An Inspirational Refutation of an Uncomfortable Stereotype

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By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com


"People try to insult me by saying my success is from a falang (foreigner)," said Nate, smiling as she steered us through the moped-filled traffic, "but it's just me." The story that emerged as Nate (in her taxi-service capacity) drove me from her restaurant to the Phuket bus stop was inspirational. But was also a desperately welcome antidote to the uncomfortable Older-Western-Man-funding-Younger-Thai-Woman situation thick on the island.
Nate grew up in a rural village in the center of Thailand, and had a daughter. "One day I decided I needed to find opportunity," she explained, "so I left my whole family to go to Phuket where you can make a living with tourism. I told no one where I was going."
She got in the first taxi she could find, and the driver asked her, "Where to?" "I don't know," she said, "maybe a job?" "I don't know where there would be a job for you," the driver replied. "Don't you have family here? Friends? Anything?" "I have nothing," replied Nate. "I just want a job."
It was getting dark, so Nate asked the driver to take her to a temple, so she could sleep in the sanctuary. "You can't do that," he said. "You're a woman." At last the driver had an idea. "There is a school being built over there. If you can handle heavy construction, I'll take you there." And he did.
For two years, Nate labored at school construction sites. Water from the ocean seeped through the foundation, and sewage bubbled out of the pipes where the toilets would be. At last, Nate realized that most of her paycheck was being swallowed by food expenses. So she had an idea.
"You're alive?!" cried Nate's family when she called them. "And you're in Phuket?! Why??" Nate explained that she wanted to pool the family's money and start a restaurant on the island. The family agreed, and the restaurant was born.
Success! Nate's natural energy and scrumptious food brought the customers in droves. But the landlord saw the crowds and began raising the rent. "He was jealous," sighed Nate. Within a few years the rent raises forced Nate's business to fold. Again, she had nothing.
And yet, again she rose up. Off to another site, this time Karon beach with it's hearty crowd of falang tourists. Nate 1 opened its doors. Success! Nate's daughter came to help cook and serve before going to school, and ultimately just stayed to work. But the clouds thickened again, and again the rents were raised... and Nate was thrown out.
Heartbroken, to the northern city of Chiang Mai she went, desperately searching for another chance. None could be found, and Nate found herself sleeping outside. "What else could I do?" she sighed. "But you must still visit Chiang Mai yourself. It's beautiful!"
So she went back to Phuket. Gathering forces and resources again, she created "Nate 2". Nate 2! This is where we met Nate, just steps from our hotel. (See the photo of the cheerful tables and succulent coconut pineapple chicken... mmm!)
Speeding from the kitchen to the checkered tables to the taxi, Nate glows! Look at the photo at the start of this article of her and her daughter.

"Who was the German man I saw in the kitchen?" I asked. "Ahhh. People spread rumors about me and him," she said, "but he is a friend, a love. He had moved here ten years ago, and we became friends. I said to him finally one day, 'I am not young or beautiful, and neither are you, but maybe we can join together, and that way we will not be so alone as we grow old.'"
As we neared our destination, I told Nate how much I admired her, and how much I wished her and her enterprises the best.
"You know what I think helped me survive?" she said. "When I was younger, I took classes in art-ing." "Acting?" I said. "No, art-ing. Creating the body with your hands. Art." "Ah!" I said.
"Because I know art-ing," she smiled as she steered into the crowded bus terminal, "I have always been able to see the beauty in the ugliness."

LAUNCHED: Stories of Woe and Whoa

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WE DID IT!!

Welcome to our first-ever OFFICIAL Go Girl post!!

We're starting today off with a pretty unique series of postings, all to hit you throughout the day. They are our "stories of woe and whoa", or rather, some of the most juicy, exciting, crazy, scary adventures that each of us writers have come across. Get to know us, revel (in either excitement or in fear) in our independent womanhood and feel our experiences as if they were your own.

Whether it's being attacked by wild monkeys, finding yourself lost in Paris in the middle of the night or galavanting half-naked on the hike of your life, these adventures are sure to knock your socks off.
AND, the best part is--this is only the beginning. If you like these, stay tuned for our regular posts- our adventures, our advice, our thoughts, our fears...and come add your own!
WELCOME! And see you around!

The Team at Go Girl

About Go Girl

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Go Girl Magazine (http://www.travelgogirl.com) is a fresh new take on travel through the unique eyes and experiences of women around the world. We officially launched on October 1, 2009.

Too much is at stake in the possibilities of adventure to go the route of five-star hotels and fine dining. This is for the bus-hoppers, the backpackers, the fruit cart-riders and everything else. This is the real stuff: action that is tried, tasted and true. An exposure to the bridge between known and unknown. And an understanding of the beautiful, wildly different components of a world that perhaps is not so daunting after all.

The stories and photographs from our contributors are true encounters with the world as it is lived. Read their words, live their experiences and then use our tools to chart your own adventures into brave new territories.

Happy Travels,

Beth
Founder, Go Girl


Join Our Team

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Want to join Go Girl? Here are some of the spots available on our team.


Publicity Manager. Go Girl is constantly on the hunt for ways to grow and expand. We love exploring new opportunities and are always down for a readership boost! Looking for an enthusiastic publicity manager that can help take Go Girl to new heights, both inside and outside the Internet world. Duties would include managing a weekly email digest, publicizing Go Girl regularly in media outlets and developing tactics to boost readership. Will work closely with Social Networking Director to ensure appropriate administration of social networking sites.
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Posting Schedule

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Want to know what to expect every week? Take a look at or regular posting schedule. It doesn't include our irregularly posted contributions, but it will give you at least a taste of what to expect at Go Girl.

Mondays, Biweekly: Steph's tips to keep in shape while on the road
Busy times call for busy schedules. A Go Girl is a woman who looks adventure in the eye and does her own exploration. Yet no matter where she is in the world and no matter how busy her day, week or month may seem, tending to a Go Girl's fitness is a constant variable that can keep her sane, focused and ready for life's next adventure. Take tips from Steph on how to keep up your health so you can feel great while running down the street or around the world.

Mondays Biweekly: Sarah takes off for the Peace Corps
Follow Sarah's journey through rural Honduras as a public health educator, specializing in HIV/AIDS prevention. The work, the weather, the food, the people -- she will cover it all as she spends 2 ½ years working for the Peace Corps becoming a teacher in Latin America, and hopefully perfecting her Gringa Spanish along the way.  You can follow her personal blog at http://sarahlagringa.wordpress.com/.

Mondays, Monthly: Marianne's Winning Ticket
Marianne headed to Australia after winning a one-way ticket for £10 through STA Travel’s Anniversary celebrations in November of 2009. Watch as she travels as much as she can, writing about her journey and the adventures along the way. See more of her musings at http://fillingthepages.com.

Tuesdays: Beth's crazy commentary and beyond
Beth is finally hitting a wild ride through the Azores, including two months in Sao Tome, a small island off the west coast of Africa, near Gabon and the Ivory Coast. When she's not going nuts with pictures and new stories to tell, she's linking similarities and drawing cultural deductions. Check out what she has to say about the places she goes and the conclusions she derives with them.

