Write a flash essay about a moment of travel, assembling a collage of the experience with as much sensory detail as possible.
Write a flash essay about a moment of travel, assembling a collage of the experience with as much sensory detail as possible.
24 responses to “Travelogues”
It’s hot. The car rattles in time with the uneven roads. The air conditioner blows. The radio plays unheard. Breathing. My mother snoring. My father tapping his hands against the wheel. The shaking of our camper behind us. Bright light filtering through the window into my eyes. It’s hot.
Outside, the scenery has been the same for hours. Fields. Cows. Farms. Other cars. We’ve played every game. I’ve watched every movie. I’ve read every book. I’ve drawn every picture. We’ve been in the car for hours. Days. Weeks. Years it seems.
The seatbelt is too tight. The seat too scratchy. My clothes stick to my small body. I want to sleep. I got none the night before as we braved a storm in our old pop-up camper. But I can’t sleep in cars and the sun is too bright after a storm.
My dad says we will be there soon. I’m not sure where “there” is. Another camp site. Will it be green and wet like the first? With tall trees sheltering us and daddy-longlegs balancing on flowers. With low fog like smoke rippling around the mountains? Will it be open and airy like the second? With a massive field and a still lake in the distance? Or will it be like last night. Storming. Miserable.
I don’t know. But what I do know is that we will be there soon. To whatever park. And we’ll go on a hike and see the world. It means little to me right now. To see clear blue pools. Massive geysers. A bear trodding along. Mountain peaks grasping for the sky. And more stars than I’ve seen in my life.
Staring and wondering at it all.
I was five years old when my family and I went on summer vacation to the Dominican Republic. The day had been spent doing what I have always enjoyed most with my family: going to the beach and soaking in the warm sun. I’ve always appreciated the beach and believe that the sun can heal. My father rests on the sand with my siblings and me and holds a sandcastle-building competition to see who can build the most elaborate castle. It was always a tie among my siblings. That day was spent in complete joy. I recall going to bed with the fragrance of fresh ocean breeze pouring in through the windows and feeling my sunburned lips fall against each other as I steadily relaxed myself to sleep. Nothing could have possibly gone wrong. Until I was awakened by the sounds of commotion all around me. I wake up to see my sister and mother scurrying around the hotel room looking for items I don’t recognize. I look around for my brother and notice that he’s crying in a corner. I turn around to find the last person, my father. His body is violently shaking on the bed, his eyes are rolled back. It came back to me when I remembered how irritated I was with my mother for asking my father to drink less soda, eat less sugar, and eat healthier. It is now clear to me that my father is suffering from a diabetic seizure, and if he does not awake soon, he may die in front of me. Fortunately, my mother always took additional medicine and precautions to ensure that my father had enough insulin for emergencies like this. The next morning, I recall going to see my father in a small hospital and wondering if he was going to be okay. After I made sure he was all right, he told me to build him the biggest sand castle he’d ever seen. And that’s exactly what I did. Since that vacation, I’ve never taken a minute for granted with my parents because I know now, that things can go wrong. He is fine now, but there have been several seizures since then.
The car ride was silent and the ac was broken. I sat in the back trying to adjust my seat belt so it would stop sticking to my sweat and sunscreen covered chest without drawing attention to myself. I resisted the urge to bounce my knee knowing it would require peeling my leg off the hot leather seat. My dad reached over the center console and gave my moms leg a squeeze. She turned and looked out the window. He returned it to the wheel.
We pulled into the parking lot and I could smell the salt in the wind. My dad parked the car and I looked up when I heard my moms voice.
“Max the car’s gonna bake.”
“There aren’t many spaces Laurel. I don’t know what you want me to do… you want me to keep looking?”
I could hear the annoyance in his response even though he tried to make up for it by offering a solution. He looked at her, waiting for an answer, but she just sat still, looking straight ahead with her hands folded in her lap. After a few moments he emphasized his question.
“hmm?”
“Whatever Max.”
“Fine.”
He twisted the key in the ignition and the car sputtered to life.
What do you do when you’re trapped in a country you don’t know, immersed in a language you don’t speak, with parents that can’t even communicate in the language they were raised with. Where do you go when you don’t know how to read the signs for the bus, and you’ve been babysitting baby boomers for the past eight days. What do you say to try to mediate the triggering comments spat back and forth, and fill the disgruntled silences with topics that surely couldn’t lead to controversy. How do you resolve conflicts that were born a decade before you were.
My eyes scan the sand searching for that cool shiny gray color and that distinct shape that I’ve been looking for for hours. Nokomis beach is the best for finding shark teeth, and even though my shoulders always get burt from hunching, it’s worth it. I spot what could be what I hope it is and my hand shoots into the shallow water grabbing frantically before another wave comes and eliminates my chances. I open my fist and let the wet sand sift through my fingers wondering if I’ll be victorious.
Fail. I bet my dad’s found so many.
We are sitting and waiting. Waiting for the train to come. The bench we are sitting on is cold and it is raining. It is the end of May but that did not stop it from misting a little while we waited around for our train to arrive.
A few minutes ago we had gotten off our bus from Budapest. We were outside of Graz, Austria. The directions said that the train station was a five-minute walk from the bus stop but we did not anticipate that the bus stop for Graz, Austria would be in the middle of nowhere, on a commercial road with only a few shops, while additionally being in a country that we did not speak that language.
With our suitcases in hand, we begin to make our way to the train station. Rolling a suitcase on a sidewalk never makes a pleasant sound but the sound of the wheels on the concrete sounds even louder when the only other noise around is the woosh of passing cars. The cars make me nervous. I never like to walk on the sidewalks of big streets, especially with a suitcase full of my stuff. The gray sky and mist coming down made me want to get to the train station quicker.
We leave the large street and pass over a bridge and see train tracks. Once they come into view I feel more at ease, but only a little bit. It was an easy enough walk, even though we did not expect to be so far out of the city.
