“Hustle. Bustle. Traffic.”: words often heard when referring to major metropolitan cities like NYC or Tokyo, can also show a duality when it comes to the poorer countries of South America. These people, such as those from Lima, Peru rarely walk down the busy streets en route to their profiting job. Most spend their time scrounging for misplaced pennies on the floor, or waiting for the packed buses to take them to their menial jobs. These people are physicians, attorneys at law and engineers. These professionals with seemingly wasted educations push their tiny vendor carts with packs of gum and mints sold at a mere price of half a Sol. As a fourteen-year old girl, I came face to face with the reality of my country of birth for the first time. Barely allowing seconds from time of arrival to pass, those same people, once members of aristocratic families, urged me, an “Americanized” Peruvian girl, to spare a dime. In hopes of finding a deeper meaning to my past, I guiltily asked for passage through the busy, grimy streets of Lima. Days later, I progressively grew accustomed to the constant smog and persistent reminder of the once-great fallen capital. I realized that as a people, my ancestors and relatives fell victims to a corrupt government, yet still maintained the twinkle of hope in their eyes. They lived a story of perseverance. As natives to this beautiful land of mountains, ruins, tropics, and beach, they had taken up arms and united to retrogress to prosperity. The same blood and roots stemmed from the Peruvian soil to me like any other compatriot. Their efforts were my efforts and any futility of purpose lied buried under the sands of the Pacific shoreline.
“Don’t make eye contact and don’t answer any questions!” my native Indian father warned, as he knew my American accented Bengali would surely throw all the vendors and charlatans into a frenzy. The mere entrance to legendary Kalighat temple near Calcutta was a world of vibrant color, curious odors and wild, noisy ruckus! For a predominantly religious area, tourists can’t ignore an unholy matrimony of the vices.
Across from the Kalighat Police Station, a coy group of prostitutes flirted with potential customers. At the opposite corner, a cluster of men chatted merrily while unabashedly smoking sweet smelling ganja. The most poignant image remains the crumbling building that served as Mother Teresa’s home for the dying and destitute. Only hours before, a family sprinkled the ashes of a loved one into the Hoogli River. A hint of burning flesh lingered in the air from the neighboring cremation grounds.
I cautiously stepped into the temple, finding myself enveloped in sheer chaos. Every other second a huge bell resonated a deafening chord in harmony with wailing men and women who beseeched Almighty Goddess Kali. I held my breath as I was hit with a bizarre blend, of what were, common temple smells: stale sweets, overripe fruit, urine, and milk. My eyes welled from the sting of the thick incense and I clung tightly to my father’s shirt. One man kept asking in broken English if we would like a tour, while an older gentleman repeatedly scolded me in my mother tongue, “Take off your shoes! Show some respect! This is a place of worship.” An odd combination of fascination, curiosity, and bewilderment, gripped me.
A picture may be “worth a thousand words” but cameras could ever capture the depth of my enlightening adventure to this exotic and untamed temple with my dad.
My many visits to Yellowstone National Park have left me in awe and wonder. How can such a magical place exist? Here you can see an abundance of wildlife roam free, and geysers erupt just feet in front of you. You feel the heat of hot springs on your face, and view the beauty of the amazing mountains that seem never ending.
Such beautiful geothermal features are scattered throughout the park with wonderful walking paths weaved throughout them. I feel that Old Faithful Geyser caught my attention the most. When I saw the infinite gallons of boiling water shoot out from the ground, I was taken aback. Such enchantment and beauty right before my very eyes.
Bison, bears, wolves, and elks, oh my! Throughout the park thousands of species run wild. You see them everywhere you go. Endangered and threatened species roam the park free, allowing you to get an up-close look at them. Here you can look at them in their natural habitat. The opportunity to see these amazing animals made me feel a sense of privilege.
Many beautiful mountains sit within the borders of the park. I remember going on horse rides throughout them, and experiencing their natural wonder. The experience was unforgettable. If you do not get the chance to ride a horse throughout the mountains, there are thousands of trails that you can walk along to view them. Many beautiful plants grow on these mountains, which you can explore and get a closer look at. I remember loving their bright colors and exotic looks. Also, many beautiful waterfalls, lakes, and streams scatter themselves around the mountains.
If anyone has not had the opportunity to visit Yellowstone National Park they should definitely find a way to go. The beauty and the memories will last a lifetime.
A day on the Wekiva River is like a day in another time. Although only a mile from my house in Orlando, Florida, the river is a completely different world, separate from the constant motion of the busy city. Upon taking my first step into the canoe, time immediately begins to slow down. Dipping my paddle into the cool, clear water I can almost feel the presence of the native tribes who used to inhabit the vast forest in a much simpler time. I maneuver the canoe around the tip of a fallen oak tree, parting the resting water as I go. For the first time in my life I feel like a creature of the Earth, removed from the comforts of suburban living. As I paddle out of the shade of a tall, indigenous tree, the scorching sun reminds me of my need for hydration. I slowly enter the water, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of the canoe or the fish swimming by. The alligators and turtles resting on the riverbank are unaware of my presence as I submerse myself in the calm river. My fingertips graze the surface of the waste-deep water as I make my way back to the canoe. Continuing upstream, I spot the lake that marks the end of the river in the distance. I continue paddling in contemplative silence realizing that my trip will soon be over. As my canoe glides effortlessly onto the shore, a bitter-sweet feeling sweeps over me like the herons over the crystalline lake. My journey has come to an end, but the feeling of peace and simplicity will stay with me as I enter the chaotic world once again. On the Wekiva River I can simply exist, if only for a day.