Wednesdays: Megan around the world
Megan discusses her travels (and subsequent musings) around Spain, Argentina, India and more. Every week she seems to happen upon another story and another adventure. Will she ever let us down??

Thursdays, Biweekly: Lisa on and off the main road
Lisa explores a world of not only solo road-tripping, but solo camping and hiking, too. Read about her experiences and catch up on some of her important advice. For more, you can even check out articles she posts on her blog, Her Side of the Mountain, located at http://hermountain.wordpress.com.

Thursdays, Biweekly: Lakia's travel tips
From how to apply for a visa to what not to wear, Lakia gives her readers advice, tips, and suggestions on how to have fun and safe travels. Check out her website at http://www.lakiagordon.com.

Fridays, biweekly: Erica preps for Germany
When Erica discovered that her ex-army fiance Nick was being sent to Germany in three days to start his new job, she couldn't have been taken more by surprise. Now she's still back home in Philadelphia and prepping for her own travels across the world- a year in Germany to be with the love of her life and an eventual settle in Japan. Her life is both an emotional and a technical roller coaster- from trying to deal with suddenly living alone to figuring out how to allow her cat to cross country lines. Oh, and lest we forget the wedding they're planning in the States in less than a year!.

Saturdays: Lillie's year of action
Traveling around the world on a teacher's salary, making friends and living outside of her comfort zone, Lillie sucks out the marrow of life around the globe. Her colorful pictures and witty commentary leave little to be desired. Catch her every Saturday and hear even more about her travels at http://www.aroundtheworldl.com.

Sundays, monthly: AJ brings the male perspective
AJ knows that being a woman, especially being a woman alone, on the go is not easy. Cultural expectations and norms for women differ greatly around the world. But what do male feminists do when they see females struck with adversity?

Sundays, monthly: Karissa explores the Japanese outdoors
Forget what you thought about Japan.  Forget the electronics and sky-high buildings, forget the tiny smart cars and packed subway cars.  Forget about sushi and anime TV.  Yes, Japan is all those things, but also, so much more!  Ski, climb, hike, bike, and swim Japan through Karissa’s outdoor adventures the last Sunday of every month.  Catch more general musings, ikebana flower arrangement photos, and surprise seafood gifts at her home blog: http://sailforth.wordpress.com.

TBA: Wendy works out west
Starting in early 2010, Wendy and her husband will camp and drive cross-country to the West Coast, working their way from New Mexico to Washington State and everywhere in between. Join them on this year-long journey as they make mistakes, work on organic farms, meet different people, experience things for the first time, and learn about themselves. All with 2 dogs in tow! Wendy will also be posting her adventures at http://conradvisionquest.wordpress.com/.

TBA, Biweekly: Anna's Australian adventure
After quitting her job and giving up her apartment, Anna is traveling to Australia to find more auspicous trails.  Her gut finally told her head to stop worrying about the future and appreciate all her possibilities now.  If she can be confident enough in herself, she'll be able to live life unrestricted from what holds us back the most: ourselves.  Follow along in both the excitements and the challenges as she takes a leap into something new and unconventional. Check up with her at http://annafrankel.wordpress.com.

Our Contributors

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Our Contributors make Go Girl what it is. Read about them below:

B-SizzleBeth, aka Maximum Beth, aka Timestopper, aka B-Sizzle: Beth is like a shark: If she’s not moving, she’s dead. That’s probably why you’ll find her chomping at the bit for new experiences just about every minute of every day. Beth really caught the travel bug after living for a year in Coimbra, Portugal. Since then, she has had an unruly obsession with documenting her travels in writing and images. Well, that and espresso, of course. Beth also loves ice cream of every flavor, street art and live music. When she’s in one place for long enough, she coaches a high school crew team.
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A.J: A.J.’s been traveling since before he can remember. With frequent trips to India as he grew up, he took a particular interest in the developing world.  After college, he spent two years with the Peace Corps in South Africa, teaching kids and herding goats before returning to the U.S. where he is currently pursuing a PhD in Applied Physics.  He’s been to over 15 countries and hopes to get to many more. The Peace Corps gave him a new appreciation for diversity and cultural differences that he hopes to continue to explore in other countries and his work. His Peace Corps days are chronicled at ajinsa.blogspot.com.

Anna: Born in Thailand to a hitchhiking, hippie father and a mother who traveled to places she read about, Anna has the traveling gene in her blood.  By the time she was three, she had been to Egypt and Saudi Arabia before moving to Southern California.  She has trekked across the US, Europe, and been to various cities in Mexico, Canada, China, and of course Thailand.  With an interest and degrees in Environmental Science, Anna hopes to experience all the beauty and wonder our world has to offer while understanding that there is a delicate balance it also sits on.  She used to reside in the San Francisco Bay Area until she decided to follow her gut and just go!  Her travels to Australia begin early February.  Watch for her biweekly postings at Go Girl starting February 2010 or catch up with her at http://annafrankel.wordpress.com.

Emily: Emily has straddled two home states for five years now: Utah and New Hampshire. Socially and politically, these states are about as different as two states in the Union can get, which makes for nonstop adventures in culture shock. She travels more for necessity than pleasure, but years of flying across the US have taught her the ins and outs of booking cheap airfare, surviving dreadful plane rides, and transitioning between two cultures. Four years ago she spent a semester in Paris, and she's been dying to get back to Europe ever since. She has one year left of her MFA in creative writing and can't wait to graduate and embark on more pleasurable travel adventures. You can follow more of her antics at notanotherwave.blogspot.com.



148Erica: Erica first set foot on a plane when she was ten months old. 23 years, 18 countries, and four continents later, the travel bug’s still strong in her veins. After living in Montreal while doing her bachelor’s degree, Erica’s taste for living abroad has turned into a craving, and she and her partner are preparing to move to Germany for a few years, followed by Okinawa for a few more. Currently, Erica’s hanging out in Philadelphia, working on her Master’s degrees, knitting, and trying to teach herself as many languages as possible before she gets to Europe.


Karissa: Certainly a woman on the run, Karissa has lived in four countries and six states in the US.  She has traveled to over twenty countries and forty-three of America’s beautiful fifty.  And here’s to still counting.  Currently, home base is a tiny fishing village in the wilds of northern Japan where she teaches English to Junior High and Elementary students, explores the world of Japanese cuisine, reads and writes and gets outside as much as possible.  Follow Karissa’s explorations of Japan through the outdoor lens – worlds away from the Tokyo life that most people imagine.  More thoughts, adventures and photos can be found on her blog: http://sailforth.wordpress.com.
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GuatemalaKarla did not step on an airplane until the age of 18 and has yet to fully land. Her travels opened up a wide berth of experiences and reflections for her. Travel has been hugely tied to personal growth, discovery of self and discovery of her own history. Each of the 12 countries she’s visited have given her gifts that have had a lasting impact in her world. She became a dreamer as a little girl and only realized, just how big dreams could be as an adult. In her day to day life, Karla works to give low-income students around the country the same opportunities she’s experienced by trying to make college access attainable for all high school students. Karla manages a national volunteer program which connects good people to these very same deserving kids. She’s a big fan of teenagers and appreciates their candor, loves her community, culture, family, and life more than words could ever describe. Every once in awhile, you may even catch her rocking a karaoke mic.