The train station was not a train station but a train stop with a few bus-stop-like benches for people to sit. There were a few other people also waiting for the train as well.
The long gray cement of the stop matches the gray of the benches and the gray of the sky. We stroll over the one of the benches and take a sit. The seat is cold but a weight is lifted off my chest when I take my backpack off my shoulders.
When we check our directions again to our hostel, it says it will only take 10 minutes to get there. But to our surprise, it says the next bus is not scheduled to come for another 40 minutes. We looked up the Graz transportation website for more information but none of it was in English.
The bigger cities in Europe normally have English translations everywhere because of all of the tourists but Graz was not that big of a city so all of the signs, websites, and information was all in German. We were now wondering why we had chosen to go to Graz in the first place – maybe we should have gone to Vienna but when planning our trip. Graz was the city I had picked to be the stop on our way the Prague.
Finally a train approaches. But it was not going the right way. We watch as it comes to a screeching halt. All of the five other people on the platform with us got on that train, leaving me and my sister alone with our suitcases and bags on the platform.
We still had 35 minutes to wait for our train. Maybe we could take a taxi or Uber (or another service like that) but we ran into the issue of not knowing the language again. Waiting 35 minutes is not a long time but we had already taken a bus from Budapest to Slovenia to transfer buses to go to Graz, so we were tired and ready to stop lugging our luggage around. We were also a little cold and worried it would start raining harder before the train arrived.
We also had another issue. We did not have tickets for the train and had no idea how to get tickets. We tried to look it up but again, could not read German. We were hoping that if we got asked on the train for our tickets we could explain ourselves without getting a huge fine for not having tickets. As we waited, a little nervously for our train, we got to experience some Austrian nature. It was beautiful and very green. There were tall trees on either side of the tracks that created a wall between the trains and the rest of the world. It was nice, after being in the busy city of Budapest, to be out in nature. It smells fresher here too. Budapest smelled like good food and people whereas here smelled like fresh rain and trees. It also left good to stretch out our legs and arms after being on buses for hours.
Our waiting finally came to an end as another train finally arrived, coming to a screeching stop before us. This one was going in the right direction. We get on and head into the city of Graz.
I can barely keep my eyes open but when I do, they’re blurred by tears. It’s sweltering in the North Carolina heat but the AC blows on my upper arm incessantly. It’s too much. I’m hot all over but uncomfortably cold in that tiny spot. I flick the fan away from me with sharp nails and a little too much force to be justified. Now I’m just hot all over. My heart feels ready to leap from my chest and my hands spasm as if determined to reach for the fan again. I force them to stay resting on my warm legs, splayed out and tense.
I can taste the hasty pancakes we ate before we left. The sweetness of the syrup swirls crudely with the salt of my tears. My mother does not look at me. I am turned away from her. The car is deadly silent in every way that matters, even as Dolly Parton sings fiercely into the air. My father drives behind us — “poorly,” my mother comments. I pretend to laugh as tears force themselves into falsified joy. It is as if one arm is tied to my house in North Carolina while the other is anchored to the car that I sit in. I’m being stretched thin; soon I will split down the middle and my entire being will spill onto the sweaty leather seat. Whether that will happen in North Carolina, Virginia, New York, or even our destination, Mount Holyoke, I have no way of knowing. I’m still hot.
For some reason, I cannot acknowledge what I feel. I turn away from it like a moth to the cold. I think nothing of the loss of home and the nerves of college. I only think of the plainness of the fields and the pick-up trucks blasting by. I think nothing of the solitude of the car, nothing of the loneliness I will soon feel. My attention is caught on the blue of the gas and restaurant signs on I-95 North. Nothing in me turns to the texts I sent the previous night while sobbing in the alcove in my too-cold room, surrounded by books I never read and plastic trophies I barely got. No, the tears that drip down my burning cheeks are because of the fan blowing unforgivingly away from me. I shake at the thought of it. I’m cold for a flash. It’s sweltering as we cross the border to Virginia.
When I crawl out my window I take care to make as little sound as possible, moving as slowly as possible. I can feel the spiderwebs from the bushes right outside my window on my leg as I blindly bring my foot down to the ground. Cool air raises the hairs on my legs. I breathe. Once I’ve made it out the window, leaving the screen and glass ever so slightly cracked I run to grab my bike I’ve left by the back door. I climb the hill on the side of the house not bordering my parents’ room and the midnight dew wets my ankles. When I’ve hiked to the road I hop onto my bike and I’m off. Blood is pumping in my ears; it’s exhilarating to move when you shouldn’t be.
The air that flies through my hair is heavy, damp, and almost cold, but it’s the dead of summer, and even in the middle of the night the South stays mild. The whole world passes by me in a blur and the roads are littered with potholes making my ride slightly treacherous, but I still ride with my hands outstretched at my sides. Maybe it’s to show off, maybe it’s just to feel like I’m flying for a bit. Maybe it’s a bit of both. Even though it’s 2 am the moon is bright and there are no clouds in the sky. You can see every star in the sky for light years. The road is lit by street lamps that create a warm fog around them. The clouds are on the ground and it looks dystopian. Scary even, but I’m not alone.
I turn to look behind me, putting my hands back on the handlebars. They are wet. She rides behind me smiling, with long black hair whipping out behind her. Her hair grows so fast, I am jealous of how it moves. We zip through familiar streets made new and exciting in the dark. We hike our bikes up the hills when it’s too hard to ride. We never see another person, only families of deer staring us down from front yards. We are kin, always moving when there is no one to stop us in their headlights.
