area until my legs gave out and my eyes hurt from the greatness of the ice, snow, and rock of the Eiger looming above, eating fish off the bone on an island hopping cruise that took us to the tiny towns of Croatia boardered with colorful, worn, wooden boats, falling asleep while looking at the white-washed world under feet while heading to the top of Mt. Solaro, having a humbling conversation with a weathered Roman man on the bus to the Vatican, diving through canyons full of glacier runoff, discovering secret gardens, making gelato, finding the closest thing to Belle’s library and dancing around in it almost alone, seeing the Lippizaner Stallions breathe white puffs of air as they rest in their stalls in the center of Vienna, sledding at night under the biggest sky with the brightest stars I have ever seen, walking the halls of an emperor’s summer home as the moonlight glints on the marble floors – still in tact after centuries.  I’ve hiked up mountains as I listened to the sound of Swiss cowbells, swam through caves trying to avoid the sting of jellyfish – pink against the green water, glowing and reflecting on the rocks above.

I’ve listened to so many stories, of old men when they were young and fit, diving into the water from the nearby rooftops, I’ve met aspirational rappers, and mothers missing their children as they study in other parts of Europe. I’ve met butchers, farmers, and jewelry designers. I’ve met American students that fit the stereotypes so perfectly, I have to apologize for them, and others that have baffled me as to how inquisitive, smart, and kind they are – and how willing they are to learn about the world. I have met bearded guys on the train that kept me company, I’ve met pilots with daughters my age that are working in South America, I’ve met crazy, crazy people who like to base jump on their days off (and secretly wish I could go with them). I’ve met people who have followed their hearts across oceans, and now live completely different lives than they thought they would – simply because of love. I’ve  met many that have felt unwanted and discriminated by the United States, and because of this, I have learned even more than if I had just stayed home. I have met many, learned so much, but there is one that I have met and learned from that is above all of this: Rami.

Before Bus2alps had an office, our hours of internet were to be held in Astor Cafe – left side of the Duomo, you can’t miss it. And if you know me, you know the story. But Rami Saltagi was different and because of him I survived and thrived in this past year. I met him early, but soon was in love with him and soon my dream of living and working here with Bus2alps, coincided with living and working on my relationship with him.

Maybe that was my downfall, because I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend and my company. For, truthfully, Bus2alps is a lifestyle, not a job – and having anything else is definitely difficult. Maybe it was because I didn’t entirely “fit in” with the group of people who were my co-workers. Maybe it was because of mistakes I made early on in my life with Bus2alps that I couldn’t fix or make up. Maybe it was simply because I could not be a salesperson.

But recently, Bus2alps told me that I had to make a decision. One way, I would salvage my history with them and maintain my position in the company so I could travel with them and do what I love for at least another semester – but I would be making a conscious decision that may put my relationship in more legal trouble than it already is in. In the past year, I had given the company my everything. I had worked my ass off. I had done everything they asked of me legally to do to the point where I had nothing else to give. But this was asking too much.

The other option? Quit.

Sometimes, on the way to a dream, you get lost and find a better one. I got lost. Lost in the foam of a perfectly created cappuccino, lost in the echo of “BUONGIORNORAGAZZE” every morning, lost in the shadow of the Duomo, and lost in the brown eyes of a European.

Bus2alps was my dream, and I lived it for a year and a half. But now, I’m sitting in Florence, jobless, but completely satisfied knowing that I have found so much of a better dream than what I had in my head when I flew over that beach.

Maybe the second sentence about Bus2alps will be filled with painful truths and some warnings, but I shake them when I say the first. I make it stick, because flying here on that first plane, was the best decision I have ever made.

So, though I never was given a thank you, I will give one to them.

Thank you, Bus2alps, for allowing me to learn, to grow, to see Europe. Thank you for the opportunities, the lessons learned, the tough skin, the lows and the highs. Thank you for the stress – it only made me learn to deal with it better. Thank you for the demotions. It only made me work harder. Thank you for the days at the lake, the nights on the mountains, the dinners under the Tuscan sun and the toasts of Champagne to being young, wild, and free. And thank you, more than anything, for putting me in Florence, when I asked to be in Rome. And for having office hours at Astor every morning at 10 am.

Thank you, so.incredibly.much, for that.

Surfing in Morocco

“Here, I cannot speak with a girl like this,” he says. His dark brown eyes squint into the Moroccan sun, searching the horizon for the next surge of water from the Atlantic. I don’t understand what he means. I lean forward to look at him closer and the nose of my board settles into the water. He turns and glances at me and then back to the water, his dark brown shoulders glistening with droplets of salt water.