Lakia lives, breathes, and sleeps learning of other languages, cultures, and nationalities; she has lived and studied abroad at La Universidad de Guanajuato in Mexico. Although, right now, she only travels within the United States (she is working on her Doctorate degree) she still has vivid memories and experiences about her travels abroad.   From how to apply for a visa to what not to wear, she gives her readers advice, tips, and suggestions on how to have fun and safe travels. You can also check out more of her writings at: http://lakiagordon.com.




LillieLillie: After six fabulous and crazy years teaching high school English in Boston Public Schools (and bopping down to Latin America each summer), Lillie is taking off this year to travel around the world!  Follow her travels at: www.aroundtheworldl.com.
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lisaLisa: Whether she’s watching the sunrise over the hoodoos in Bryce Canyon, enjoying crepes on the Left Bank, or herding cattle on a ranch in Montana, Lisa’s travel philosophy is to embrace spontaneity, experience everything, and regret nothing.  Known in her circle as the trip mom, she’s always the one prepared for any eventuality, opening the door to countless possibilities at every turn.  After spending six weeks driving around the U.S. by herself, Lisa realized that solo travel — charting her own course and making her own adventures — is thrilling and fulfilling, and she now seeks out solo travel opportunities to new and exciting places as often as her day job will allow.  Lisa writes about solo camping and hiking over at her own blog, Her Side of the Mountain, http://hermountain.wordpress.com.

megan profile.

Megan suffers from a severe case of ‘wanderlust’ brought on by family vacations and a year spent living as a student/nanny in Barcelona, Spain.  Currently, she has set down roots in lovely Chicago where she spends her time singing in the Apollo Choir, riding her bicycle, and learning how to bake bread.  Future travel plans include India, Argentina, and yet to be discovered destinations.
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Marianne was born in London where she lived until age 11 clocking in some early travel experiences around Europe. After that, she was off to the USA with her parents, living in New York and Maryland. Post graduation, staying in one place didn’t sound appealing, so after a summer of work back in London, she headed to Thailand to become an English teacher at secondary school in the northern Nan Province. When she finished teaching she travelled through Laos and Cambodia where she discovered her love for travel writing. In November, 2009, after getting a one way ticket for £10 through STA Travel’s Anniversary celebrations, Marianne has headed to Australia where she hopes to travel as much as she can for the next few months as she continues to write about her journey. See more of her musings at http://fillingthepages.com.

Sarah: Ohio by birth, Arizona by choice, Sarah spent her youth in the backseat of a big red van while her parents toted her on cross-country road trips all over the US (If you ever want to know anything about Civil War Memorials or National Monuments, she’s your girl!). She recently graduated from college and (surprise) balked at the idea of getting a “desk job”. Instead, she opted to travel around for a bit and see what else is out there. With a journalism degree and camera in hand, Sarah plans to tackle bigger adventures in Central America. She will be living and working in rural Honduras for the next two years, teaching HIV/AIDS prevention. You can follow her personal blog at http://sarahlagringa.wordpress.com/

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pic2Steph caught the travel bug early in life, traveling to various cities in Colombia every summer growing up.  In college, she took on adventures traveling to to England, Costa Rica, Argentina, and the Virgin Islands. Her four years in the Army allowed her to travel around the world and granted her the privilege to live and explore the Korean peninsula, the Hawaiian Islands, and of course, a fortuitous excursion through sandy Iraq. Currently, she’s enjoying the civilian life back in her hometown, Woodbridge, Virginia. She loves dancing, the outdoors, and re-exploring sights of the nation’s capital; this time, through the eyes of a more grown-up version of herself.

Wendy: Admittedly a bit green when it comes to travel, Wendy is ready to change that in a big way. Only dabbling in exploration in her life so far, visiting Italy, Mexico, St. Lucia, and everywhere up and down the East Coast, she and her husband are planning the ultimate American Road Trip. Starting in early 2010, they will camp and drive cross-country to the West Coast, working their way from New Mexico to Washington State and everywhere in between. Join them on this year-long journey as they make mistakes, work on organic farms, meet different people, experience things for the first time, and learn about themselves. All with 2 dogs in tow! Wendy's posts are coming soon!


Want to contribute stories, photography, advice or anything else? Email us at team@travelgogirl.com.

A word on mosquito bites and family as a way to sum up the Mayan Empire

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By Karla



Four days into my trip to my father’s homeland, Guatemala, we go to the most beautiful terrain I have ever seen. A mix between jungle and forest, parrots flying past me, butterfly’s the size of your hand, and the buzzing of insects. At some point we stop in what can only be described as a Lychee forest, huge lychee everywhere in tons of different colors, lots of yellows, reds, red with green spindles, and oranges. There it is – the entire world’s beauty there for me to enjoy.
I get to our family’s home and realize I have been massively bitten by mosquitoes. Now a few bad mosquito bites is a blip on my travel radar. My father, a man who always praised toughening up, looks obscenely worried.
His reaction surprises me. The father that I know and love has always been slightly apathetic. That night, I am up writing in my journal and about to slather on menthol. My father comes in the room and asks me if he can put the menthol on my legs for me. I look at the worry lines creasing his forehead and ease myself back on my uncle’s couch and make room for him to sit as I think "Let him be your dad right now". For the next 30 minutes my dad sits on the couch and rubs menthol on each of my mosquito bites. He shakes his head as he looks and thoroughly rubs the cool balm into each of the bites. It dawns on me then, 1 am, sitting on the couch of an uncle I've only known for days, in a tiny tropical and rural port town in the south east of Guatemala, just how much my dad loves me. It hurts him to see my mosquito bites. Where as I was fully willing to brush them off as inconvenience and take a minimal 5 minutes to care for them, my dad thinks it’s worth 30 minutes of his time to try and make it better.

Now, my father isn't the most expressive man. He has a gruff exterior and his expression in the states is usually one that verges on scowl. I am quite the emotional and expressive woman, I was a toughy for him to handle. That night, and many other moments on the trip, I was struck by how in our baggage as father and daughter, I had not ever truly understood just how much my dad loves me, even if its hard for him to say it. I am loved. There it is – the entire world’s beauty there for me to enjoy.
My family in Guatemala relates to each other so powerfully. When one family member hurts the whole family does, when one family member has joy the whole family rejoices. My dad, I discovered, was pulled from all this love at a very young age and put in orphanages until coming to the United States, this is where his base was created. Everything he learned about being a dad got packed into the first 8 to 9 years of his life. A nine year old boy soaked in family and all the bruises and trauma that followed created the man who sat at my legs and dedicated 30 minutes every night for 5 nights to provide his daughter with comfort.
I heard so many rich stories in those three weeks. Stories about my revolutionary great-grandmother "La Abuela", that hid propaganda in tortillas to help Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary. Stories about her exile from her mother country. Stories about the loss of her 13 children and her raising all her grandchildren in their absence. Stories that are full of immense pain and tremendous pride at what each of them had to do to guarantee survival for the rest.
I understand now, perhaps better than at any time in my life, that I am Guatemalan, Mexican, and American. This visit was not a visit to a foreign land but a return to another home. I am fundamentally tied to my culture. To a people whose ruins remain more amazing than any modern day building I have seen. Linked to traditions and values created out of struggle and hope. I am loved by them. I was loved by them before I ever was even born. And they fought for themselves, each other and my future. Now I get the distinct honor of being their historian; making sure that my kids, my students, and my friends know where they come from.