My grandpa, my uncles, and my dad are car guys. I am not a car guy. I just enjoy a fast ride. The front yard of the Funtanilla house is a large space of concrete between the street and the front door. There is always a car, someone’s car, needing to be fixed that takes up the whole space. This time in addition to a random car, a tiny white moped sits in the front corner of the yard. I knew my dad wanted to drive it the second we got here. He knows I want to drive it too. Today, I sit on the beaten leather car chair that is supposed to be patio furniture and stare at the wooden closets in front of me. Various car oils, an abundance of wrenches, screwdrivers, and red snap-on toolboxes that are as tall as I am take up every inch of space. The television plays TFC in front of me. The moped in the corner taunts me, calling my name. The sun shines down on Kapana place, it’s the perfect day to take the moped out for a spin. My mom, my dad, my uncle, and I huddle around the moped. My dad hops on smiling ear to ear, all young boy, wearing his plaid shirt, shorts, slippers, and shades. He quickly takes a lap around the block making sure it’s okay to drive since my mom crashed into the fence just last week. (Not because there was anything wrong with the moped, she just didn’t know how to drive it.) When he gets back my mom hops on behind him. She wraps her arm around his waist and they look like they are sixteen. I sneakily take a photo of them as they drive off so they don’t see me. They get back quickly and I kick my mom off. It’s my turn. I hop on the moped behind my dad. I don’t know how he just knows how to operate various vehicles. I think he could be thrown into any automobile and figure out how to drive it in seconds. We drive off and I listen to the engine of the moped mixed with gusts of wind. My dad is driving fast and I keep watch for cars even though I know he is. My dad loves to drive fast. We are not wearing helmets and I’m terrified. I feel my hair fly off my shoulders and yell at my dad random questions about mopeds to calm my fear. Cars zoom past my dad and he knows the brakes and the gas and I just stare at every car we pass and feel my face in the wind. We are back at the house, and my mom and I say the same thing, “Can I have one?”
We were on the J train, over the Williamsburg bridge, and I felt like a bird above the world. The brick buildings of Brooklyn flew past us, or rather we flew past them. I watched the sea of life below us and wondered who lived there, or worked there, or loved there. We had twisted through blocks of brownstones and trash waiting to be collected to walk up the creaky steps to the train stop. Wind pounded on the raised platform and we huddled for warmth. I observed the various outfits of the commuters around me— some extra fashionable, some just casual. Everyone was different, there was no uniformity. But everyone carried themselves with this collected confidence, a toughness that seemed to make up New York. The train came when it felt like it. It had a character of itself. We flew over the river, and everything was huge. The skyscraper of Manhattan greeted us ashore. But it was the kind of immenseness that didn’t shrink you down but exhilarated you. It was the vastness to gather stories, for endless inspiration
That day felt like migration, fleeing from small-town life on a Peter Pan bus. It was a dark October morning when we left, but there was still a taste of late summer in the air. I lugged all my belongings in a duffel on my shoulder, but I overpacked so much that it constantly ached. I watched at each stop as college kids heading home for a weekend gathered on the bus. That would never be us, the West Coasters who can only go home for summer and Christmas. I dozed off on the bus and awoke to the company of skyscrapers and fit men running by the river. I saw couples with dogs and babies and imagined us.
The train flew underground, into the subway below suited businessmen. The breaks hissed and we twisted around a tunnel of darkness. The journey felt like freedom. Her hand was warm in mine and that felt more normal here.
It was June and Paris was in the middle of a heat wave. It was stifling, almost dirty, the kind of heat that gets under your fingernails and fucks with your mind. The kind of heat that made teenage girls hate each other, sitting silently at restaurants pettily sucking on straws and fighting about which metro stop was the right one. Worse, it was crowded this time of year, meaning you had to shoulder your way through the streets and train cars, breathing in the scent of a hundred strangers. The three of us—Rachel, Mirabai, and me—had known each other for what felt like years. There would’ve been a time when you could ask me who my future maid of honor was going to be, and I would’ve smiled sweetly and told you, “Mirabai”, without giving it a second thought. The heat made us strangers.
We learned to exist with each other in the night, when the air wasn’t so oppressive and the streets cleared out, allowing us the entire city to ourselves. We wear black boots and wander in no particular direction, trying to find a bar that was open—any at all. The one we settle at had an awning covered in fake ivy and no one was there save the bartender, and we irritate him by ordering three waters. We sit outside, and soon after we arrive a second group sits down next to us. There’s a girl smoking a cigarette and three men, and she’s talking enough for all four of them. They don’t seem to mind. I’m wearing a green crocheted dress and I feel like I probably look like a child. Mirabai applies her lipstick in the reflection of a spoon. She’s going on about the missing submarine and periodically checks her phone for updates from the New York Times. Rachel and I indulge her. None of us know that the submarine and all its inhabitants are already dead.
The girl at the table over startles us by asking where we’re from. California, we say, and she delights in this because she just returned from a trip to San Diego, where a man had asked her to marry him. She doesn’t tell us what she said, but she’s here in Paris—so. Her oldest friend leans over and whispers to her in French and she grins.
“He says you are the three most lovely women in all of Paris.”
I look at the girl—blonde and smiling and in a dress that’s being ruined by tan sneakers—and I think that he’s wrong. She’s the kind of woman you write songs about. And I feel like a little girl.
I tossed and turned in my bed. You need to get some sleep I thought. You went to bed at 3 am and thinking about him is going to make it worse. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Fear rushed through my head wondering if he was going to be okay. I couldn’t lose him too, not a year after I lost Rover. I stared at my phone. It was 6 am. At least my mom was awake. I jumped out of my bed and looked around my room. Shit, I thought. I forgot to pack. I ran to the bathroom and texted my mom.
“Good morning. Can you bring a suitcase and some boxes?”
“Good morning honey!” she replied. “Yes, I can.”
“Thank you.”
“R u all done?”
“No, I still have Chem left. What happened to Booger?”
Dead silence. Please don’t tell me he’s going to die I thought. My sibling suddenly texted.
“We had to bring Chocolate to Tufts because of the stomach pain.”
“Tufts? Why Tufts?” I responded.
“They are the surgeons he needs in case they have to do the surgery.”
My heart stopped. My legs went numb, my vision blurred, and my head was pounding from the overwhelming thoughts. What if he’s not going to make it? What if he doesn’t recover? What if they can’t save him in time? I knew it I knew it, I knew something was wrong. If only I was home. God, I don’t even care about my grades anymore, just please save Booger.