Henry Miller once said, “One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.” From the moment that you reach the Dominican Republic, you are swarmed with a fusion of Latin Creole culture, almost as if transported to another world. However the culture is almost expected, it is not the culture that startles you or even walking the streets of this third world country, but what is hidden—the caves that house the natural springs.
“Turn left at the third pole down the dirt road,” commands such as this encompassed the directions given to us by the locals in the market. As the ten passenger van rumbled down the streets at what seemed to be eighty miles per hour, but was truly forty, the sound of branches hitting the car and the rocks rumbling below our tires emanated throughout the vehicle. After two hours, we found our destination—the caves and a small family run restaurant. The cave was beautiful, a huge untouched wonder of the earth, perfect in the way it was created; the water cold, refreshing, and crystal clear appeared to go straight down to the core of the earth. Jose Luis, a little boy, was so excited to share the wonder of the cave in which he spends most days that he gave us a tour of the cave showing us the intricate turns and structures.
The simplicity of this natural oasis was truly life altering. The family that ran the restaurant had achieved true happiness in sharing this wonder with others. This notion of happiness and beauty would change anyone, I hope that one day I will be able to show others a glimpse of this untouched beauty and have it provide them with a new way of looking at life.
A trip to a third-world country in the Middle East is a unique experience amongst Westerners. My trip to City of the Dead in Cairo changed how I value life. Before my travel, I had never known about such poverty as to where people lived in mausoleums. To the inhabitants of the City of the Dead, mausoleums make up the only form of affordable shelter.
In order to arrive at Masgid al-Qaitbay, one must walk through City of the Dead, as infrastructures for cars do not exist. Looking at the crumbling mausoleums that people called home, not a sound was heard in the street. The city was truly dead. I will never forget when an older man approached me, his voice a haunting sound that had obvious damage to his vocal chords. He continued to question me although I ignored him. Here, foreigners should not speak to locals. When I finally reached the mosque, he left, realizing that I had no money on me. I did not know how to react since I had never known such poverty existed. The inhabitants of City of the Dead rarely see Westerners and do not know how to react when and if they do.
After leaving City of the Dead, I learned to never take anything for granted and to never seek more than what I needed. Seeing people living in mausoleums will forever stand out in my mind and it humbles me every time I think about it. I realized that I am truly blessed to have everything God gave me. City of the Dead was not just a part of Cairo, but also the experience that made me realize how fortunate I am to have a roof over my head, a meal on the table, and knowledge at my hands.
I can feel the vibrations of a soft waltz playing in the background, moving me with an inexplicable feeling of rapture. I can look into the distance and allow the mountains to inspire me with a feeling of peace, thinking that maybe complexity doesn’t always mean stress. I can hear the natives singing a tale on their fiddles, a story that truly warms the heart. Yes, I’m in Poland again. Parties, fun, and friends await my arrival. Of course, the lunches, or Obiady, never fail to satisfy. Though the food always fulfills the standard, the conversations keep people coming back for more. Upcoming weddings, excellent parties, and, of course, family matters are the typical topics of the talks. Suddenly, I find myself in conversation with my cousin’s grandfather, telling me about the days of the German occupation. No one else in the room noticed but me. Since he always referred to me as the “American”, he felt he should educate me on some of the history of Poland.
“Times were tough; one of my brothers was taken away for not giving up all of our food to the soldiers.” For me, this dinner had taken a turn from festive to serious. Though I put his words through reflections time and time again, I would not understand their significance until the end of my journey.
A few days before my departure, my cousin and I decided to go dancing. Wanting to take a rest, my friend Alicia and I went over and grabbed a table to sit down and talk. Eventually I deepened the conversation, and, remembering the words of my cousin’s grandfather, I questioned her about her feelings towards Germans in general, given the history of Poland’s situation. With a sober face, she looked at me and said “If we only look to the past, we can never move forward. We need to look to the future.” I, an American, learned a lesson from Poland’s hardship. Reflecting only on the past will always inhibit progression. We must look to the future. “That’s our song! Let’s dance.”
Music plays a vital role in my life, to the point that virtually every situation I encounter brings to mind a specific song. Although I feel most alive when listening to music, I’ve never felt a sense of true belonging at any concert. So after hearing about Bonnaroo, an annual music and arts festival featuring various artists, I felt the promise of a new musical experience. Jamming to Damian Marley (son of Bob Marley) on a sunlit June morning, my twin sister and I leave Gainesville, Florida for Manchester, Tennessee.
Glittering, colorful lights, cheers of excitement, and aromas of delicious foods draw us to the live music. From a silent disco and laser light shows, to stand-up comedy and a grand Ferris wheel, things to do can be found everywhere you look. But the main incentive for our trip is music, so we head to the Damian Marley show. His contagious energy soon reaches the audience. Within minutes, everyone is sending out this warm, positive vibe that you can see with your eyes, but really feel in your heart. Contrary to the usual separation between musicians on stage and people in the audience, Damian’s spirit connects us all through the message of his music.
To me Bonnaroo means a place where people from various backgrounds come together for one reason: music. The Bonnaroo Nation would bring a loving smile to Bob Marley’s face, because despite their remarkable diversity, they are unified through the music and genuinely exemplify “one love.” Every second there reminds me of a Coldplay song that goes, “…we live in a beautiful world. Yeah we do, yeah we do.” Bonnaroo stays close to my heart as more than just a festival; it is my home filled with all the crazy, beautiful people who are my family.