When the Going Gets Tough...

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By Erica

End of April, 2007: the end of the shittiest semester of my life. In the past four months, I've practically given myself Generalized Anxiety Disorder, lost one of my best friends, jeopardized my relationship with my partner, cried myself to sleep in the evenings, been unable to sleep through the night, and dealt with the seemingly constant onslaught of questions. Where will I go after graduation in a year? What do I want to do with my life? Where will I be this summer? What will I be doing for work? How will I pay rent? How will I get anywhere? How do I expect to survive if I don't go for a Master's degree? When am I going to visit everyone I've ever promised to visit, in spite of my financial limitations? I've reached the point where every day is horrible, every night is worse, and I don't see how it can possibly end. What I need is a break, a chance to run away and start it all over again.
I grew up traveling, really. My parents ensured that I was used to flying, driving, and busing at an early age- my first "vacation" on a plane happened when I was 10 months old- and when Dad's conferences and trainings took him around the world, he took the rest of us with him. Other kids grew up dreaming about visiting far-off or exotic lands; I grew up actually going to them. My first transatlantic flight took me to Australia at age 7, where I trekked through a tropical rainforest, BBQed under the stars in the Great Australian Desert, and learned to play the didgeridoo. Each time I stepped into the airport, lugged my stuff onto a plane, or even snapped a luggage tag neatly around my bag handle was the beginning of an exciting adventure. To this day, the prospect of traveling, especially on a plane, is irresistible. The moment the plane's wheels leave the ground and we begin the steep climb up into the atmosphere, something inside me changes and loosens and is left on the ground below. In high school, bored with the rural area I lived in, I dreamed about putting a few necessities- contact lenses, toothbrush, change of underwear- into a bag, climbing in the car, and then just driving. Going somewhere, anywhere, that was far away and where I could start over.

This spring, all I want to do is fulfill that old fantasy. I want to fuck school, fuck obligations, and fuck emotional ties and just get the hell away.

Serendipity strikes one day, just as I'm packing up to head home for the unplanned, terrifyingly uncommitted summer ahead. I get a message from my old supervisor, offering me a temporary job at her organization, and it doesn't start until June. At the same time, a request comes in from a collective in Toronto. They want me to come and participate on a panel about social change and engagement, at the end of May. Suddenly, the next three weeks begin to take shape.

When I get home at the beginning of May, I start calling people all over the eastern part of the US and Canada. Hannah in Philly; Gayle in Plainfield; Liz in NYC; Jocelyn in Toronto; Lisa in Schenectady; Emma in Saratoga Springs. "Remember how I planned to visit?" I say. "How about I actually do it?" I'm still quite financially limited; all I can afford is the $50 plane ticket to Philadelphia. But that's enough to get me on the road. It's enough to get me the hell away.

I only carry two small shoulderbags, somehow managing to fit three weeks' worth of clothes and supplies therein, and two skeins of yarn that I want to use to expand my knitting knowledge. My passport, for the trip to Toronto, is tucked into a side pocket, and my near-worthless debit card is in my jeans. For the first time in my life, I'll be traveling without family and without heading to university. On one hand, that feels wrong: I feel like I'm too young for this. At the same time, however, I'm 20. I'm going to university in a foreign country. And, for the first time in my life, the one thing I need and crave more than anything is to be completely unfettered and alone.

My first stop is to visit my sister at her college. Mom gives me lots of hugs and kisses, hands me a bag of cookies to give Hannah when I land, and gives me that look that says that she's a little jealous. "Be safe," she says, "and say hi to Hannah for us!" Because at this point, we all know that Hannah's stressed. In spite of everything- finishing her first year, about to start finals, and living with the roommate from Hell- but she's got an air mattress and extra food on her meal plan, and she wants to see me, so we spend a couple of days banging around Philadelphia together. We goof off in a mosaic-tiled house called the Magic Garden, meet up with an aunt and uncle for delicious Italian food, and celebrate May Day on her campus. She introduces me to the Dean of Admissions at her school's graduate social work program. By the time I've decided to head to upstate New York, I've also decided that having any sort of buffer in my savings account is useless. Since airfare's out of the question, in spite of that leaving-the-ground good feeling, I start checking out Amtrak.

The next three weeks are absolutely liberating. I've got an idea of when I'm traveling to where- a few days in Schenectady, a few more in Toronto, then five in Plainfield, and so on- but the means are never certain until a few days before. Everyone's patient with me and my uncertain arrival times, and the fact that I look a little like a hobo. With no razors allowed on the airplane and no checked bag, I have no razors. My hair- chopped to baby-dyke length in the fall- is scraggly and threatening to mullet, I have no makeup, and the only shoes I brought are a phenomenally smelly pair of Birkenstocks. Every night I write in my journal, as I've been doing since I was sixteen, and every day my knitting grows more and more on the circular needles I bought in Philly. I have no homework, no employment demands, and no one's asking me anything about my future. In Schenectady I play with a four-year-old who's practicing her letters and teach her to make dandelion chains, and in the evenings, Lisa and I tell stories and decompress each other. Emma, in Saratoga Springs, is finishing her finals, so we spend sixteen hours a day at the computer lab. She makes graphics on the screens, I play B'loons until my eyes sting, and we break only to go to Coldstone for ice cream. In Toronto, it's 80F- somehow the spring is slipping by- and Jocelyn takes me around the University of Toronto's campus until I can hardly walk. Liz and I spend our time in New York City watching Scrubs; when she has a job interview, I walk around and around Central Park, watching the joggers and letting my mind drift. Finally, I go to Plainfield, and Gayle and I spend five days in the house my mother grew up in- a house I haven't been to in the seven years since my grandfather died. Gayle has to help pay for my bus ticket home when it's all over, because three weeks of Amtrak and Greyhound takes its toll on the student bank account, and before I leave she lets me use her washing machine and drier. And when I get home to New Hampshire, about to start work for the summer and register for the GREs and start grad school applications and research my thesis topic and all the billions of things I'd been weighed down by just a few weeks before, I feel better.