My hands almost as quickly as they could to the call button. I dialed my mom. It felt like hours of waiting for their voices. That whole call felt like a blur, and to be honest, I still don’t remember the exact dialogue. Or the rest of the day clearly. It was all a blur. But one thing’s for sure is that Booger did in fact make it, and recovered. His personality didn’t change though, and I’m still the only person whom he’s mean to.
It is January of 2023, and I am wearing shorts. So is my dad. We are in an airport in Florida, scheduled to depart on a plane headed back to Connecticut. It was lovely seeing my grandparents for the first time since COVID struck the world, and now it’s time to go home. Or so we think.
The airport has tropical-themed decor at the entrance, like fake sand and palm trees. The inside is much more typical-looking, with the bunched-up seats and the various fast-food shops lining the wide hallway. The lighting is dim and warm, which I am thankful for after an entire weekend of squinting in the sun. It is early in the morning, so barely anyone is occupying the airport at this time. It is quite peaceful.
Our flight is delayed 30 minutes. Might as well get comfortable. The two of us sit in our seats, watching as the airport slowly gets more crowded and noisy. We watch as small children walk with their parents, taking in the sheer scale of the building. Staff walk down the hall with security dogs. Somewhere, a baby starts crying.
Our flight is delayed an additional hour and a half. Dad pulls up his crossword puzzle on his tablet while I pull up a drawing app on my phone. We remain on these devices for a considerable amount of time, trying to tune out the chaos of the airport. My throat is starting to get sore.
Our flight is delayed another hour. We both get egg sandwiches from Starbucks. Dad orders bacon on his while I order sausage on mine. We also buy a large bag of potato chips for good measure. Amidst the noise, we try to watch a show I don’t remember the name of on Dad’s tablet while taking turns dipping into the chip bag. I start coughing. It hurts to talk.
We both groan in frustration as our flight is delayed two more hours. My head hurts. The airport is now completely packed, everything smells like sweat, and that baby is still crying. My dad starts coughing as well.
After six hours in the airport, we finally depart on our flight to Connecticut. Never had we been happier to set foot inside that flying, claustrophobic box. It is pitch-black and raining when we finally touch down in New Haven, and I fully embrace it as I step outside, nearly losing my balance in the process. I would enter a laughing fit if my accursed throat would allow me.
Of course, me and Dad both caught COVID in the airport. We spend the next week or so getting well-deserved rest and relaxation. At least we can rest easier knowing that Grandma and Grandpa both tested negative. Eventually, enough time passes that the two of us can laugh about everything that happened. I appreciate my family’s ability to find the humor in things like this.
Click. I turn to the side and smile. Click. I spin around to my sister standing in front of me holding a camera pointed at my body. “Be confident,” she says. When you’re in a place like Cape Cod, you have to take photos.
I hear waves crashing delicately onto the grainy sand behind me. Click. I turn my back against my sister, viewing my surroundings. The most elegant, gleaming ocean is right in front of me. The warm sand you can almost feel in your hands even miles away. Seagulls soaring through the sky and then diving at the sand, ready for their next meal. Click. I turn to face the camera. Wondering how I could ever compare to the background.
“Move more!” My sister says. I flail my body around attempting to give the camera what it wants. She puts down her phone momentarily, and she asks what I am doing. I stay silent and she says to me, “you have no reason to feel unsure”
Taking a breath in, I brush my arms to the side, covering my face and extending my body. I feel my shirt lift off most of my stomach. I feel free. Click. I quickly turn again, using my arms to pull the rest of my body into position.
My sister took about 100 photos that day, most of which I hated. The few that I liked, however, I merged quite nicely with the background, maybe even standing out from it. One day I hope to feel like I have “no reason to feel unsure”.
The cold schnitzel sandwich
When I was a teenager, I was invited to sing with the United States Youth Chorale for a seven country tour of Europe. The tour included a stay in the medieval town of Dinkelsbühl in southern Germany. It is considered one of the most picturesque towns in all of Europe. Upon our arrival to a quintessential tavern slash inn which looked like it was straight out of a movie, we were served a delicious plate of hot pork schnitzel with noodles and gravy. This warm meal was the perfect welcome to a picture perfect German experience. By contrast, the next day, we visited the Dachau concentration camp. Lunch was served out of an outdoor food cart – cold schnitzel sandwiches. I sat on a hard cement slab situated outside of the buildings that housed the camp’s gas chambers and crematory ovens, sitting next to my travel companion, a lovely Jewish girl named Mallika, who was unable to hold back her tears long enough to take a bite. It was the saddest meal of my life.
I feel the sand crunch between my toes. My tongue darts out to wet my lips. I can taste the salt like a reminder of wetsuits, surfboards, and a warm, cloudless summer day. Pulling on the straps of my light blue backpack, there is a clinking sound somewhere amid the chaos of cooking utensils, dirty laundry, and visa documents carelessly shoved under the wooden bedframe that takes up most of the space in my car’s trunk. The heat radiating from the inside of my car, embracing me and covering me in a slick of sweat like a thousand kisses were placed on my body. It is my fault though. I had forgotten to park my home-on-wheels in the protecting shades of a cedar tree and it has baked in the sun for hours instead.
“Can you bring a fork too?” My friend’s voice travels over the loud, crashing sounds of the waves hitting the shore. He’s cozied up with the others under soft blankets, back against the tree trunks that are scattered all over the beach. They are all looking at the quickly rising flames of the campfire we had been trying to ignite before I realized I had forgotten to bring the pack of rice for the curry. I turn back to my backpack and pull again, stronger this time. I pull at the zipper and marvel once more at how a person’s life can be minimalized to the size of a backpack. I would know. This had been my life for the last six months. I roam around the inside of it until I can feel the heavy pack of rice. A few grains of rice escape through a hole in the package and are lost immediately to the darkness of what are the contents of my life. I squeeze the backpack back into its original position. Quickly, I grab a fork that I had spotted discarded between two boxes stuffed to the brim with clothes and food. I turn around, feel the cooling sand take its shape to accommodate my feet, and head back to my friends. The trunk stays open in hopes of catching a chilly draft or two and a promise of a good night’s sleep. It will be hours before I return with whirling laughter still ringing in my ears.