I was fifteen years old when my father and I went to Mississippi for my first national sailing event in a Sunfish. I had sailed on a regular basis since I was nine years old, but in an International Optimist Dingy or Opti for short. I started sailing Sunfish when I was fourteen; however, I did not anticipate sailing with tough competition in such a short span of time, which took place only a year after starting out in the larger sailboat, Sunfish. The scene was new and unfamiliar to me with a different yacht club, a larger expanse of water to compete on, and competitors against whom I had never raced. Overall, it was an unpredictable experience I could only undergo if I was to try out my skills in a new boat. The event turned out to be one of my most memorable experiences.
The competition was unlike any I had raced against before. Men in their middle ages made up the majority of the fleet, and any women I did see were older and seemed much more experienced. The first race was unremarkable; conditions were fair and the weather sunny with light winds. In fact, it was a beautiful day to go sailing. However, I could soon see I was out of my league. The actions of my competitors appeared flawless and every tactical decision carried out with maneuvers that spoke to years of practice. I became discouraged when, approaching the finish line, there was a much larger number of boats in front of me with few following. The trying conditions came when the sun disappeared behind dark ominous clouds, succeeded by a powerful breeze that had everyone, including the full-grown experienced men, fighting to keep their boat in control. I made the easy decision, to quit. Pulling in my sail and heading for shore, I met my dad, who helped me pack up my boat, grab my gear and head back to Florida.
It was a simple, quick decision that changed my perspective on my favorite sport and hobby. Every regatta or sailing competition I attend reminds me of the day I gave up and headed for shore. I have always regretted quitting. Sailing is an activity I will continue to do for life and I will never drop out of a race due to discouragement and a bad attitude.
With one step into the uncomfortably cramped airplane row I would be sharing with my father and brother on our four-hour flight to Canada, it became clear our trip to Cuba would be anything but relaxing. What more could I ask for out of a travel experience than waiting out a nine-hour layover at Toronto Pearson International Airport, meeting primos (cousins) whose relation to me is questionable, to say the least, and sleeping in a “bedroom” where a curtain separated the bathroom from the other half of the room?
I turned fifteen the day we arrived at José Martí International Airport. My family received me with heart-felt hugs, kisses, and a warmly resounding “Feliz cumpleaños!” Throughout the visit, family members would entertain my brother and me while my father visited our grandfather and delivered money and medicines to friends. Although we only visited Cuba for two weeks, we fell into her routine almost automatically: eat dinner in the afternoon, enjoy desert, drinks, or tobacco in the evening, and sleep soon afterward. My father, brother, and I shared a room with a twin bed and a sofa in my aunt’s house in Camaguey.
One night I found myself looking out the room window at the brown and dry landscape, void of any redeeming features. I glanced over at my sleeping father and turned back to the window. As I continued to stare at the barren panorama, I could not help but notice a correlation between the worn and distressed land and the wrinkles born of exhaustion and experience painted across father’s face. The following day I asked my father to retell his stories about growing up in Cuba and leaving his home country. That trip I left my grotto of juvenile naiveté and, directed by the stories of my father, was introduced to the world of mature reality.
Last summer my father and I traveled to the Grand Canyon to have a last minute bonding experience before I headed off to college. After several days of hiking the South Rim we decided to venture to Toroweap Point on the north side. Once we made the five hour drive, we stopped at a gas station that simply read “LOTTO BEER AMMO.” Grabbing some water and browsing the station’s tye-dyed t-shirt merchandise that bore the store’s motto, the clerk and a local inquired where we were headed. Their laughter at our response gave us the hint that they did not recommend Toroweap Point. We went anyway. “Primitive” does not define the unwelcoming road to Toroweap. It was more like the kind of road you see in television advertisements for oversized SUVs that are only used for transporting groceries. Towards the end of the sixty miles, we were easing to the edge of the canyon at five miles per hour. We made it just in time for the one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. The sun setting made the canyon wall come to life for just those few short minutes as it bled away its reds and purples. At a straight drop the mighty Colorado River rushed thousands of feet below, its roar drowned out by the howl of the wind. We sat in silence with our feet hanging over the edge, the wind pushing us back so we wouldn’t fall into the darkening abyss. Even if we did fall, no one would have known. It would not have been the same if there was a guard rail and twenty tourists waiting their turn to snap panoramic pictures. I am glad the road was not welcoming. Toroweap was not a tourist attraction, it was the spot my father and I shared a sunset in solitude and no one could ever intrude on our time together.
Looking out of the windows of the plane on my way back to the US, I watched the Spanish countryside crawl beneath me. I couldn’t do anything but think back on my time spent in what, I felt, called to me as motherland. The bus rides across this breathtaking country flooded back into my mind. The hospitality of this people – my people – overwhelmed me throughout my visit. The moment I landed there, only 10 days prior, I felt at home. The bustling streets and the language filling my ears caused my heart to swell; I had never experienced such an emotion. Every person treated me as if I had known them from birth; as if they were my blood.
This was the first time I had ever been to this heaven on earth. I had heard about my ancestral land from my childhood and had, only a few years earlier, mastered the language. I stepped off of the airplane and smelled the heavy, cold air; it felt like clouds had descended upon Madrid. All I could do was revel in the culture. As I traveled across her northern geography, the countryside called my name, telling me of the vast history of what one can consider to be a cradle of civilization.
Upon crossing over to the province from where my blood came, Catalonia, and entering into Barcelona, my head reeled. I barely contained myself, basking in the architecture and artwork all around me. Even the very streets, lined with tarot card and palm readers, screamed art! I felt as if there was nothing in this world that would keep me from returning to this center of sophistication and culture.
I vowed right there, on that plane, to come back to, what felt like, my home no matter what.