Obviously, the vacation isn't a magic pill. The things that were wrong before I left are still wrong. My friend and I never really speak again, I'm still under a lot of pressure to figure out my future, and my partner and I still have problems to work out. Going away for a few weeks doesn't really change anything you go back to, if all the things you left are depending on you to make them happen. But being gone for that time, being untethered and on my own, has been a literal lifesaver. For the first time since January, I'm sleeping consistently and without the soporific effect of tears. I can think about the future without panicking, and I'm even feeling comfortable with the idea of making decisions about graduate school and career options. Instead of waking up and hoping to cope with the day, I'm waking up and somewhat excited about what the day may bring. The trip's given me a chance to regroup, collect my thoughts, and restart.

For the first time in four months, I'm ready.

Comfort Zone

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By Steph

I had always considered myself an avid traveler, taking courageous leaps and bounds traveling to countries other members of my family had never been to before. South America, Central America, the United Kingdom! All glorious places sharing one advantageous factor in common: I could speak the native language.  How easy it for ignorance to turn in to arrogance when the language barrier is not an issue. I could hear the proverbial breaks screeching in my head as I stepped off the train at the city I would now call home, Daegu, South Korea.

“Ok, stop looking foreign,” I told myself, “The email said to take a taxi to Camp Walker where I’d be dropped off within walking distance of the lodge.” Easy enough.

I followed the herd of passengers outside the train station and made my way to the taxi line. No Americans or anyone other than Koreans in sight. Stay cool; surely my cabbie will know where to take me. This must happen all the time.

“Camp Walker?”

“Eh?”

“Camp Walker?”

“No, no!”

He starts to drive. I hope that somehow “no-no” means, “No sweat! Comin’ right up!” We drive and drive for what was probably fifteen minutes but felt like entire lifetime. We’re at what appears to be the end of Korean civilization. It’s rice patties and mountain ranges as far as the eye can see.

“Cam Wakka?” I ask one last time, hopeful that a slight adjustment to my syllabic intonation will confirm that this is in fact my destination.

“Yea, Yea, Cam Wakka, okay okay!”  Before I could figure how what had just happened, he zipped the shiny Hyundai Sonata around on a dime and headed back towards town.

Deep breaths! Phew, almost lost it. Cue the ok to lean back in the cool plastic covered seat. Cabbie has funny, white gloves on. His steering wheel has a diamond studded knob.  I laugh. Why had I begun to panic? I can do this! This is the beginning of my greatest adventure yet.

I turned my head to the right and watched the glowing sun set. Same sun, same cardinal direction, ready and impervious to language barriers. Tomorrow, the sun will rise again and so will I. We arrive at my final destination. I find myself out of my comfort zone for the first time, but left to my own devices for survival in a new land.

Ready, go.

Aeroflot to Russia: Where Time Flies and Anything Goes

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By Linda Smolkin, Guest Contributor

When I was planning my first trip to the former Soviet Union, I needed the advice of an Eastern European specialist. “What’s more important – cost or comfort?” the travel agent asked. When I told her cost, she quickly answered, “Aeroflot is the way to go. It’s much cheaper than flying with other airlines.”

For no good reason, I wasn’t crazy about flying the Russian airline. But, as long as I didn’t have to stand up or fly the plane, I was willing to try something new. Anyways, if something did happen to me, my mother would never have to work another full-time job in her life – I mean, that’s what life insurance is all about, right? I confirmed the trip and mentally prepared myself. What I could never prepare for, though, was an unusual, unforgettable adventure.

I called my friend Diane, who had visited Russia several times. I told her about my dream becoming a reality – I was finally going to Russia. She threw in some advice about where to go, but when I told her about flying with Aeroflot, suddenly there was silence. I could practically hear blini, Russian pancakes, drop. Finally Diane said, “Aeroflot? Don’t you mean Scare-a lot? I wondered about her comment, but then I thought, how many times had I read anything bad about Aeroflot? Not once. In reality, I had more chances of being struck by a car or by lightening. Or, being stabbed in the heart by future ex-boyfriends.

I received my ticket about two weeks before my departure. That was when I learned – or forgot to ask – about my seven-hour layover in Ireland from 3 a.m. to 10 a.m. I decided to stay positive. It wouldn’t be so bad. For seven hours I would entertain myself. I would read, people watch, drink Irish whiskey, and reapply my makeup 25 times.

My departure date arrived and when I walked onto the plane, I was warmly greeted by the flight attendant. At first, I couldn’t find the numbers, so I just picked an empty seat. Trying to sit down was almost impossible. I squeezed through a row of men and flinging limbs. “I’m not in the mood to play twister right now,” I mumbled under my breath. My carry-on bag fit halfway underneath the seat and my legs were packed to the side. Perhaps I could hang my legs outside the window. This would not only be more accommodating, but it could come in handy in the event of an emergency landing. I finally got situated, put my head back to relax, and finally found seat numbers. Of course, they were in plain view – on the ceiling about two feet above eye level. But, I hit my lucky number; I sat in the right seat.

When we were in the air, things started to really look up. As soon as the no-smoking and fasten-seat-belt lights went off, the passengers let loose. Forget the usual passenger-sized liquor bottles. The Russians were prepared to party. The man in front of me took out his own bottle of vodka and started pouring drinks for everyone around him. They toasted every shot and continued the camaraderie with friends and casual acquaintances. It was definitely a mix and mingle, but without the chasers. The flight attendants served dinner about an hour and a half after takeoff. They poured wine and then served a huge dinner with beef, potatoes, salad and a dessert that could trigger a sugar-induced coma. Not only do the Russians know how to drink. They know how to eat. After dinner, I slept for a few hours and awoke with only minutes to my first touchdown in Shannon, Ireland.

Everyone, except for me, continued to Moscow on the same plane. I had the dreaded seven-hour layover in Ireland. Time passed slowly as I started reading and people watching. With only three other people in the airport, my favorite pastime drew to an early close. I dove into a deep sleep and after awakening, I aired out my makeshift pillow and boarded my next flight to Minsk, Belarus. The second plane was much smaller, only able to hold about 50 passengers. But, I had no complaints; I was one of the seven passengers on the plane, including the pilot, co-pilot and two flight attendants. Russian music blared and I was getting really excited about my trip. I wanted to sing and dance up and down the aisle. I was ready to party Russkie style. They played great Russian dance music and served more food during throughout the three-hour flight. The best part of all – we landed in Minsk exactly on time.

After spending ten incredible days in the former Soviet Union with a last stop in St. Petersburg, I boarded my plane back home. I lucked out this time with an excellent seating arrangement, with my seat in the first row. Finally I could stretch out for a long flight. Once the plane took off, people began to party as no surprise. The vodka flowed, the food was served and the crowd was caught in a deep cloud … of cigarette smoke. What really caught my eye, though, was a man carrying a big bundle of joy. The bundle, which was at least 35 pounds and quite hairy, was no frequent flyer. The man was carrying his dog up and down the aisle while chatting with several people. Definitely not a lap warmer, the pooch was large enough to have her own seat and a Russian meal for two. But, nobody seemed to care. They were too busy enjoying life and having lively conversations.