“It’s just a pond,” I exclaimed, exasperated and unimpressed with the sight before me. My siblings nodded in agreement before busying themselves with the rocks and fish laying in the shallows.
The “intermediate” level hike had been a grueling hour for my family and I, none of whom where “intermediate” hikers; one could argue we had not even earned the title of “beginner” hikers. One could further argue that this hike was not a hike at all, and instead just a staircase of slick, moss-covered stones, a staircase we were fully unequipped to climb. None of us had brought water; however, we had put our complaints mostly aside to appease our mother, who was insistent that we should complete this hike today.
After checking and rechecking the trail map at the bottom, we began our literal uphill climb. My sister, a five-year-old with a broken arm, raced up ahead of us as she tried to keep up with her older brother, who was paying no mind to his sister’s injured state. I, as the oldest, remained with my parents, all of us carefully stepping on the small dry patches of stone. Just an hour ago the rain had plummeted these stones, and raindrops still threatened to erupt at any moment. The overcast late-afternoon sky grimaced overhead, and leaves trembled in fear of another torrential downpour. The forest was quickly darkening around us, and the once vibrant colors became muted and shadowed as dusk approached.
Halfway up this mountain, my brother stopped, his attention caught by a small stream trailing downwards. I hurried up to him, my mouth dry and my throat parched. The sight of running, seemingly clean water was too generous to pass up. It was as if God had placed this stream just for us. We both knelt and began to drink, cupping our hands and enjoying the cool liquid on our lips. When my parents reached us, my father seemed skeptical of our choice, googling on his iPhone 4 the safety of drinking such water. As we drank, God laughed, for we were soon informed that the water likely contained beaver poop! I sat back, coughing and spitting while my sister began to giggle. Soon, we were all laughing, we just couldn’t help it. Who knew water running was not an indication of its safeness? Not our ill-equipped selves. As we stopped and laughed, my dad brought out a sleeve of peanut butter crackers, our only provision besides Dubble-Bubble bubble gum.
Another thirty minutes would pass before we made it to the lake at the top. Should I visit the pond now, I am sure I would more greatly appreciate its beauty. A pond at the top of a mountain is a strange phenomenon, especially one as serene and peaceful as this. But I was only eleven when I visited Sterling Pond and back then, to me, it was just a pond.
Travel has made me sick, in one way or another, for as long as I can remember. If I wanted to, I could attach this to my fear of change, as I once did to butterflies, but according to my mother, the reality is that I was always biting my nails.
My family did not travel very often, or very far. When I was little, my father spent most summers in surgery or recovering from one, and therefore my mother spent her summers looking after the three of us – me, my dad, and my “little” brother, now an intimidating kid with a driver’s license, a girlfriend, and always, a much, much better memory than me. Both of my parents were, among a great many other things, art teachers. They were also frugal. This means we went to many, many museums for free. Now, that sort of trip would be too much for me, but I’m hoping to manage another trip to Boston some time, to see the giant dome of a theater in the center of the science museum. The last time we went it was too loud for me. I don’t think it would be anymore. Beyond museums, we went to the library, and, almost every summer, to New Hampshire.
In New Hampshire was a small hotel that seemed stuck in time. I’m sure it’s still there now, being white and yellow and badly lit, with the same ancient arcade games and vending machines, the same guy at the front desk. It had an indescribable smell to it that never changed, and always turned the stomach – some evil mix of maple syrup, mothballs, body odor, and age. We stayed here every year, because it had a pool and we loved to swim, and because one year, we stayed somewhere else, and when my father took us out into the parking lot to use the outdoor pool, it became very clear that families weren’t exactly the usual clientele of that roadside motel.
But we did not travel to New Hampshire for the strange motel, we went to visit Story Land. Story Land is an odd little theme park, odd even in childhood. Through younger eyes, it seems almost passable as some sort of colony of Disney, an off-brand imitation with decidedly more lead paint. Now, I would film a horror movie there, but then, it was okay. It was like all of the places we frequent as children. We have some sort of love for even the strange and the scary. We would keep visiting this place long past when we’d outgrown it. Last summer, we almost went back. I was sick again, and the only thing I could think about putting in my mouth was a type of ice cream they only served there – tiny dots of lemon and strawberry, marked up beyond the point of reason. We didn’t go out to eat, really – I don’t mind, I still don’t enjoy it – but that made things like this sunset-colored ice cream, or the shaved ice we’d get just before heading back home, a novelty. We had imaginations – we could mimic the feeling of being splashed with germ-ridden water, tossed up and down, spun blind – but these little things, we could not have anywhere but there.
If some people have a file cabinet for memories, I have a junk drawer. Much less information, none of it in order, most of it incorrect or glued back together. You often find yourself wondering, where the hell did this come from? All this to say: I have memories of this place, but they’re sticky, and see-through. We are three-quarters to the top of a ferris wheel, sitting in a small, metal imitation of a hot air balloon. Something is wrong. We float down(fake)river, and something is wrong. We are smiling and sunburnt in the pictures. My brother and I like to spin around and around, but will only do it on different sides of the park. I am in wonderland, he is somewhere in Germany, where goats, pigs, and small farm animals are being kept in mixed conditions. We are in a giant metal imitation of a swan, and something is wrong. There’s a misty feeling, avoiding vendors, squatting down to walk through storybook attractions and get a sticker from an old woman sitting in yet another giant metal imitation, this time, a shoe. Ignoring our bigness and being confronted with it. The passage of time was all over this place, and plain. Crooked windows, crooked doors. Tinny music – I can almost hear the closing tune – parking lots, watches and clock after clock. I fall in love with the girl in the circus and hope to be like her when I grow up. We are sad when they take the tent down. I will dream about this place. I am maybe a teen and avoid the adults dressed in costume as a giant pair of rabbit siblings. Here, a yardstick covered with ice, a fake milking cow, shoes and colorful balls flying through the air. My parents tell me that, more than once, I was the kid pulled out of the audience to be in a stage show. I was platinum blond, blue eyed, compliant and well-spoken, with a mother that dressed me like a doll. So it doesn’t mean anything. I am older, and my father and I attack my mother and brother. At the time, it was not a metaphor, just some dark sort of fun, like our neighbors that used to enjoy hunting game, that are now vegans. Like, it is hot and we are drowning you, and isn’t this lovely for all of us. Eventually, thank god, they learn to hit back. The sky is so blue. Even when it is raining, and ugly. It is so blue.
