Month: June 2008

I’m terrible at falling asleep. For some reason, as soon as I lay down, my body ready to rest, my mind comes alive. No, no, it hasn’t been shut off all day, I swear, but it’s been focused, allowed only to think about the task at hand, not wander or wonder. So when there is no more goal beyond getting to bed, my mind explores, recalling things I saw or read earlier in the day, asking questions that have no answers (or at least ones that can be answered without major research), ruminating on what lies ahead in this game we call life. In order to combat this, I try to ease into bedtime, lying on the couch for a good hour or so before I head to the bedroom, letting my mind wear itself out.

It doesn’t always work, however, and sometimes I end up in bed, staring at the ceiling and then turning to Jeff—poor, poor Jeff who can fall asleep the minute he closes his eyes but rarely is allowed to—with something that I just have to discuss. Our latest such conversation, begun long after the clock struck midnight, started like this: “Jeff, do you think that whales…let’s say orca whales…more specifically, let’s say orca whales that live really far apart, like the ones up in the San Juan Islands and the ones down in Patagonia…”

At this point, he simply bursts out laughing. (Have I ever mentioned that I have the most amazingly patient husband in the world?) He, like you, I’m sure, was wondering where the hell this conversation was going. And he, like you, I’m sure, was more than a little surprised to find out that I wanted to have a conversation about language and communication. What I wanted to know about those whales was whether two whales, that were of the same species but lived in different places, would be able to communicate with each other should some day they cross paths in the big, wide ocean. Jeff figured that yes, they could, and I figured he was probably right, although part of me also thinks he was just saying that in the hopes I’d be quiet and go to sleep.

But no such luck. [Insert evil laugh here.] Because really my big question is, why can’t us humans do the same?

Although I guess that’s kind of unfair, because technically we can communicate. We can gesture and draw and find some way to get our point across, but it’s not the most elegant thing and it’s often ineffective, not to mention entirely frustrating. Why, I want to know, can’t I just walk up to someone—another human, another member of my species—and just say what I need to say? Why can’t we all just speak to each other?

Have you ever thought—really, really thought—about language? Every once in a while I do, usually inspired as I was that day with an encounter (this time on the Metro) with people speaking a tongue I did not know. As I rode home, standing in a crowded train, listening intently to words that meant nothing to me, I was struck by the absurdity of it. Of how, here I was, practically in the laps of these people—people who have the same DNA sequence as me, people who probably have very similar hopes and fears as me—and yet I could not have a conversation with them. They may as well have been an entirely different species. I may as well have been another species. In all honesty, we probably would have had an easier time communicating had we both been whales.

Language is one of the things that sets our species apart from other species. It is our grand accomplishment. It allows us to go beyond the physical and explore the existential. It is through language that we see the world, that we define our world. It is nearly impossible for us to grasp anything for which we do not have a word. Language is amazing, really.

Yet language is also a terrible stumbling block, for it doesn’t just set us apart from other species, but also separates human from human. When I think of all the languages we’ll encounter on this trip, when I think of all the times I’ll be tongue-tied and unable to express even the most basic thought, when I imagine all the conversations I’ll hear but not understand, I get frustrated. Ethnologue, considered to be the most extensive catalogue of world languages (though not believed to be complete), lists 6,912 known living languages. Holy bejesus.

Did you know that 29,000 people speak Hdi; 8,000 people speak Viemo; 136 people speak Zo’é, 120 people speak Obokuitai…?

It boggles my mind. And that’s when I consider learning Esperanto. But then I realize that that would be just one more thing to keep my brain churning late at night, and considering how few people really speak this “universal” language, I’m probably better off just figuring out how to best act out “Where is the toilet?” without appearing completely crude. Wish me luck.

We’ve all seen them, the backpacks decked out with the red-and-white maple leaf patch—a proud proclamation of Canadian citizenship…or so the wearer wants us to think. Without any interaction with the owner of this maple-leaf bedecked backpack, it’s not always clear who’s sporting this piece of cloth. Is it, in fact, a Canadian, who would rather die than be thought an American? (Because, you know, we are terrible, horrible, no good, very bad people.) Or is it an American who thinks that by sewing a maple leaf to his bag he can dupe everyone into liking him, because who, after all, dislikes the Canadians? (Or knows enough about them to have feelings one way or the other.) It’s one of life’s great mysteries. But let me clear one thing up for you: if you see a maple leaf on a backpack, you can be sure it doesn’t belong to me. Here are eight good reasons why I won’t be buying a patch and getting out the sewing kit.

8. I’ll be found out as soon as the weather turns cold. I’ve been to Niagara in January and Winnipeg in February, and the weather those Canadians put up with is brutal. It was -50 degrees Farenheit outside and the man I was working with in Winnipeg was training outdoors for a marathon. Crazy people, I tell you. I don’t do well when the temperature drops below +50 degrees Farenheit.

7. I firmly believe that the last letter of the alphabet is pronounced “zee,” not “zed.” One round through the alphabet, and I’m screwed.

6. I prefer Aunt Jemima to the real thing, which would probably be considered sacrilege by the folks dwelling north of our border. Also, I like to be able to tell my bacon apart from my ham.

5. My iPod contains zero songs by Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain, Bryan Adams, or Celine Dion. And if requested, I wouldn’t be able to sing the Canadian national anthem beyond the second line (although I could sing that much with gusto). But, hey, wait, how many Americans can make it all the way through the Star Spangled Banner?