The holiday season is known for the tremendous amount of travel done all over the world, especially in the United States. Whether it is Thanksgiving, where family members gather to unite in sharing a meal or Christmas season, where people spend time (and money) on their loved ones. The holiday season and travel go hand in hand. Despite the set backs of hectic travel schedules and crowed malls, Atlanta, Georgia can be described as a great place to travel to celebrate the holidays. Growing up in Brooklyn, New York, the holidays always consisted of cold weather, lights, food and family. This all changed when I moved to sunny south Florida. Where, for four years straight I experienced 80 degree Christmas’. I contributed my lack of excitement due to not being a child anymore and frustrations of working retail. Throughout those years, I thought nothing can compare to the old days of being in the “Big Apple”, “Where the city never sleeps.” Some readers may constitute these feelings as a mild case of homesickness, but I believe it is something more. That something more is being captivated by a location, a place where you only dream about at times. Somewhere where your heart can be filled with hope and make you feel like a little child all over again. That place for me is Atlanta, Georgia. My anecdote shows that you do not have to be a southerner to enjoy the red hills of Atlanta. There is plenty to do in this great, continually developing city. It is a perfect blend of serene, rural America meeting with a highly technological and modernized metropolis. I encourage you, better yet, challenge you; to visit all that Atlanta may be for you. Go and count the floors of the skyscrapers or indulge in a restaurant you never been to. Or pray beside a small farm on top of the red hills. Atlanta made me relive my childhood, and I hope it does the same for you.
Even though it is the middle of July, I can see vaguely see my breath puff out in light wisps, getting caught in the drafty winds. I am surrounded by mountaintops, and it appears as if each one is trying to rise above the rest; pointed snowcaps reaching for the heavens. My bike is anxious under me, and I look down the path, anticipating the twists and turns it may be ready to throw at me. I push off the moist earth, and the steep trail hurtles me through the fertile Rocky Mountain forest.
Even at the bottom of the trail, I still feel like I am on top of the mountain. The peaks seem to spread out miles in each direction, and I notice that I am within walking distance of a cloud down the road. As I sit to rest my rushing adrenaline on a rock, I closely survey my surroundings. I hear a rustle behind me and jump as something scurries out of the wildflowers towards where I’m sitting. A curious little red fox lifts his face in my direction. I put down my hand for him to come closer, but he just stares in wonder. I sit back up, and together, we behold the view. The power of nature overcomes me as I simultaneously feel the magnificence of being alone in the midst of creation and the solidarity of experiencing this with another creature so close to me. It feels as if nature is rooting me to the ground, pulling me in with our surroundings, enveloping me as part of itself. Apart from the pandemonium that is modern urban life, I realize that nature can still surface itself as its own entity; you just have to be willing to feel it.
I have traveled the world. I have been to over fifteen different countries. Being a navy brat this is no idle boast. Of all the places I have been my heart is still in the Dominican Republic. I traveled there as a volunteer and worked in a orphanage for a week at a time the past three years painting buildings, laying cement and loving the boys in the orphanages. My first time I, was afraid of traveling to a third world country with no air conditioning and spotty electricity. After playing with the little boys and learning Spanish, I couldn’t believe I had to wait a year to go back. But the next year I was again on the bus watching the landmarks I remembered fly by. The beautiful stretch of beach and the glorious monuments in the capital, as well as the poverty and depravation of the villages along the way- every turn brought back the familiar memories and new sights of both beauty and the squalor that comes from being in the third world. I met a boy in the Dominican. His name is Omar, he was fourteen the first time I met him. He grabbed my hand as I got off the bus and I managed to ask him his name. He was my best friend in the Dominican; he taught me Spanish and showed me around the orphanage. He kept the ever present tarantulas away from me. He and his friends loved me and shared their home with me. I will never forget those trips. I will never forget seeing the hundreds of “homes” coming out of the side of a mountain. I will never forget giving a child his first balloon. I will never forget Omar and his home- my new home, the Dominican Republic.
Beads of sweat trickled down my neck as I dismounted the dung reeking mule and gazed skyward towards God’s majestic creation. There before me stood the Citadel; a piece of Haitian history kissing the clear cerulean sky. I pressed my palm against the cold stone entrance attempting to soak up whatever memories it had left undiscovered. Was this where Henri Christophe stood in times of belligerence? Had Jean Jacques Dessalines caressed this same surface? “Entréz-vous sil-vous plait.” Washed with emotion, I followed my family into the barren tower.
At once we were covered in darkness. “Réte pré.” Stay close. As we sauntered on, the ancient hallway began a noticeable shift. Walls widened slowly; the ceiling drew closer to the dry ground. In a matter of minutes all crouched in discomfort, probing wildly for nonexistent supports. A small opening lay several meters ahead. Climbing through the portal, we were showered with sunlight. Instinctively, I shielded my eyes. We were at the Citadel’s battle platform; a large square deck layered in bricks, covered in moss. Upon it rested retired cannons; rusted beyond repair. Stacked neatly aside were missiles; bronzed severely from solar radiation.