Before I had time to miss all my new Russian acquaintances, we touched ground. As I walked through the terminal, I started to think about all the stories I’d tell my family and friends about my adventures – which included Aeroflot. I would tell them how the flight attendants had more personality than any others I’d seen. I would tell them how they offered tons of food, served free wine, and how the bathrooms were incredibly clean. The flight was unlike any other I’d encountered and was a trip I’d remember with a smile. That is, until I said those famous last words at the baggage carousel: where’s my luggage?

Just Looking for Love

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By Beth


It was raining.

I remember the rain the most, because I had been determined to go even despite the foul weather. It had stopped everyone but me.

That's right: me, it would not stop. So I went on my adventure alone.

The town was called Montemor-o-Velho, roughly translated to something that what was derived from “The Old Mountain and Wall.” And that's what it was, a few houses skirting a hill with a castle on top. The stone wall on the old mountain. A speck in the distance from Coimbra, Portugal, where I had been living over the past year. Where Coimbra had cell phone stores and shopping malls, this town had rice fields and wandering farm animals. Everyone knew everyone else. There were few visitors.

The nearest train station: perhaps a two hour walk away. But I hadn't quite had enough of castles yet, and the whole day was in front of me. I hadn't minded the idea of walking two hours for an adventure.
I was lucky on my way there. Two women in a car picked me up along the route, displaying sympathy for my wet walk and explaining the pride they had for their little town far from any sort of urban development. I spent the afternoon exploring the storm-soaked castle grounds, watching old fountains overflow, a haze sweeping over countless fields and unoccupied houses. It was a safe town, that was for sure. Quiet, to say the least.

Until I began my trek home.

I had walked for nearly an hour, splashing in puddles, dreaming up romantic stories about the people who lived in the houses far across the foggy meadows. A few cars passed, but not many. Until one pulled up.

Inside was an old man. He was small and wrinkled, not younger than 70. He rolled down the window and signaled to me. “Come in,” he shouted. “I'll take you the rest of the way.”

Remembering the kindness of the two women just hours ago, I didn't think twice to hop in. Inside, the car was warm and cozy. I felt my body thawing through the heat vents, reaching dry satisfaction just one bit at a time.

The man looked at me. “So cold,” he said, with worry on his face. He touched my hand. “Your hands are so cold.”

I smiled and told him I was fine, but he turned up the heat so that it blasted in my face and on my hands. He let his hand linger on the heat knob. Then he slowly returned to my hand again. Then my knee.

He held it there for a moment. I brushed it off, and it returned. It always returned.

His face was calm. He began to ask me where I was from and where I was going. I was familiar with the flirtatiousness of Portuguese men, even older Portuguese men, and tried to wave the gesture as a cultural difference while I focused on his question. I explained how I was studying at the University of Coimbra, and he said he was very familiar with the town and its university. In fact, he used to work in Coimbra, and knew the drive from Montemor quite well. He also was familiar with the train station I was heading to. I listened to him with the acute concentration of a foreigner, but it was hard to ignore the movements of his fingers. The way I felt them pulse on my knee.

He looked at me. He looked at me for longer than he needed to. I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
“You are so beautiful,” he said to me. “I'm just a young boy, you know. A young boy, looking for love.”

I could have smiled...but I was busy trying to figure out how I could communicate to him that I wanted to walk from here.

But he insisted to take me the rest of the way. The train station was not a far drive, and it was too rainy for me to be outside. And the car was so warm...

He kept looking back at me, these long gazes. He held my knee and rubbed it. He offered me a ride all the way back to Coimbra in exchange for a kiss. I told him the train station would be just fine.

When we approached the station, I let out a long breath. I knew the ride was almost over. I didn't feel endangered, per se. There was little he could do to harm me- he was too feeble, and anyway, Portugal was not known to be a dangerous country. Yet I was still pretty...grossed out. He smelled like my grandfather. I imagined my grandfather hitting on me in a small car in the middle of Portugal. I withheld a gag reflex and tried to maintain my composure.

At the station he continued driving at a steady pace. In fact, he passed it.

“Did you want to get off here?” He asked.

“Yes,” I told him.

“Okay. Then give me a kiss and I'll let you out.”

I wasn't sure if there was a way to avoid this. Either I gave him a kiss, or we drove around with his hand on my knee for what seemed like it could be the rest of my life. I weighed my options. Would I see this man again? No. Would I make his day, a young girl giving him a little peck on the cheek? Maybe. Could it be some form of payment for the free ride he just gave me, saving me from a long, cold walk outside? Okay, probably so.

I turned to kiss him, his cheek stubble in my line of vision. His agility surprised me. At the last minute he shifted his head, and I kissed him smack-dab on the lips. SMOOCHHHHHHH. It was about as wet and as delicious as you can imagine, sweet, juicy apples on a crisp September morning. Crunch. Slurp. Smack. Gulp.

I looked at him in horror, jumped out of the car and ran to the train station. The ride back went much faster than I had expected. I laughed nearly the entire way home.

Lost in Paris

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By Emily

I was in Paris for the first time ever, staying with a host family in a little suburb called Le Vesinet. Each day I was to take a train to Paris where I would attend classes and visit cultural sites. Our host families were instructed to walk us to the train station our first morning in France so we’d know the correct path, but my host mother was in a rush,  so she drove me and my roommate instead, verbally explaining how the path would be a little different if we were walking. Still, everything was okay that first day. I stuck with my roommate, and a couple of male students who were staying in a nearby house helped us find our way back when we weren’t sure where to go. But the next day I got separated from my roommate. We were sharing a cell phone, and she had it on her, but somehow all the other students I was with didn’t have cell phones with them – their roommates did. I knew the train stops well enough that I made it to my stop okay. A friend who was living on the other side of the same town asked if I wanted to walk back to her host mother’s place. She was sure her host mother wouldn’t mind driving me home, especially since it was getting dark. But I was sure I’d be able to find my way home, no problem. And if I couldn’t… well, that would be hard to admit.I didn’t know if I could give driving directions to anyone.

As luck would have it, the male students who were staying nearby were heading back into the city when I got home, and we crossed paths. My roommate had called them to find out if they’d seen me, and they were planning on looking for me if I didn’t show up soon. I would have asked for directions, but I was pretty certain I knew the way, so they called my roommate and told her not to worry. This is where the story turns scary. It turns out I had no idea where I was going. What’s more, all the contact info I had for everyone I knew in France was on one sheet of paper, sitting on the desk in my bedroom.
I began walking in circles. I figured if I walked up and down the streets I’d find the house eventually. After all, this town was pretty small, and I knew the general area my host family lived in. The town had helpfully put up a map on one of the streets, and I looked over it, trying to recall which streets I’d gone up and down. I felt like I’d covered all of them, but I still couldn’t find the house. I remembered the security code to get in the gate, I remembered what the gate looked like, and I was certain I’d recognize the gate when I saw it. I kept expecting my host family to appear, driving around in search of me. I knew they had to be concerned, since it had been 4 hours since Joe had told my roommate I was back in town. But I couldn’t see or hear anyone else out on the streets. The only other option I could think of at this point was to return to the strain station and wait till the male students I’d seen heading into the city came back. The last train ran at 2am, so they had to come back by then.

