For ever and for ever when I move

“This is my first time in Germany!” I excitedly told the driver of my carpool, a hitched ride from Amsterdam to Köln. We met in the cold air outside Hotel Ibis, the car an eclectic mix of persons all looking for cheap transport into Germany.

“And you’re going to.. Aachen?” he asked, in slow disbelief, making the soft guttural scratch of the German ‘ch’-sound. “Yup! Going to Aachen.” I smiled, without granting clarification, my own pronunciation so much more flat and lifeless. English: the neutral divide between lilting, dancing French and softly guttural German. Words pronounced by clicking the tongue definitively against the teeth, in the forefront of the mouth, largely ignoring the back of the throat, keeping our vowels chained beneath the tight restraint of our consonants.

It’s been a unique tour de Deutschland thus far, as I have planned my route via towns where my scattered collection of German friends reside. Aachen, Köln, Marburg, Darmstadt. Still to come: Mannheim, Stuttgart, Freiburg. I make a sharp cut across the western side of Germany, from the northern Netherlands border to the southern Swiss border. From Freiburg, I will take a bus into southern France and move just north of the Pyrénées, across the southern French landscape into Bordeaux.

It’s an incredible relief to be out of hostels and to stop paying exorbitant prices for B&B’s, which, due to weather and circumstance, were the only available options in Iceland and Scotland. In Amsterdam, the hostel was full of stone-cold potheads, dragging out their days in clouds of smoke in the dank basement entrance of the hostel. Three days of walking through the frozen city, watching snowflakes shimmer in the air, the sun a cold reminder of how far away summer actually is: It was enough. Make a beeline into Germany. Warm up the days with friends and couches and free cups of tea, forming a new resolution with self. Fill out job applications and purchase watercolor pencils. Begin to sketch again. Move south, until the short, dying bursts of cold and snow have disappeared into the folds of the warm bosom of a later spring. May, not March. Leave March behind in its own cold dregs and move south, for god’s sake. Leave this awful, bone-chilling cold behind–the long evenings twisting restlessly beneath too-thin sheets, the frozen toes, the heavy bulk of blankets and sweaters and socks, the unrelenting frustration at the sting, the bite, the chill–and move south.

To beaches, to sunshine, to shorts. From beer to wine, from heavy to light, from this collection of snapshots with friends to form the deliberate montage of self. Moving toward a purpose. Searching.

And all the while, with one clear direction in the back of my mind:

Move. South.

As a bit of a literature nerd, I was delighted to discover that Edinburgh has a vibrant, exciting literary community. Within minutes of doing some google-researching, I was able to formulate a list of events for every single day that week. Every day! There were different events, poetry events, every day of the week! Most of the events were free, some varying from 2-5 pounds, and all were open to anyone interested, either to participate or to watch: poetry readings, open mic nights, writing workshops, art exhibitions combined with literary performances… the list goes on.

I was able to make time for two separate poetry events, both of which I would highly recommend to any passing literary enthusiast looking for some cultural, artistic, local community events. The first was on a Monday evening, the event called ‘The Blind Poetics’, situated in a cozy little pub by the name of The Blind Poet. People sat on couches around the pub, situated around small tables, tucked into little nooks and crannies, all facing the small stage at the back of the pub. Due to the unexpected onslaught of snow earlier that day, the original performer was unable to come, and the event was opened up as an open mic night.

Open Mic Night @ The Blind Poet

These were like any of the poetry slam events I loved to go see in Madison, WI, when I was in University: people reading their poetry, encouraging others to do the same, some experienced readers, some doing it for the fun of it, others reading some truly incredible stuff. As a tourist, it is enormously refreshing to get off the street and into a cozy pub where people are participating in an excited, artistic atmosphere. Not staged, just real.

The second event I found solely based on my attending the first event: the poets encouraged everyone to come on Thursday night to Soap Box at the Cabaret Bar, a weekly open mic performance with varying themes. Soap Box is directly connected with the University, but open to the public. Did I mention it was free? Totally free, except for the beers, which are reasonably priced at 2.80 pounds per pint.

In the excitement of yet another evening of poetry, this one with the theme of “Rhythm,” I prepared a few poems of my own and tucked my notebook in my backpack to carry with me. Encouraged by the comfortable atmosphere, the genuine excitement of the participants and the incredibly welcoming attitude of Freddie, one of the organizers of the event, I signed up and performed. Having never performed my poetry in public, I took the assuaging encouragement of a pint, relaxed while listening to others’ performances, and then stood on stage to deliver one rap and three poems. After the event we hung around with several of the poets, chatted about travel, poetry and other such interesting topics before taking leave and sprinting off to catch the last train back.

Rachel Rankin performing @ the Cabaret
Photo Cred: Soap Box

Yours Truly, performing @ the Cabaret
Photo Cred: Soap Box

Guest Rapper @ Soap Box
Photo Cred: Soap Box

More information on weekly literary events in and around Edinburgh can be found at the Scottish Poetry Library. Otherwise: Soap Box can be found on facebook or on twitter @SoapBoxin. The Blind Poetics on fb or on twitter @BlindPoetics.

“She is like the morn in May
Mild, divine and clever
Like a shiny sommerday
She is mine forever.”

Six days in Iceland is not nearly enough. Two days in Reykjavík, artsy, charming, full of tasteful Viking men in full beards and flannel, many of them pushing baby trams. Vintage thrift stores full of furs and Icelandic sweaters, all fully beyond my price range. Nibbling on bread and yogurt (incredible dairy products! just incredible). Poetry painted on the sidewalks, art painted on the walls. Café by day and bar by night. 