4. I don’t sprinkle my speech with nearly enough “ehs” and “you knows”, and when I’m tired a bit of a southern accent can come out. I’ve yet to meet a Canadian with one of those.

3. Hockey is maybe my least favorite sport. I couldn’t hold a coherent conversation on it to save my life.

2. I’ll go ahead and admit it, I have no idea who the prime minister of Canada is. Those real Canadians would smoke me out in a second.

1. And oh, yeah, here’s a good one. Because I’m an American, damn it, and I’m proud of it.

Let’s face it, at the current moment, America isn’t the most beloved country in the world, but if you take a moment to think back through history, you might remember that the U.S. has in its relatively short history done a lot of good for the world. Like most every other nation, we’ve had brilliant successes and startling failures; ours are just usually on a grand and very public scale. I do feel that we have done some shameful things; I also feel that we have done many noble things. As a person, I’m the same way, and I don’t disown myself, so why should I disown my country?

Additionally, in my previous travels, I’ve found that the majority of people distinguish between a people and its government. After all, not every Venezuelan agrees with Chavez, every Iranian with Ahmadinejad, every Zimbabwean with Mugabe. If we give them the benefit of the doubt, they will return the favor.

And finally, as a respectful and responsible traveler, I have the opportunity to have people associate good things with America. Why should I, with a maple leaf sewn on my backpack, give Canada undeserved credit for producing a traveler that respects cultural values, that strives to speak at least a bit of the local language, that cares about what local people want, need, believe, and care about, and that believes that every other life is just as valuable as my own? There’s no way I’ll do that. No, instead I’ll let it be known that I’m from the United States, and I’m not loud or obnoxious, don’t travel to get drunk for cheap, and I don’t so much as own cut-off jean shorts, a fanny pack, or a star-spangled bikini top.

So my fellow American travelers, I now challenge you to join me in putting on your big boy pants, just saying no to the maple leaf, and traveling as a proud representative of the United States. Let the world know that you, brave traveler, are from the good ol’ U.S.A.

(Unless of course you are a loud, obnxious, frequently drunk, navel showing, bikini-top-to-temples wearing, “do you speak English” yelling, ugly, ugly, ugly traveler. Then, by all means, please get yourself a maple leaf for your backpack, the bigger the better. )

(Sorry, Canada.)

Earlier this year, while in Houston, I visited a good friend from college while she was also in town visiting her dad. I briefly discussed our travel plans with her dad, and as we ended the conversation, he said, “You must have gypsy blood.” I smiled and nodded. If you look at my history, it’s easy to think that.

At 14, I told my BFF that I couldn’t go to Florida with her as planned because I was going to Ireland instead. No one in my immediate family had ever left North America, yet when I was offered the chance to backpack around Ireland, then live with a host family, I didn’t hesitate. Instead I found an under-the-table job (I was only 14) helping out at a volleyball supply store to help fund my travels. At 20, I said Auf Wiedersehen to my college friends (and Jeff) to spend a year studying in Freiburg, Germany. At 22, I told Jeff that DC would have to wait a year, turned down all the job offers that came with 401ks and health insurance plans, and moved to Greece to teach English for a year. And now, at 27, I’m walking away from the federal career-permanent job that everyone in this area is dying for to traipse around the world for a year. But is it in my blood? I’m not sure.

Now, Jeff, he’s another story. I’d say that it’s certainly in his blood. Thanks to his mom, who immigrated to America in her 30s, Jeff holds two passports (U.S. and Sweden). His mom rode the Trans-Siberian Railroad across Russia and worked with Cambodian refugees while in Southeast Asia. Together his mom and dad toured Africa in a Land Rover they bought long before they were Jeff’s mom and dad or even a couple. This was the family he was born into; these were the stories he grew up with. Extraordinary travel was nothing if not ordinary.

My parents, too, have traveled. They have their stories. Funny stories, poignant stories, memorable stories. But they are stories of travel within the United States…trips to the World’s Fair, long station wagon rides from Kentucky to California.

Like most Americans, in this country of immigrants, I have that long ago brave relative who left behind the homeland to begin anew in an unknown place. Yet, since then, my family has stayed put. My parents were born and raised in Louisville. They bought a house shortly after they were married, and they still live there today. My grandparents live in Louisville. Most of my aunts, uncles, and cousins live in Louisville. I am not sure that anyone on my dad’s side of the family has even left North America unless they were on a tour of duty with the military. No, I don’t think I can claim gypsy blood.

So what is it that makes some of us stay and some of us go? Is the desire to travel something we are born with, something in our genes, passed down from generation to generation, perhaps remaining latent in multiple generations before emerging somewhere down the line? Is it something learned, some desire we acquire from the tales of others, from books we read, from movies we see? Or is it some combination of personality and experience, temperament and opportunity?

I’m not sure, but I know whatever it is, Jeff and I, despite our different upbringings, both have it. And it runs so deep in both of us that when we try to think of how this trip came to be, we can never figure out when or how it originated. There was no sitting down and deciding, no weighing of options, no official announcement to family or friends. The trip was always there, ever evolving, until at some point one of us finally said “We are doing this, aren’t we?” and the other of us said, “Of course.” And that was that.

Gypsy blood? Maybe.

Or perhaps we’re both just a bit crazy.