“If I want to speak with a Muslim girl, it is secret. No one can know. Here is one. Turn,” he leans toward me and pushes at my leg, eyes still on the ocean. I look out, see the swell, and obediently turn and lie on my blue and white surfboard, chin hitting wax, resting my eyes on the golden Moroccan sand with Mounir’s board and back to my left. Still sitting, his muscles ripple as he balances.

“That’s stupid,” I say over my shoulder. “How can you talk to them in private if you don’t know them?” The sun is hot. He chuckles and tickles my foot.

“Paddle.”

“I couldn’t be Muslim,” I say as I feel the wave build behind me. He laughs again and takes hold of the back of my board, one hand resting on my calf, he pats it twice. The earthen scent of Argan Oil from his skin drifts towards me on the breeze.

“No…you are too strong….paddle,” he reminds me.

I sweep my hands into the water and under my board, pushing. I hear the wave crashing to the right of me. I feel Mounir push me forward.

“Stand up!” he calls under his French/Arabic accent. The wave carries me from him, surging me toward the beach. I can feel the board bouncing on the tumult. My hands push up against the board, my muscles tense, legs bend. I stand and shift my weight, easing the board into the side of the wave, gliding it down the stretch of water. I push against the water, up and down, pumping the board parallel with the wave until it breaks. I glide to the shore with the foam, jump off, feel the grit of the sand under the soles of my feet. I turn toward the horizon, raising an arm up to shield the sun. His silhouette gives a thumbs up as the ocean glistens behind him. I push my board out into the waves again, pulling against the surge. He smiles as I paddle to him, and shakes his head.

“You could never be Muslim, but it is possible for you to be Moroccan.”

The Art of Skiing with Children

“So nowww…” I started to proclaim in a high-pitched overly-excited voice. I am facing uphill, skis pointing outward with a little forty-pound bundle of unhappy child in between. “…. I want you to make your skis into the shape of a pizza slice!” I try to make this sound like the best idea in the entire world. That this feat would earn him a sticker, a hot chocolate, a puppy, horse, million dollars. Fail. The little bright blue eyes peeking out of what seem like enough material to clothe a small army start to tear up.

“But I don’t like pizza!” the four-year-old Tyler started to moan. This is my last lesson of the day. It is only two degrees out. The two of us are the only ones out on the bunny slope. I want to cry too.

Why parents believe that their children actually want to be forced into snow suits and strapped into skis for a lesson at seven p.m. on a Tuesday night is beyond me. But they come in hordes; bringing gifts of tearful children and mittens that I have to readjust every five minutes because their “thumbs are disappeared” within the abundance of Gore-Tex and polar fleece. An odd situation for many, yes. But this is my job.

I am a ski instructor.

I was born on skis. My family owns a house in Danbury, NH, almost at the base of RaggedMountain. I learned to ski when I was three years old. My father dedicated seasons of skiing to teaching me when I was young – endless games of follow the leader, shadow, say what I say and do what I do. I never was in a real lesson. I had my dad. He was taught by a Swiss man. I excelled just with him because I liked pizza, but more importantly I liked the speed and the freedom that forced me down the slope once I had K2’s on my feet. I was captain of my high school’s ski team. Skiing is a passion of mine. The thought of sharing that passion with others by teaching seemed appealing. I signed up to become an instructor in the fall – when ski excitement is at it’s peak. I was ready.

I started teaching lessons at Ski Bradford in high school. Ski Bradford is not a mountain. It is a hill located in Haverhill, Massachusetts that someone decided to put a chairlift on. One can see the top from the bottom, and cruise every one of its twelve trails multiple times in a few hours. Yet, it serves its purpose. Many youth of the MerrimackValley come here to learn to ski and/or snowboard. Many youth work there. As with any small, family run business, there are quirks to the workday.

It begins in the lodge. A classic ski lodge equipped with an overpriced snack bar, walls of cubbies, round tables and a stone fireplace. It’s perfect, until the kids show up. When the yellow school busses pull into the muddy parking lot, there is only one word for the action that commences.

Chaos.

It’s a lodge built for two hundred people that pretends it can hold five hundred. Plus, for every one individual, there is double that of those god-awful mittens, a helmet that is sometimes heavier than the owner’s head, clunky boots, coats, hats, and scarves. The sounds are unique. Questions of “Where is (article of clothing)?” or statements like “My boots hurt!” echo across the small room. With some, the only visible body part is their eyes behind goggles. Other older children “forget” to bring hats, mittens, and sometimes ski in jeans because proper attire of snow pants was opted “out of style” in the pre-teen world. Unless one is capable of staking out one of the limited tables and defending it with their life and, occasionally, a spare ski pole, the lodge can be a terrifying experience. Instructors also have to share this space. And it does get slightly frustrating when one mother feels the need to take up an entire table so as to set up her laptop. I usually opt out of this hothouse and spend my time on the slopes.