And every time we went, without fail, I would get a stomach bug, food poisoning, a nervous stomach – who knows. For a bunch of sick people, we rarely went to the doctors. At least once, we spent an extra day in our odd hotel room, where we didn’t have to pay extra for the window air conditioning unit or cable. We’d draw the curtains to keep the cold in and watch the Olympics, Disney. My father was always obsessed with the local news. Almost every time we went, someone had died. I would go to the bathroom so I could cry on my own. My mother would rub my back. My father puts out a giant hand to “heal me with energy.” I am wondering, who is with my brother? I do not know if these are the years I hated him, or the years I loved him. Where is he? Who is looking after him? This is the only time we have gatorade, the only time we shop in a Walmart, because then, we could afford to have values. This is the reason I hate cranberry juice, and the reason I love a tiny sort of grape you can only find once or twice a year. They go bad in a day.
Again, I was sick this summer. This entire past year. My faulty nervous system, a bad attitude, medical malpractice, biting my nails, call it what you will. At first, I wasn’t eating, because maybe, it was the eating that was making me sick, but then my stomach continued to turn, and turn. I don’t know how to describe the feeling. Even to those who feel pain always, it is incommunicable. Maybe like being poisoned, or punched, or pulled like taffy. Like a body trying to knit itself tighter and tighter from the inside out. The sort of feeling that makes you fantasize about unscrewing your own head, becoming light, hibernation. I resented my ribs. I resented most things. I wanted the impossible ice cream, or maybe the whole story: I am small, and cared for, and I will feel better soon. Time does not exist in this strange, frozen place. I will go swimming between the pains. I will eat dinner anyway. I will stay up too late listening to bad things happen to good people, to laugh tracks and record-breakers. I will not think about it. I will perch on the wall and smile because this is a place for smiling. Someone cares about me, and I will feel better soon.
Heading back from that place was the first and only time I’ve ever thrown up. And it was barely that – gritty tablespoons of bile, undigested something, falling weakly down my chin and hardening on a shirt I think I used to love. It was violet, velour, long sleeved. Three tiny flowers embroidered where my heart was. I didn’t know the feeling; this had never happened to me and it would never happen again. I feel too big for my body, or out of my body, somewhere in the upper right corner of the car, just behind my head. It must have been the tan 4Runner. I am worried about the fabric seats. We still have that car. I think I say I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Maybe I cry. Maybe I am shocked into silence. These are all things I would do now, but then? I think I felt somewhere on the trampoline of shame-embarrassment-guilt. It’s all very blurry, to me. Now, I would feel dirty. Then, I think we didn’t even bother to pull over. My mother grabs my shirt from the passenger seat and dabs at it with old napkins in vain. Maybe she liked that shirt. I imagine my father is worried. He also does not vomit, or he does, but only unconscious, coming up from anesthesia. Maybe I am reminding him of himself. I wonder, who is looking after my brother? I tell myself, he sleeps through it all.
The morning sun crept over the horizon, casting its warm embrace upon the rugged landscape of Bryce Canyon. The air, crisp and thin at this high altitude, carried whispers of juniper and pine. As I stood at the rim of the canyon, the panorama unfolded before me like a vast, otherworldly painting. Layers of red and orange hoodoos, those surreal rock spires shaped by time and erosion, stood sentinel against the azure sky.
The crunch of gravel beneath my hiking boots resonated with each step as I descended into the labyrinth of stone. The air grew cooler as the canyon walls rose around me, creating a natural amphitheater. The earth seemed to exhale the fragrance of ancient rocks, tinged with the faint aroma of wildflowers clinging to life in crevices.
As I ventured deeper, the narrow trails snaked through towering hoodoos, casting intricate shadows on the path. The play of light and shadow transformed the rocks into sculptures, evolving with the sun’s journey across the sky. I traced the curves of the rock formations with my fingers, feeling the rough texture of time etched into their surfaces.
Shitting water wasn’t the way I thought Berlin was gonna go. Yet as I lay in a German hospital, on a bed that smelled vaguely of bleach and exhaustion, I began to reevaluate certain moments of my trip. The nausea had begun to wear off, the needle point embedded just below my pasty skin serving as an uncomfortable reminder of why. I lay in my own pity and probably someone’s recently washed off blood, thinking about the permanence of death, when a nurse came over, garbling in German, pulling me out of my own self-indulgent delusions.