Mounting a pyramid of artillery, I gazed beyond the Citadel. I gazed beyond, into the paradise that was Haiti; its luscious mountain ranges and shimmering expanses of crystal ocean. My heart swelled with pride. How glorious it must have been to defend this nation, my nation at the peak of its colossus! I saw smoke billowing from the mountains, heard men’s shouts of triumph, their cries of conquest…“Viens! Allons-y!” Absorbing the last of the memories, I dismounted my plinth and followed the guide back down the tower’s narrow opening.
http://www.travelwritercontest.com./index.html
18 comments:
“Hustle. Bustle. Traffic.”: words often heard when referring to major metropolitan cities like NYC or Tokyo, can also show a duality when it comes to the poorer countries of South America. These people, such as those from Lima, Peru rarely walk down the busy streets en route to their profiting job. Most spend their time scrounging for misplaced pennies on the floor, or waiting for the packed buses to take them to their menial jobs. These people are physicians, attorneys at law and engineers. These professionals with seemingly wasted educations push their tiny vendor carts with packs of gum and mints sold at a mere price of half a Sol. As a fourteen-year old girl, I came face to face with the reality of my country of birth for the first time. Barely allowing seconds from time of arrival to pass, those same people, once members of aristocratic families, urged me, an “Americanized” Peruvian girl, to spare a dime. In hopes of finding a deeper meaning to my past, I guiltily asked for passage through the busy, grimy streets of Lima. Days later, I progressively grew accustomed to the constant smog and persistent reminder of the once-great fallen capital. I realized that as a people, my ancestors and relatives fell victims to a corrupt government, yet still maintained the twinkle of hope in their eyes. They lived a story of perseverance. As natives to this beautiful land of mountains, ruins, tropics, and beach, they had taken up arms and united to retrogress to prosperity. The same blood and roots stemmed from the Peruvian soil to me like any other compatriot. Their efforts were my efforts and any futility of purpose lied buried under the sands of the Pacific shoreline.
“Don’t make eye contact and don’t answer any questions!” my native Indian father warned, as he knew my American accented Bengali would surely throw all the vendors and charlatans into a frenzy. The mere entrance to legendary Kalighat temple near Calcutta was a world of vibrant color, curious odors and wild, noisy ruckus! For a predominantly religious area, tourists can’t ignore an unholy matrimony of the vices.
Across from the Kalighat Police Station, a coy group of prostitutes flirted with potential customers. At the opposite corner, a cluster of men chatted merrily while unabashedly smoking sweet smelling ganja. The most poignant image remains the crumbling building that served as Mother Teresa’s home for the dying and destitute. Only hours before, a family sprinkled the ashes of a loved one into the Hoogli River. A hint of burning flesh lingered in the air from the neighboring cremation grounds.
I cautiously stepped into the temple, finding myself enveloped in sheer chaos. Every other second a huge bell resonated a deafening chord in harmony with wailing men and women who beseeched Almighty Goddess Kali. I held my breath as I was hit with a bizarre blend, of what were, common temple smells: stale sweets, overripe fruit, urine, and milk. My eyes welled from the sting of the thick incense and I clung tightly to my father’s shirt. One man kept asking in broken English if we would like a tour, while an older gentleman repeatedly scolded me in my mother tongue, “Take off your shoes! Show some respect! This is a place of worship.” An odd combination of fascination, curiosity, and bewilderment, gripped me.
A picture may be “worth a thousand words” but cameras could ever capture the depth
of my enlightening adventure to this exotic and untamed temple with my dad.
My many visits to Yellowstone National Park have left me in awe and wonder. How can such a magical place exist? Here you can see an abundance of wildlife roam free, and geysers erupt just feet in front of you. You feel the heat of hot springs on your face, and view the beauty of the amazing mountains that seem never ending.
Such beautiful geothermal features are scattered throughout the park with wonderful walking paths weaved throughout them. I feel that Old Faithful Geyser caught my attention the most. When I saw the infinite gallons of boiling water shoot out from the ground, I was taken aback. Such enchantment and beauty right before my very eyes.
Bison, bears, wolves, and elks, oh my! Throughout the park thousands of species run wild. You see them everywhere you go. Endangered and threatened species roam the park free, allowing you to get an up-close look at them. Here you can look at them in their natural habitat. The opportunity to see these amazing animals made me feel a sense of privilege.
Many beautiful mountains sit within the borders of the park. I remember going on horse rides throughout them, and experiencing their natural wonder. The experience was unforgettable. If you do not get the chance to ride a horse throughout the mountains, there are thousands of trails that you can walk along to view them. Many beautiful plants grow on these mountains, which you can explore and get a closer look at. I remember loving their bright colors and exotic looks. Also, many beautiful waterfalls, lakes, and streams scatter themselves around the mountains.
If anyone has not had the opportunity to visit Yellowstone National Park they should definitely find a way to go. The beauty and the memories will last a lifetime.
A day on the Wekiva River is like a day in another time. Although only a mile from my house in Orlando, Florida, the river is a completely different world, separate from the constant motion of the busy city. Upon taking my first step into the canoe, time immediately begins to slow down. Dipping my paddle into the cool, clear water I can almost feel the presence of the native tribes who used to inhabit the vast forest in a much simpler time. I maneuver the canoe around the tip of a fallen oak tree, parting the resting water as I go. For the first time in my life I feel like a creature of the Earth, removed from the comforts of suburban living. As I paddle out of the shade of a tall, indigenous tree, the scorching sun reminds me of my need for hydration. I slowly enter the water, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of the canoe or the fish swimming by. The alligators and turtles resting on the riverbank are unaware of my presence as I submerse myself in the calm river. My fingertips graze the surface of the waste-deep water as I make my way back to the canoe. Continuing upstream, I spot the lake that marks the end of the river in the distance. I continue paddling in contemplative silence realizing that my trip will soon be over. As my canoe glides effortlessly onto the shore, a bitter-sweet feeling sweeps over me like the herons over the crystalline lake. My journey has come to an end, but the feeling of peace and simplicity will stay with me as I enter the chaotic world once again. On the Wekiva River I can simply exist, if only for a day.