When not in lessons, I love to tear down the trails in seconds; eyes tearing and nose frostbitten. Ski instructors can be pinpointed on any area of the mountain. We have a uniform, per se, with our silver and blue jackets complete with nametags. They allow us to control the mountain, to maintain order among the peons of the hill. But when the call comes over the loudspeaker, my fast paced fun ends, and that coat that just a minute ago gave free range of the ski area turns into a leash to the bunny slope. I assemble for “line up” at the bottom of the hill with my coworkers, awaiting our lesson assignment.

No one takes his or her job seriously here. How can you when half the time you are acting ridiculous to maintain attention? I can honestly say that about ninety percent of my co-workers can execute the choreographed Cotton-Eye Joe dance perfectly in ski boots. I am perfectly capable of walking into work outfitted in full spandex gear without shame. There was one particular day where I was seen toting around a snowball with two pennies for eyes. His name was Henry the Third and it was mandatory that he existed in my hands for the entire duration of this one little girl’s lesson. Yet, at the end of my two hours with her, she proceeded to place him (the snowball) on the Magic Carpet and bobble away in her bright red ski boots, as if sending him off to sea. Though, perhaps in her eyes it was a magical journey for her frozen friend. Everyone that has been to Bradford has had a special admiration for the carpet.

The magic carpet is nothing out of a Disney Movie. Rather, the skiers that use it look more like checked bags in an airport than Arabian royalty. The carpet is a moving sidewalk per se, for skiers. Skiing onto it, the ramp grips onto your skis and moves up a small incline to the top of the bunny slope. Though simple in design, the out of the ordinary set up of a moving piece of land in the midst of a white landscape does seem like magic. Instructors can skate (moving on flat land on skis) up and down alongside the carpet twice as fast as those taking the leisurely ride the fifty feet up. Though sometimes, the little ones need assistance on the carpet, so I go along for the ride. “Don’t try to walk! Don’t move your feet!” The same warnings are always stated multiple times, yet every year movement happens, and little skiers fall. Falling is common within ski lessons, yet the predicament is heightened when there is moving mechanics under one’s bottom, rather than stationery snow. When down for the count, the child is still (like luggage) moving right along, only now on one’s bottom, rather than one’s feet. Some flail until the operator shuts the carpet down, others are motionless – vegetables on a conveyer belt, staring up at the sky through their goggles until I come to the rescue.

One child gave the impression his legs were without bones. Ironically named Tripp, he took the art of pretending to have noodle-legs too far. He was three feet tall, flaming orange hair, and a freckle faced grin that let out giggles as if they were part of the breathing process. He could be seen purposefully wobbling stating “Ohhh no! I fallinggg!” and drop like a fallen log onto the snow, laughing all the way. Trying to pick him up, he would be dead weight; his helmeted head lolling with giggles, loving the fact I was struggling, thinking it was a game.

 “Tripp…” I’d groan. “Tripp you have to get up or we can’t ski down and have fun anymore!” He’d giggle and pretend not to hear- flailing his arms. He would eventually stand again, but only with the promise of  a fire truck sticker.  If I simply had Tripp, there would be no problem. But in that particular lesson, I had four three-year-olds. Usually, by three, humans have grasped the concept of standing. However, it seems that at any age, once skis are put on a beginner’s feet, the theory of controlling one’s own movements ceases to exist.

Therefore, in Tripp’s lesson, I had four of these little bodies who were surrendering themselves to gravity. I would line them up at the top of the hill like little soldiers, ready for a run, and one by one, they would tumble. Sara would start sliding forward, Beau would be moving in the direction of the Magic Carpet, Tripp would be on his back, and Nikki, good little Nikki, would be standing, arms out as if trying to grab onto something, trying desperately hard to stay in one spot, but failing miserably. Sometimes, instead of telling them to stay still, I’d have to persuade them, and the whole scene would go with slightly more conformity. “I’ll let you make snow angels if we can stand still for ten seconds!” or “If we can stand in line right now, we can go down the steep part of the hill next!”

Most of my day is persuading, haggling, and bartering. The little ones aren’t dumb. They have the what’s-in-it-for-me attitude. Sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with business professionals, rather than children who think I’m old. One of the older ones asked me this past season what year I was born. When I told him 1988, he was almost bowled over by the shock of it.