I was staring forlornly at the town map, when a young business woman approached me and asked if I needed any help. When she heard my American accent, she insisted we talk in English, for my benefit. She offered to call information to try to find my host family’s info. I gave her their name, but there was no listing for a de Chabot in Le Vesinet. Curious indeed. I insisted it was on one of three streets, though, and she said she’d walk up and down those streets with me, to make sure I was ok. After an hour of fruitless searching, I was once again at my wit’s end, and completely bewildered. Why wasn’t anyone looking for me? Did they assume I’d gone back into the city? It was about 11:45pm in Paris, and I didn’t know what to do. I could go wait for my friends at the train station, but what if they’d returned to Le Vesinet while I was wandering down a different road?

Despairing of all hope, I finally asked if she knew of somewhere I could access the internet. I knew I’d be able to find the contact info for my professor online, one way or another.

She offered to take me back to her apartment. Crazy, I know, but I suspect she was taking the bigger risk. She’d been wandering up and down the road with me for an hour before suggesting I go to her apartment, which I figured offered some pretty promising evidence about her intentions. She offered me some juice while she got her computer set up, and then we began looking up people I knew through yellowpages.com. But we couldn’t find my professor or my host family. In fact, we couldn’t find any de Chabots. She’d said earlier that it would be okay if I needed to call the USA on her cell phone, so I looked up the information for my school’s French Department and called them. It was 5 minutes before their office was going to close for the day. They were shocked by my story about being lost in France and calling on a stranger’s phone, but they had my professor’s phone number for while he was in Paris.

I called him, and he sounded horrified, annoyed, and shocked. He asked who my host family was, and when I said it was “Madame and Monsieur de Chabot,” he said, “do you mean  de Chambod??” We had been searching for the wrong name on yellowpages.com. He gave us their address, and then added “make sure you tell your friend thank you for me.” She walked me to my host family’s house, and waited to make sure I got through the gate. I think she might have even watched from the gate to make sure I successfully unlocked the door. The whole evening she just kept saying, “I was in London last year, and everyone was very helpful and patient with my French accent, so I should help other people too.”

My host mother woke up when she heard my key in the lock, and I told her the whole story. She kept saying how she couldn’t imagine what she’d have told my mother if anything had happened to me. Apparently my roommate fell asleep after learning I was in the neighborhood, but her bedroom light was still on. My host mother saw that her light was on and mine was off, and assumed I was in her room with her, chatting. When the two students who saw me walking home didn’t hear from my roommate again, they also assumed I’d made it home. If not for the stranger who took me to her apartment and let me call the US on her cell phone, I would have spent that night outside and alone.
Later, all my teacher had to say was. “I remember that night well. The phone rang, and the clock read twelve am.” All the other students in my program acted like I was lucky I hadn’t been sold into white slavery, or mugged at the least. I’m sure they were right, and I was much more careful for the rest of my stay in Europe. But it’s good to know there are kind, helpful people out there. Whatever anyone may say about the French, they can be some of the most hospitable people on Earth.

WWOOFing in Catalunya

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By Megan

View from Señor Cufi's porch
View from Señor Cufi's porch
Señor Cufi and I were not on good terms the summer morning I hiked away from his farm in Comàs, Spain.  He had refused to give me a ride into town to catch the morning bus from Banyoles, a twenty-minute drive, after spending a week living and working with him.  The six-mile hike down the mountain paths took a little under two hours and, regardless of the 5.30am wake-up and rude host, was actually quite beautiful.  In fact the entire week was filled with gorgeous vistas, naps taken in hammocks, and new experiences.

I spent the week working on his farm, clearing brush and brambles on his isolated hillside hide-away and in exchange for my work, I was given plenty of food, drink, and a bed to sleep on, with the added benefit of language exchange.  Sr. Cufi and I met through World-Wide Onsite Organic Farming of Spain (WWOOF), an organization that connects volunteers and hosts world-over with the hope of encouraging a more sustainable way of living.

As many have that felt the pull to a more pastoral scene, I thought that an escape to the Catalan country-side would not only help me better connect to a part of the world I had spent the last year living in, but give me the much desired opportunity to spend an entire week existing away from the English speaking world; it was that rare moment where I would be able to think, speak, and dream completely in Spanish and Catalan.  As it turned out, another wwoofer was also staying with Sr. Cufi; Scottish Julia had found cheap plane tickets and in true student mode found the least expensive experience she could, in Spain.  Anyway, even though she was rather quiet and spoke only English, we became good friends.

The farm is situated way up in the remote mountains of the village Comàs.  Covered in trees and bushes, it was our job to clear the brush enough to keep the forest from over growing.  Previous wwoofers had cleared a path down to a stream that ran through the valley and a 30 minute walk down through the horse pasture lead to a small swimming hole.  One evening, while Sr. Cufi's lady friend waited for another guest, Julia and I walked down to the water with our host, who upon arriving at the swimming hole, stripped off all of his clothes and sunned himself face-up in the stream as it trickled down the rock face.  I jumped in the water right away and focused my eyes and energy on willing on the tiny heard of fish to swim between my toes.

Beach in Lleida where Greeks, Romans, and Catalans enjoy/ed
Scene in Empúries enjoyed by several millennia worth of beach-go'ers.
My free time was spent exploring the forests around the farm, hiking on paths cut by his goats- Apricot and her kids-, and reading whatever we could get our hands on.  Sr. Cufi kindly took us with him on errands and dropped us off in various parts of the northern region of Catalunya.  My first day there, my wwoofing friend and I went to Empúries to visit the Greek and Roman ruins, just off the Mediterranean, and after stomping around the ancient towns, we obligingly took a dip in the sea.  In Girona, a few days later, I discovered that butt kissing was actually good luck, as it is tradition to climb up the steps and kiss the lion's behind to ensure that one day you might return to the city.

Kissing up in Girona
Kissing up in Girona
Excluding the odd host, the time I spent on the farm clearing brush, hiking, and eating sardines was the perfect week away from my crazy Barcelona life.  I shared the back seat of the bus on the ride back to the city with a tuba and violin player, who were both obviously in love, and realized that I missed my little Barcelona family.  Eyes closed and sun on my face, I thought about the week to come; beach time and bike rides with my favorite girls- seven-year-old Alice and cheeky five-year-old Rosa.  Farm life is great, but just does not compare with time spent as the nanny of two, trilingual red heads.

Half-Naked Up a Mountain

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By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com
Tuesday, September 8, 2009

For the first time in my entire life (excluding wee, wee infancy), I am NOT starting school today, this Tuesday after Labor Day. Wow. Today, for the first time, I am NOT a student, and NOT a teacher. Rather, I am just me, sitting on the porch of my $7 bungalow on a Thai beach, blasting Toto's 80's ballad, "Winds Down in Africa" to ease the aches of my ridiculous misadventure today.

Pause: HUGE SHOUT-OUT TO BOSTON PUBLIC SCHOOLS STUDENTS AND STAFF! I adore you and wish you the best of years!!! Be in touch, my dears. While I'm at it, love to students and teachers across the country and world. You're at the heart of it all. Get it done!