We rented a car, a nicely aged Toyota: the rental was quite cheap, the petrol quite expensive. Three enchanting days driving on the ring road, Route 1 along the southern coast, through misty rainclouds, flooded streets, spots of sunlight on the horizon. Waterfalls spilling over the cliffs, rocky crags shrouding the glaciers behind. Rainbows shadowing clouds on the horizon. Stop alongside the road to take pictures with the Icelandic horses; admire their charming size and friendly dispositions. Face total isolation on the black misty beaches of Vík as dusk settles in, the whole landscape seeming somewhere between heaven and hell; if souls were meant to wander after the body has perished, surely this is where they must come.

In the glacier lagoon float icebergs the color of a melted blue raspberry icee; the wind is bitter and relentless. Warm mud masks in buckets on the edge of the Blue Lagoon, bury the feet in mud on the bottom of the pool, relax. Black lava landscapes, pebbles and sand, flattened volcano tops on the drive north to the coast. An unexpected invitation to a party, always say yes. Small chunks of shark meat that reek of piss, salted seaweed, mussels, sea anemones, scallops fresh out of the shell; salad, potatoes, meat carved off the carcass of a lamb, dancing and poetry and music.

Leave with reluctance and promise to return.

An Icelandic poem must be clever, written with humor and poignant intention:

“Sleep Lóu bird, long and slender
The lights nearby are dying.
There will be quiet on the sea
In the lakes and the woods are silence.”

Less than one month until my departure date.

I gave my notice to one of my three jobs, knocking timidly on the office door, my voice informing my boss of my plans with the slightest tremor. “Aren’t you afraid?” she asks, in the ever-so-polite way that Minnesotans inquire about personal things. In her eyes, I have rough plans sketched in the aftermath of a one-way flight, no contacts to follow, just the whisper of adventure. I am leaving my jobs, my family, my friends, my country, any stability I have established, to go off on my own.

I have a very nostalgic sense of fear, felt only when I think of how my life is moving in a different direction than those of my closest friends. Instead of engagements, weddings, job promotions, career paths, masters degrees, or PhD’s, I have a map sketched on a piece of paper, dreams of organic farms, hobbies to nurture, increased self-dependency to develop, global citizenry to establish. One path is not better than the other. Each path is blazed according to circumstance, opportunity, connection. In response: I am more nervous for the return than the departure, and I have only a vague idea of when the return will be.

My brain is clicked into travel gear, ticking through list after list. To pack: clothing, warm gear, preventative medications, health and beauty, gadgets. Each category contains its own column of items. To do: box up belongings, write letters, make last-minute appointments, purchase train tickets, make reservations, inform friends and co-workers. Sketch out calendars with remaining days, red and blue boxes that make my stomach simultaneously nervous and giddy, little sketches in the margins, lists on sticky notes, phone numbers and addresses.

This chapter of my life is drawing to a close; the next chapter is rustling with promise.

As I get in the car after our conversation, turning the key in the ignition, listening as the engine whirrs into life, emotions begin to swirl violently in my chest. Excitement, fear, a hysteric flush of realization at the reality of it, months of talking about it and suddenly, we are here:

Balancing on the delicate cusp, still before the mad rush of beginning.

It’s true, I haven’t written in quite some time. Over a year, in fact. I drew up maps after I left Korea, following longtime dreams to travel on my own for an extended time. I flew from Seoul to Beijing with the intent to take trains across China, through Tibet, take a jeep to the border of Nepal, jump a bus to Kathmandu, work my way to India and train my way down the subcontinent to the very southernmost tip of India, where I would take a ferry to Sri Lanka and visit the tea fields by train before flying home for Christmas.

Not everything happened according to plan. I was foiled in Tibet and ended up spending the entire week in Lhasa city before flying, expensively and without much of an alternative, to Kathmandu. I flew over Mount Everest instead of visiting base camp by jeep. The pilot announced its presence as we flew over, and all the passengers stood up and rushed to the right side of the plane to peer through the tiny row of windows at the snowy peaks below us.

I volunteered at an orphanage in Pokhara, the experience both a blessing and a curse. I trekked to Annapurna base camp with a group of girls I was incredibly blessed to meet; their laughter, excitement, and optimism gave me the energy to continue traveling alone. I traveled to Lumbini, the birthplace of Lord Buddha, and walked through the jungle in Chitwan, searching for tigers but finding only footprints. I got e-coli in Kathmandu during a home stay in the house of a grandmother I met at a bus stop; I rode on the back of a motorcycle to the hospital, sick beyond belief, a week after neglecting to go to the doctor. I took pills and got better, shat in regulation, began to eat food other than oatmeal, bananas, and buffalo milk.

I crossed the border between Nepal and India in an exhausted blur. I rode trains through India, indulged in sweets in Calcutta, walked among the pyres in Varanasi, cried at the entrance of the Taj Mahal in Agra. I drank the most amazing lassi in Jaipur, met friends in Bangalore, sat with the cows on the beach in Gokarna, amazed at the starfish in the sand.

I flew to Sri Lanka, and in my week there did nothing but sit on the beach, ride motorbikes, eat mangos, make friends. I flew home for Christmas and slept through most of it, culture shocked and jet-lagged and exhausted. I hibernated for three months and visited friends across the states, in Madison, Wisconsin; Bozeman, Montana; Minneapolis, Minnesota; Pittsburgh, Boston, New York. I finally got a job, three of them, and haven’t stopped working since.

And now, it is almost time to leave again. My feet are itching, my brain whirring, my heart thumping in my chest.

Flowers and people.

Cherry Blossoms in South Korea.

Korean grandfather, Yeoju, South Korea.

Little pink blossoms, Yeoju, South Korea.

Basket bike and a sunny day, Yeouido, South Korea.

Magnolia flowers, Yeoju, South Korea.

Jinhae Cherry blossom festival, South Korea.

The world waits….