Henry Miller once said, “One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.” From the moment that you reach the Dominican Republic, you are swarmed with a fusion of Latin Creole culture, almost as if transported to another world. However the culture is almost expected, it is not the culture that startles you or even walking the streets of this third world country, but what is hidden—the caves that house the natural springs.
“Turn left at the third pole down the dirt road,” commands such as this encompassed the directions given to us by the locals in the market. As the ten passenger van rumbled down the streets at what seemed to be eighty miles per hour, but was truly forty, the sound of branches hitting the car and the rocks rumbling below our tires emanated throughout the vehicle. After two hours, we found our destination—the caves and a small family run restaurant. The cave was beautiful, a huge untouched wonder of the earth, perfect in the way it was created; the water cold, refreshing, and crystal clear appeared to go straight down to the core of the earth. Jose Luis, a little boy, was so excited to share the wonder of the cave in which he spends most days that he gave us a tour of the cave showing us the intricate turns and structures.
The simplicity of this natural oasis was truly life altering. The family that ran the restaurant had achieved true happiness in sharing this wonder with others. This notion of happiness and beauty would change anyone, I hope that one day I will be able to show others a glimpse of this untouched beauty and have it provide them with a new way of looking at life.
A trip to a third-world country in the Middle East is a unique experience amongst Westerners. My trip to City of the Dead in Cairo changed how I value life. Before my travel, I had never known about such poverty as to where people lived in mausoleums. To the inhabitants of the City of the Dead, mausoleums make up the only form of affordable shelter.
In order to arrive at Masgid al-Qaitbay, one must walk through City of the Dead, as infrastructures for cars do not exist. Looking at the crumbling mausoleums that people called home, not a sound was heard in the street. The city was truly dead. I will never forget when an older man approached me, his voice a haunting sound that had obvious damage to his vocal chords. He continued to question me although I ignored him. Here, foreigners should not speak to locals. When I finally reached the mosque, he left, realizing that I had no money on me. I did not know how to react since I had never known such poverty existed. The inhabitants of City of the Dead rarely see Westerners and do not know how to react when and if they do.
After leaving City of the Dead, I learned to never take anything for granted and to never seek more than what I needed. Seeing people living in mausoleums will forever stand out in my mind and it humbles me every time I think about it. I realized that I am truly blessed to have everything God gave me. City of the Dead was not just a part of Cairo, but also the experience that made me realize how fortunate I am to have a roof over my head, a meal on the table, and knowledge at my hands.
I can feel the vibrations of a soft waltz playing in the background, moving me with an inexplicable feeling of rapture. I can look into the distance and allow the mountains to inspire me with a feeling of peace, thinking that maybe complexity doesn’t always mean stress. I can hear the natives singing a tale on their fiddles, a story that truly warms the heart. Yes, I’m in Poland again. Parties, fun, and friends await my arrival. Of course, the lunches, or Obiady, never fail to satisfy. Though the food always fulfills the standard, the conversations keep people coming back for more. Upcoming weddings, excellent parties, and, of course, family matters are the typical topics of the talks. Suddenly, I find myself in conversation with my cousin’s grandfather, telling me about the days of the German occupation. No one else in the room noticed but me. Since he always referred to me as the “American”, he felt he should educate me on some of the history of Poland.
“Times were tough; one of my brothers was taken away for not giving up all of our food to the soldiers.” For me, this dinner had taken a turn from festive to serious. Though I put his words through reflections time and time again, I would not understand their significance until the end of my journey.
A few days before my departure, my cousin and I decided to go dancing. Wanting to take a rest, my friend Alicia and I went over and grabbed a table to sit down and talk. Eventually I deepened the conversation, and, remembering the words of my cousin’s grandfather, I questioned her about her feelings towards Germans in general, given the history of Poland’s situation. With a sober face, she looked at me and said “If we only look to the past, we can never move forward. We need to look to the future.” I, an American, learned a lesson from Poland’s hardship. Reflecting only on the past will always inhibit progression. We must look to the future. “That’s our song! Let’s dance.”
Music plays a vital role in my life, to the point that virtually every situation I encounter brings to mind a specific song. Although I feel most alive when listening to music, I’ve never felt a sense of true belonging at any concert. So after hearing about Bonnaroo, an annual music and arts festival featuring various artists, I felt the promise of a new musical experience. Jamming to Damian Marley (son of Bob Marley) on a sunlit June morning, my twin sister and I leave Gainesville, Florida for Manchester, Tennessee.
Glittering, colorful lights, cheers of excitement, and aromas of delicious foods draw us to the live music. From a silent disco and laser light shows, to stand-up comedy and a grand Ferris wheel, things to do can be found everywhere you look. But the main incentive for our trip is music, so we head to the Damian Marley show. His contagious energy soon reaches the audience. Within minutes, everyone is sending out this warm, positive vibe that you can see with your eyes, but really feel in your heart. Contrary to the usual separation between musicians on stage and people in the audience, Damian’s spirit connects us all through the message of his music.
To me Bonnaroo means a place where people from various backgrounds come together for one reason: music. The Bonnaroo Nation would bring a loving smile to Bob Marley’s face, because despite their remarkable diversity, they are unified through the music and genuinely exemplify “one love.” Every second there reminds me of a Coldplay song that goes, “…we live in a beautiful world. Yeah we do, yeah we do.” Bonnaroo stays close to my heart as more than just a festival; it is my home filled with all the crazy, beautiful people who are my family.