Resume. What happens when you try the "Wander approach to tourism" on a crazy Thai island-- specifically Ko Tao? Ha. Ok, first off: it's a stupid idea. If you still want to do it, understand that "small island" does not mean "cool, you can walk across it". Similarly, "path" on the map actually means: "jungle-- no path".

Clad only in a black bikini and a giant gay flag (long story having to do with Brazil), you stride out of Sairee Beach (the hoppin' main drag of the isle), and start to burrow into the palm trees. Massage parlors crowd every few feet, and mo-peds threaten your each step as they zoom through. Following the map, you end up on an extremely hot, dusty main highway though the center of the island, upon which you plod (inhaling chicken kebab smoke) for an hour.


Success! A beach! Ohhh, so pretty! Two feet deep and algae-choked, but so lovely! Snap those pictures, feel dizzy from heat and "swim" by lying down wading. Two scuba schools are giving intense scuba safety lessons on benches around. Feel a little left out cause everyone on this island is doing Scuba but you. Onward, ho!

Find a jungle path. It's become a rock path. It's become awkward tree-root "steps". Slip. Get stung by red ants. Lose hope. Find a giant trash heap of tourist refuse: water bottles and beer bottle Andes. Every time you take a wrong turn you know you're in the seedy hidden underbelly of Ko Tao because it smells like manure. Turn around and try to find the path again.


COOL hidden beach. Take some photos of a French couple for them, then let them snap some of you. Realize when you flip back through the pics that your belly has expanded significantly from $2 Green Curry overdose. Dammit!

Back on the path. Burn those calories! EVEN COOLER, MORE HIDDEN beach. Rocky coral shards! Suddenly deep. Three people snorkeling. You are crazy dehydrated and your giant gay flag has gotten soaked with sweat. Swim swim swim, AVOID THAT CRAB FLOATING AND PINCHING!, and for the love of heaven, buy some water! You are a dehydrated pancake. Drink almost two liters, then collapse into a stupor on the sand, saying "I should not be in the sun anymore." You remain in the sun.
A bedraggled Italian couple emerges from the jungle on the opposite side, covered with leaves and mud. (This should have been a warning sign.) "Can you walk back to the pier that way?" you ask, because fundamentally, you abhor backtracking of ANY KIND. "Oh sure!" the couple says, brushing cobwebs from their hair. "At first it doesn't exactly look like a path, but actually it is." (Warning sign number two.) "Cool!" Off you go.


You find the key is to focus on inhaling, then exhaling, and then the ache in your legs from four hours of walking diminishes and you remember that actually there is no other way to get home but sucking it up and walking because no vehicles can get down the crags to this beach. You. Must. Go. On.

"Where you go???" asks a shocked Thai construction worker you smash into at some point in the path/jungle. You point to the map. He is extremely nice, given that you look like an absolute putrid wreck, and points you to something that slightly resembles a way to go.

At a certain point, it's just you, chickens, and a bull. "Snort!" says the horned beast. You are fearful. At a later point, it's just you and Thai farm people burning their trash, plastic and all. Noxious fumes smudge the stunning blue expanse of ocean and green palm fluffs. Check the sun to see how long 'til it's dark. A few hours, max. Pick it up, man, pick it up!

Here comes the insanity. Somehow, you get yourself onto a mountain path. Somehow, you end up walking for forty five minutes up a mountain. Just you and the altitude. You are trying to write this here story in your head to stay sane. You are hearing people reading it react: "Stupid girl." Sand + sweat + stress + so much sun = dizzy. Push on!

On top! Radio tower, spinning view down to some sort of civilization that is, unfortunately, ridiculously far from your hotel. You gotta go down, though; what else are you gonna do? Almost slip ten million times and kiss your Chaco hiking sandals for their power. More ants, a clump of which are devouring a three inch dead curled centipede. Sometimes blazing fast mopeds make you sprint to the gutter. How do they even get UP that mountain?

And at last, four hours later, you are back at some sort of main road! Civilization!!!! Collapse onto the steps of a hotel and watch the women at the massage parlor scream and wave at the Western men on mopeds like girls shrieking at the Beatles. "You come! You come!" they scream to the boys, almost making each crash their bikes. Thank the women for ignoring your ridiculous self. Breathe! Mopeds blaze past. You will find a way home. You will! Sit, breathe, and feel the universe coursing around. You will find a way home.

Sun is setting soon.

A pickup truck rides by and beeps! Nod your head. They stop and you scamper up. This is how awesome your haggling skills are:
"How much to Scuba Junction at Sairee Beach?"
"150 Baht ($4)."
"100 Baht ($3)."
"150 Baht."
"100 Baht."
"150 Baht."
"Cool. Yes."
Hop in the back and kiss the smooth black pickup truck back with your full palms. Ease! Smooth wind!

And then, some time and 150 Baht later, you are in your very own shower, a red lobster from the sun, so very, very excited to pass out in your bed. Yes!

And then you realize that you've been hiking for six hours and are starving. Go eat some Pad Thai with your sweet little roommate on the beach and watch the fire twirlers!

Sometimes I think you like to make trouble for yourself to keep things exciting.

Sometimes it works :)

6 Days!

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Not much longer: 6 days until we launch!

Posts will be running all day on our launch date, October 1st. Then, we'll be posting almost every other day!

Can't wait!

Know someone who wants to write for us? Email us at emailgogirl@gmail.com.

See you soon,
The Team at Go Girl

A former soldier, an a cappella singer and a runaway teacher walk into a bar.

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What do you get?

Magic.

Those are some of the contributors to Go Girl, the e-mag making a splash for and about independent, powerful and prosperous women that seek adventure every hour of the day.

Starting October 1st, you'll be able to catch the movings and musings of Lillie, a teacher for the Boston Public Schools system that has taken off to explore the world for a whole year. Megan, a recent acappella-singing college grad, has only gotten more antsy since her year in Spain, and is planning trips to various continents to soothe her aching travel feet. In her days as a former soldier and through her travels before and after, Steph knows the importance of being ready for anything with a strong body and mind. She'll be keeping us in the know about how to maintain good nutrition and a healthy exercise routine while out in the big wide world.

And those are just some of the amazing things you're about to pick up with Go Girl.

Subscribe to our regular posts today, be sure to friend us on Facebook and for those of you who are Twitter crazy, well, we have that too.

See you on October 1st, starting at 9am sharp!

The Team at Go Girl

Happy September!

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September is here, and so approaches our launch date!

Don't forget to keep checking back to letsgogirl.wordpress.com (now gogirlmagazine.blogspot.com) and watch the magic that appears on October 1st!

Know anyone going on any fabulous trips these days? Have them write for us! Email us at emailgogirl@gmail.com with your juicy, exciting, scary, ludicrous, spine-tingling, adventurous, and every other type of story.

See you on the 25th!

The Team at Go Girl


Love it? Hate it? Keep in touch.
team@travelgogirl.com