At twenty-two, I’m not old. But when spending day to day with people who still can’t zip their own coats, according to them, I am ancient. For example: many of my analogies deal with some facet of Disney. The Magic Carpet, for example, is obviously a reference to Aladdin. Anyone my age would immediately understand. Yet, when I say, “You can be just like Princess Jasmine!” they turn their helmeted heads my way and look up at me in confusion.

“Who’s that?” They ask, blank faced. So I keep going.

“Do you know who Ariel is? King Triton? Snow White? Belle? The Beast? Bambi?! Cinderella?!” No light bulb goes on. Instead of knowing these characters that shaped my childhood, they talk of Justin Bieber and the Wiggles (which, in my opinion, are quite disturbing).

This makes me realize that I am old, or, older anyway. But with this job as an instructor, you can’t be old. Because you’re running around pretending you’re a hippo, duck, monster, horse, cat, dog, monster truck, snowflake (they make a SHHH sound FYI)   to make the kids laugh, or having snowball fights, or making snow angels, or singing at the top of your lungs on the chairlift. I like my job, not because of how much I’m paid (almost nothing), nor the deep freeze lessons with a ball of clothing that somewhere contains Tyler at seven at night, but because it’s a job where I can be as crazy as I want to be. At Bradford ski, the kids don’t mind if I don’t act “normal” or if I have the right grade point average. I don’t need to know what I’m going to do with my English degree after graduation.  I can be where I belong – on skis.

So if you’re ever in or around Haverhill next winter, stop by. Make your way through the lodge and come out for a lesson. But don’t complain about being cold, bring your own tissue because I am not wiping your nose, make sure you don’t lose your thumbs in your mittens, have bones in your legs, and like pizza. I promise you’ll be great.  I’ll even let you make a snowball friend with penny eyes; but only if I get to name him. He’ll be Henry. The Fourth.

Tourist or Traveler

 My heart races as we turn corners going too fast, but I can’t tell the speed because my mind can’t calculate the difference between miles and kilometers quick enough.

 “Daiiii!” Pleasseee! I playfully beg with the driver, an Italian with jet black hair and light blue eyes. My friends told me they think he could be dangerous. They said I should be careful, being in another country. All were worried, and stayed in our little apartment blasting American music and drinking too much cheap wine. None knew Italian. None wanted to know Italians. But I ran through the narrow alleys painted with graffiti to meet him anyway, and now he’s driving me towards a surprise. He laughs at my plea to slow him down and punches the little car up the hill faster. I am flying without wings.

Giacomo knows almost no English except for lyrics to his favorite American songs and the words “hello,” “washing machine” (because he thinks it’s amusing), and “girl”, my nickname. I speak to him in Italian, asking him again to tell me where we are going. “Aspetta, girl.” Wait, he tells me, and I pretend to pout as we climb the mountain side on the wheels of a dirty, white Italian Fiat. I close my eyes and listen to him changing gears, and feel the switchbacks on the narrow road we ascend. We had left the cobblestone roads of the city hours ago. Now the pavement is smooth, the air is colder. My heart races as adrenaline pumps through my body. I look down at my leather boots and skin tight jeans. This place has transformed me into an Italian-American hybrid. My instructors tell me I’m losing my American accent when I speak Italian. I wear too much eyeliner. I can maneuver my stilettos between the cracks of the cobblestones instead of falling into them. I want to smoke cigarettes.

Giacomo slows the car and maneuvers us onto the edge of the cliff at the top of the mountain and turns to me, anticipating my reaction.

 I look out onto Ascoli, its medieval towers illuminated in the night; encircled with dark arms of the two rivers that kept the town safe from enemies in the centuries before. I look over to him and he smiles at me, knowing I approve. It is like constellations on the ground he says to me, it is like the stars have fallen from the sky and created a city. I agree with him. And this is my home for now;  La citta delle stelle. The city of stars.

 

My time in Ascoli Piceno, Italy educated me in Italian culture far more outside of my classes than within them. I drove up to the rooftops of the world with Italians, not a tour bus. I had Italian friends. I shopped in their stores. I ate the local food, and ordered it in Italian. This is what is needed when travelling. Instead of sitting at the first restaurant you see, take a side road, take a back road, and ask the locals where to eat. You’d be surprised what you find. If you’re staying for a decent amount of time, live like them. Be a chameleon. Buy an outfit that you can fade into the background in. Watch the world around you go by without attracting attention to yourself as a tourist. If the women wear heels simply to walk around their daily errands, you wear heels not flip flops. If the women are more covered in the culture, cover more. Learn enough of the language to get by, and don’t be afraid to use it. It is simple to ask how much something is, even if the person you’re talking to speaks English. Break down the tourist stereotypes and step into a world you aren’t comfortable in. Listen, learn, and love.

The world is different to the tourist and the traveler. Which one will you pick?