It’s the year 2021, I am freshly out of Highschool and the relentless demands of the real world wasted no time. Being home became suffocating, so much being unsaid, the silence was deafening. No matter how full and lively the house was, it was still so quiet. I had to get away. I had to run away. The feeling was exhilarating with a drop of concern marinating in as I purchased my ticket, with no return date. My mother and sister were both staying in California, I had never been, and was excited to breathe in the dry air and forget the existence of mosquitos. This would be my first time on a plane alone. With my inability to ever pack just what I need, I trudged around the airport with an overfilled purple backpack and a blue suitcase over half my height. The bag strap tugged on my hair and pulled my sweater’s collar down my shoulder at the perfect angle where I would be able to withstand it for a couple of minutes before I lost it. Meanwhile, my travel pillow continues to slip off my neck without warning as I feel a tap on my shoulder. Still trying to keep it together I turn around with a smile on my face as a random lady hands me my driver’s license… my first time traveling alone and I dropped my id, great! The experience that was supposed to bring me peace is testing the strength that I have with an audience to laugh and stare. I am now boarding the plane and because I never picked my seat I am given seat 28B, right next to the bathroom, convenient. These seats don’t recline because they are pressed up against the wall. Now not only am I uncomfortable having to sit up completely straight my entire flight and enduring bathroom smells, the tall grown men beside me guaranteed paranoia of accidentally laying my head on them when I fell asleep. So no sleep. The flight all together was exhausting but smooth and after one more plane I arrived at LAX. Went downstairs to grab my luggage and hopped in the car. As my sister and her friends struggle to shove my bag into the trunk I stare out into the blue cloudless sky of California, as their song obsession of the month, Golden Hour by JVKE, blasts through the speakers. Breathing in that warm air a sense of relief seeps in, as I exhale a new chapter reveals.
I remember the pine trees, the soft padding of their needles underfoot, and the comforting smell of damp shade in summer.
I remember the giant pond and the little island in the middle of it. It was mostly just rocks and was always covered in goose poop, but I liked pretending it was mine. The pond was never still. There were many quiet mornings spent listening to its waves lapping against the timeworn rocks and dock. The pond held secrets. Sometimes my grandmother would say she heard a loon calling from some invisible coordinate.
I remember the cabin. It was never quite big enough and it was almost impossible to sleep in. The beds were so old that you risked waking everyone up when you moved because of how loudly they creaked. Mosquitos loved taking up residence inside the cabin at night. I remember watching my father in awe one night as he calmly waited for the mosquito that had been harassing us to land on his hairy forearm, then, with one swift movement, squashed it. He didn’t like killing bugs but he had a fascination with gross things. I remember how he and I would watch the giant spiders materialize in their webs, one per window, after the sun went down.
These were peaceful summers. Except for when a leech attached itself to my Achilles heel while I was swimming and began happily consuming my blood. I remember my father ripping its engorged body off of me while I screamed in horror.
There was a small beach next to the cabin where the water never got cold. That is where my memories of those summers live.
I remember them fondly, but I will never swim there again.
I stood there, on the edge of the cliff, staring at the beautiful landscape in front of me. There sat Santorini, right in front of me, also dangling off the edge of the cliff. The sky was a bright, almost blinding blue, with faint little wisps of clouds dabbled across it, tainting the purity of it all in some bizarre way. All of the buildings in Santorini looked almost identical, the walls and majority of the house a bleach white color, to keep the heat away as much as possible, however some of the roofs were a unique color. Blue seemed to be the favorite.
I looked to my left, and there was my family along with 20 or so strangers, looking at me, cheering me on, calling my name. They seemed so close but so far away at the same time, as their calls and cheers seemed to disappear into the distance. To my right, there was the end of the island. It was steep at first, but slowly as it neared the sea it got lower and lower, going downhill in a simple slope.
I clenched my toes and felt the loose pebbles and sand beneath my feet. I rubbed them back and forth, the roughness of the earth seemed to sooth me, ground me in a way. The wind was blowing in my hair, just a light breeze, and for just a moment I felt like I was on top of the world. I closed my eyes and stood there, feeling light. All of my troubles and anxieties seemed to just melt away.
I walked forward a couple feet and stared down at the water below. It seemed miles away, and a fleeting sense of fear washed over me. I dreaded that once I jumped, it may feel like I was falling for eternity. I took a deep breath, clenched my fists tight, and pushed that fear to the side. The water below was beautiful, a teal and bright electric blue. You could see the rocks that were 40 ft. below the surface so clearly, it seemed like they were just sitting on the top, waiting for someone to be fooled to jump in.
I walked away from the cliff’s edge, 10 ft or so. With each step I took there was a soft crunch in the sand beneath my feet. I wanted a running start. I wanted to push off and get as far away as possible from the cliff. I was ready. One step, crunch, two step, crunch. And then I started running, as fast as I could. The cliffs edge got closer and closer with each second, and suddenly, I was leaping. I launched myself through the air into the crystal blue water below.
For what felt like minutes, I seemed to float through the air. I was flying. Then, the watery surface below came crashing upon me. My feet reached the surface below first. A sharp sting torpedoed up through the bottom of my feet all the way up to my ankles. Then, I was submerged. Disoriented for a second, I just sank. Moments later when I realized I was okay, I kicked my feet as fast as I could, reaching, grasping at the surface above. I gasped as I reached the surface, and then threw my hands up in celebration and cheered. The echoes of my happiness bounced off the cliff walls for a couple of moments before disappearing. I looked over and saw my parents and others cheering and clapping with me. While physically I was in a watery valley, emotionally I was back on that cliff, feeling like I was on top of the world.
For some reason, I’ve never had a better root beer than the one I drank during an unexpected ice skating trip. My dad didn’t tell me where we were going one Saturday morning, but I knew the long westbound road between rounded, emerald green mountains, white caps, and the miraculous sight of cattle only a six-year old could understand. I knew the bumpy pattern to Burlington like braille, traversed by a gray Toyota Matrix, a car we had way longer than we should’ve. I remember the thin, airy sound of Windy by The Association playing from our CD player through cheap speakers, and I loved its melody that day far more than I would for sixteen years, probably for the rest of my life.
We parked by the icy lake and ate bad sandwiches he packed in a cooler. Somehow, I couldn’t see how terrible they were through the fog of this labor of love. Years since, having tried turkey and cheese again without sauce or much else, I’ve learned. For now, all I could think was “my dad packed a picnic,” and “this day must be special.” That was all it took.