I was fifteen years old when my father and I went to Mississippi for my first national sailing event in a Sunfish. I had sailed on a regular basis since I was nine years old, but in an International Optimist Dingy or Opti for short. I started sailing Sunfish when I was fourteen; however, I did not anticipate sailing with tough competition in such a short span of time, which took place only a year after starting out in the larger sailboat, Sunfish. The scene was new and unfamiliar to me with a different yacht club, a larger expanse of water to compete on, and competitors against whom I had never raced. Overall, it was an unpredictable experience I could only undergo if I was to try out my skills in a new boat. The event turned out to be one of my most memorable experiences.
The competition was unlike any I had raced against before. Men in their middle ages made up the majority of the fleet, and any women I did see were older and seemed much more experienced. The first race was unremarkable; conditions were fair and the weather sunny with light winds. In fact, it was a beautiful day to go sailing. However, I could soon see I was out of my league. The actions of my competitors appeared flawless and every tactical decision carried out with maneuvers that spoke to years of practice. I became discouraged when, approaching the finish line, there was a much larger number of boats in front of me with few following. The trying conditions came when the sun disappeared behind dark ominous clouds, succeeded by a powerful breeze that had everyone, including the full-grown experienced men, fighting to keep their boat in control. I made the easy decision, to quit. Pulling in my sail and heading for shore, I met my dad, who helped me pack up my boat, grab my gear and head back to Florida.
It was a simple, quick decision that changed my perspective on my favorite sport and hobby. Every regatta or sailing competition I attend reminds me of the day I gave up and headed for shore. I have always regretted quitting. Sailing is an activity I will continue to do for life and I will never drop out of a race due to discouragement and a bad attitude.
With one step into the uncomfortably cramped airplane row I would be sharing with my father and brother on our four-hour flight to Canada, it became clear our trip to Cuba would be anything but relaxing. What more could I ask for out of a travel experience than waiting out a nine-hour layover at Toronto Pearson International Airport, meeting primos (cousins) whose relation to me is questionable, to say the least, and sleeping in a “bedroom” where a curtain separated the bathroom from the other half of the room?
I turned fifteen the day we arrived at José Martí International Airport. My family received me with heart-felt hugs, kisses, and a warmly resounding “Feliz cumpleaños!” Throughout the visit, family members would entertain my brother and me while my father visited our grandfather and delivered money and medicines to friends. Although we only visited Cuba for two weeks, we fell into her routine almost automatically: eat dinner in the afternoon, enjoy desert, drinks, or tobacco in the evening, and sleep soon afterward. My father, brother, and I shared a room with a twin bed and a sofa in my aunt’s house in Camaguey.
One night I found myself looking out the room window at the brown and dry landscape, void of any redeeming features. I glanced over at my sleeping father and turned back to the window. As I continued to stare at the barren panorama, I could not help but notice a correlation between the worn and distressed land and the wrinkles born of exhaustion and experience painted across father’s face. The following day I asked my father to retell his stories about growing up in Cuba and leaving his home country. That trip I left my grotto of juvenile naiveté and, directed by the stories of my father, was introduced to the world of mature reality.
Last summer my father and I traveled to the Grand Canyon to have a last minute bonding experience before I headed off to college. After several days of hiking the South Rim we decided to venture to Toroweap Point on the north side. Once we made the five hour drive, we stopped at a gas station that simply read “LOTTO BEER AMMO.” Grabbing some water and browsing the station’s tye-dyed t-shirt merchandise that bore the store’s motto, the clerk and a local inquired where we were headed. Their laughter at our response gave us the hint that they did not recommend Toroweap Point. We went anyway.
“Primitive” does not define the unwelcoming road to Toroweap. It was more like the kind of road you see in television advertisements for oversized SUVs that are only used for transporting groceries. Towards the end of the sixty miles, we were easing to the edge of the canyon at five miles per hour.
We made it just in time for the one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. The sun setting made the canyon wall come to life for just those few short minutes as it bled away its reds and purples. At a straight drop the mighty Colorado River rushed thousands of feet below, its roar drowned out by the howl of the wind. We sat in silence with our feet hanging over the edge, the wind pushing us back so we wouldn’t fall into the darkening abyss. Even if we did fall, no one would have known.
It would not have been the same if there was a guard rail and twenty tourists waiting their turn to snap panoramic pictures. I am glad the road was not welcoming. Toroweap was not a tourist attraction, it was the spot my father and I shared a sunset in solitude and no one could ever intrude on our time together.
Looking out of the windows of the plane on my way back to the US, I watched the Spanish countryside crawl beneath me. I couldn’t do anything but think back on my time spent in what, I felt, called to me as motherland. The bus rides across this breathtaking country flooded back into my mind. The hospitality of this people – my people – overwhelmed me throughout my visit. The moment I landed there, only 10 days prior, I felt at home. The bustling streets and the language filling my ears caused my heart to swell; I had never experienced such an emotion. Every person treated me as if I had known them from birth; as if they were my blood.
This was the first time I had ever been to this heaven on earth. I had heard about my ancestral land from my childhood and had, only a few years earlier, mastered the language. I stepped off of the airplane and smelled the heavy, cold air; it felt like clouds had descended upon Madrid. All I could do was revel in the culture. As I traveled across her northern geography, the countryside called my name, telling me of the vast history of what one can consider to be a cradle of civilization.
Upon crossing over to the province from where my blood came, Catalonia, and entering into Barcelona, my head reeled. I barely contained myself, basking in the architecture and artwork all around me. Even the very streets, lined with tarot card and palm readers, screamed art! I felt as if there was nothing in this world that would keep me from returning to this center of sophistication and culture.
I vowed right there, on that plane, to come back to, what felt like, my home no matter what.