When we got to the skating rink, I remember the sound of Coldplay from speakers on the ceiling melding into ice shavings and metallic sounds slicing the floor. Everything in my psyche felt a fresh snow, the color white. You just want to follow those mysterious slivers and retrace a stranger’s path, but you can’t before the next set of lines thwarts your plan.
In essence, I remember being small. What I wouldn’t give to continue being small. Not young, necessarily, but I fill up too much of my own space now. I’m hot air, not ice. I don’t let new places feel new, and it’d be a challenge for me to write fondly of another gray day, besides this one that comes to mind, unjustifiably dazzling. The ground still falls out from underneath me, but I don’t laugh; my bruises don’t land somewhere funny, and I can’t make it into a beautiful dance, despite how “strong” people tell me I am. My dad held my arm the entire time that day, because I don’t know how to skate (I still don’t), and he told me I could have anything I want from behind the counter. I ordered a root beer. Sometimes I stop trying. I sip and think to myself, “my tastebuds were just more sensitive back then.”
As the first light of dawn embraced the horizon, I felt a magnetic pull towards the mystical allure of North East India, a land steeped in whispers of ancient tales and vibrant tapestries of nature’s artistry. It was in the verdant embrace of Sikkim that my journey unfolded, a symphony of colors and textures weaving through the fabric of my senses.
My first encounter was with a garden of dreams, where every petal seemed to whisper secrets of the earth. The air was alive with the fragrant melodies of countless blooms, each a brushstroke in nature’s masterpiece. I wandered amidst a kaleidoscope of hues, from the fiery reds of rhododendrons to the gentle purples of orchids, feeling as though I had stepped into a living canvas painted by the gods.
As the sun climbed higher, I ascended to a vantage point that unveiled the city below in all its bustling glory. From this lofty perch, I beheld a tapestry of rooftops and winding streets, each thread woven with the stories of generations past and present. The city seemed to pulse with life, a vibrant heartbeat echoing through its ancient walls and modern facades.
But it was the call of water that beckoned me next, a siren song leading me to a hidden sanctuary. A waterfall cascaded from the heights, a veil of silver against the emerald backdrop of the forest. I stood mesmerized by the sheer power and grace of nature, feeling the cool mist kiss my skin like a lover’s caress.
In each of these moments, I felt the pulse of North East India, a rhythmic dance of beauty and wonder. It was as if time itself had slowed, allowing me to drink deeply from the wellspring of nature’s magic. And as I bid farewell to Sikkim, I carried with me not just memories, but a soulful connection to a land where every flower, every cityscape, and every waterfall whispered tales of eternity.
Burning Flames
Everything else disappeared. My surroundings faded into the background like mist while the campfire burning in front of me became more vivid with every passing second. Red flames from the fire rushed out, scattering and eventually vanishing into the background, in an attempt to escape its rage. I was unable to look away, hypnotized by the magnetic aura radiating from the fire. I scrutinized every detail that followed. Once what sounded like mirthful laughters and jovial squeals now seemed like mere whispers that subsided into the darkness until there was nothing I could hear. There was so much more to this burning fire than what met the eyes. I could tell that from the dancing flames that evoked a similar pattern of thoughts in my mind causing them to dance rhythmically alongside those flames. At that moment, I was taken back in time. My thoughts travelled back in the passage of time.
Back to the sound of the birds chirping in the far horizon while the sun finally decided to rise from its hiding spot. Back to this morning when the sky was covered with a touch of orange, pink and even lavender while the merge of these colours created a touch of something new that was pleasing to the eyes. Slowly, as the sun came to full view, all of the sky turned blue.That’s when the buzzer went off. I could hear my friends growling as they tossed and turned in their positions, unaware of me who was already wide awake and pretending to be asleep. The buzzer marked the beginning of the second day of our expedition in this base camp. We had to be out of our tents and completely prepared for today’s activities within the next thirty minutes. Once everyone was awake there was a huge line outside the washroom that led to unwanted commotion. I tried to silence the noises but the incoherent words sounded like buzzing bees. The instructor, like the last time, came up with more surprising and challenging activities for today. As he demonstrated the tree top activity everyone became tongue-tied. I could feel my throat dry up while a shiver ran down my spine. Each team had to complete the task within the given time.
Being the captain, I had to go first. I would never know how I managed to build up this much courage to go up this high and complete the task. Traveling down memory lane, I don’t remember all the single details of the activities or the times we won or lost. What I do recall is the smile on everyone’s face, the glow in their eyes that conveyed pure bliss and a sense of euphoria that came with accomplishing all the things that scared us the most. Thinking back, that is what mattered the most. The friendship and the uncountable memories. There were only three activities scheduled for today yet, it felt like a week-long stress on my body. No one knew how we were done by the evening and how time just went by even when it felt like a moment had just passed. When the sun began to set, it scattered a rectangular ray of orange light all around the pink sky, resembling the time of dawn. The little flowers popping out of the ground had their edges turned bright as if a flame was burning within. But unlike the sunrise, the sky was soon engulfed in darkness.
Finally, the spell broke as I blinked. The hushed voices came back to life as they grew louder and louder all around me. The fire illuminated the darkness, this time, making my surroundings more vibrant as I was brought back to the present. This time, it was the loud music playing in the background that silenced all the cheerful laughters and sounds. Some stood up dancing to the beat while I just watched. My lips curved upwards forming a smile, on their own accord. Absurd, how they have so much stamina left even after all the tiring activities that squeezed out of me almost all of my energy like a squashed lemon. I took a bite of the marshmallow that I have been holding onto for a while. The sweetness took over my taste buds, taking over the sourness from all the hard work as I devoured the rest.
There is so much more to this burning fire than what meets the eye. It doesn’t appear by looking harder instead it is visible when we just let ourselves sync in with the dancing flames. We danced and laughed while the campfire kept burning, illuminating our hearts with a sense of calmness and tranquility contradicting its fiery element of fury. For a moment, we all lost ourselves in the depths of its flames. Its burning flames that resembled so much of the burning fire of passion within all of us.