The holiday season is known for the tremendous amount of travel done all over the world, especially in the United States. Whether it is Thanksgiving, where family members gather to unite in sharing a meal or Christmas season, where people spend time (and money) on their loved ones. The holiday season and travel go hand in hand. Despite the set backs of hectic travel schedules and crowed malls, Atlanta, Georgia can be described as a great place to travel to celebrate the holidays.
Growing up in Brooklyn, New York, the holidays always consisted of cold weather, lights, food and family. This all changed when I moved to sunny south Florida. Where, for four years straight I experienced 80 degree Christmas’. I contributed my lack of excitement due to not being a child anymore and frustrations of working retail. Throughout those years, I thought nothing can compare to the old days of being in the “Big Apple”, “Where the city never sleeps.” Some readers may constitute these feelings as a mild case of homesickness, but I believe it is something more.
That something more is being captivated by a location, a place where you only dream about at times. Somewhere where your heart can be filled with hope and make you feel like a little child all over again. That place for me is Atlanta, Georgia. My anecdote shows that you do not have to be a southerner to enjoy the red hills of Atlanta. There is plenty to do in this great, continually developing city. It is a perfect blend of serene, rural America meeting with a highly technological and modernized metropolis.
I encourage you, better yet, challenge you; to visit all that Atlanta may be for you. Go and count the floors of the skyscrapers or indulge in a restaurant you never been to. Or pray beside a small farm on top of the red hills. Atlanta made me relive my childhood, and I hope it does the same for you.
Even though it is the middle of July, I can see vaguely see my breath puff out in light wisps, getting caught in the drafty winds. I am surrounded by mountaintops, and it appears as if each one is trying to rise above the rest; pointed snowcaps reaching for the heavens. My bike is anxious under me, and I look down the path, anticipating the twists and turns it may be ready to throw at me. I push off the moist earth, and the steep trail hurtles me through the fertile Rocky Mountain forest.
Even at the bottom of the trail, I still feel like I am on top of the mountain. The peaks seem to spread out miles in each direction, and I notice that I am within walking distance of a cloud down the road. As I sit to rest my rushing adrenaline on a rock, I closely survey my surroundings. I hear a rustle behind me and jump as something scurries out of the wildflowers towards where I’m sitting. A curious little red fox lifts his face in my direction. I put down my hand for him to come closer, but he just stares in wonder. I sit back up, and together, we behold the view. The power of nature overcomes me as I simultaneously feel the magnificence of being alone in the midst of creation and the solidarity of experiencing this with another creature so close to me. It feels as if nature is rooting me to the ground, pulling me in with our surroundings, enveloping me as part of itself. Apart from the pandemonium that is modern urban life, I realize that nature can still surface itself as its own entity; you just have to be willing to feel it.
I have traveled the world. I have been to over fifteen different countries. Being a navy brat this is no idle boast. Of all the places I have been my heart is still in the Dominican Republic. I traveled there as a volunteer and worked in a orphanage for a week at a time the past three years painting buildings, laying cement and loving the boys in the orphanages.
My first time I, was afraid of traveling to a third world country with no air conditioning and spotty electricity. After playing with the little boys and learning Spanish, I couldn’t believe I had to wait a year to go back. But the next year I was again on the bus watching the landmarks I remembered fly by. The beautiful stretch of beach and the glorious monuments in the capital, as well as the poverty and depravation of the villages along the way- every turn brought back the familiar memories and new sights of both beauty and the squalor that comes from being in the third world.
I met a boy in the Dominican. His name is Omar, he was fourteen the first time I met him. He grabbed my hand as I got off the bus and I managed to ask him his name. He was my best friend in the Dominican; he taught me Spanish and showed me around the orphanage. He kept the ever present tarantulas away from me. He and his friends loved me and shared their home with me.
I will never forget those trips. I will never forget seeing the hundreds of “homes” coming out of the side of a mountain. I will never forget giving a child his first balloon. I will never forget Omar and his home- my new home, the Dominican Republic.
Beads of sweat trickled down my neck as I dismounted the dung reeking mule and gazed skyward towards God’s majestic creation. There before me stood the Citadel; a piece of Haitian history kissing the clear cerulean sky. I pressed my palm against the cold stone entrance attempting to soak up whatever memories it had left undiscovered. Was this where Henri Christophe stood in times of belligerence? Had Jean Jacques Dessalines caressed this same surface? “Entréz-vous sil-vous plait.” Washed with emotion, I followed my family into the barren tower.
At once we were covered in darkness. “Réte pré.” Stay close. As we sauntered on, the ancient hallway began a noticeable shift. Walls widened slowly; the ceiling drew closer to the dry ground. In a matter of minutes all crouched in discomfort, probing wildly for nonexistent supports. A small opening lay several meters ahead. Climbing through the portal, we were showered with sunlight. Instinctively, I shielded my eyes. We were at the Citadel’s battle platform; a large square deck layered in bricks, covered in moss. Upon it rested retired cannons; rusted beyond repair. Stacked neatly aside were missiles; bronzed severely from solar radiation.
Mounting a pyramid of artillery, I gazed beyond the Citadel. I gazed beyond, into the paradise that was Haiti; its luscious mountain ranges and shimmering expanses of crystal ocean. My heart swelled with pride. How glorious it must have been to defend this nation, my nation at the peak of its colossus! I saw smoke billowing from the mountains, heard men’s shouts of triumph, their cries of conquest…“Viens! Allons-y!” Absorbing the last of the memories, I dismounted my plinth and followed the guide back down the tower’s narrow opening.
Post a Comment