Tag: living abroad

Traveling from Home

Our current homebound way of life is undeniably tainted with mystery.  I find myself questioning the end of quarantine as I wonder about reaching the end of a rainbow.  Above all, in these uncertain times, I can’t help but send my heart out to those that don’t have a home to retreat to, or those who have a home that poses a threat to them in some way.

Rainbow in North Park, San Diego
A rainbow after a recent rainstorm from a window in our condo complex in North Park, San Diego

I am grateful to be healthy, safe, and comfortable at home, as I hope all of you reading this are, as well.  And as many of you can probably also relate to, one of the biggest dampers on my spirit is not being able to travel, and even worse, not even being able to confidently plan future travels.
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Friends who run a local Italian restaurant, Siamo Napoli, made a pizza honoring Italy’s COVID-19 battle on the last night they were open to the public.

Each passing day seems to bring contradictory information from government officials and scientists alike, rumors, and worst of all, the turning over and over of my own mind, lost in the lack of distraction.  The “COVID-19 scare,” as my favorite morning radio host has been calling it lately, makes it uber-challenging to stay positive about the prospect of international travel in the foreseeable future.
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A nearby vintage shop in North Park with a sense of humor.

Instead, like many of my loved ones and probably many of you, I’m loving the delicate joys on my daily neighborhood walks,
Wildlife in North Park, San Diego
Wildlife around every corner.

including the bird that pooped on me mid-flight – I’ve heard it is good luck – and observing the subtle and not-so-subtle transformations of the neighborhood, North Park, San Diego, where I’m currently perched.
A North Park church offering drive-thru confessions.
A nearby church is offering drive-thru confessions.

I’ve dedicated myself to cooking my way through my new Indian cookbook, Fresh India by Meera Sodha, cleaning and organizing, daily meditating with my Insight Timer app,
Spring in North Park
Welcoming spring on my daily walks has been a great joy.

and tending to my new indoor plant friends, who are my only living company if you don’t count the occasional fly that makes it through the screen or the little worms that occasionally make a cameo in the fresh herbs from the market.
I often catch the bunnies sunbathing when I walk in our Old Town, once saturated with tourists and now empty.

I have to admit, guiltily, that with acknowledging the gravity of the deaths, sickness, sadness, isolation, despair, anxiety, fear, frustration, and boredom that have come with this pandemic, I am also grateful for this “pause” on life to catch my breath and check-in with myself.  I’ve pursued a double life for many years: two continents, Europe and North America, and two professions, travel and theatre.  Isn’t it easy to get caught in the current of life until you finally make it out and ask yourself, “Why did I get out?” or “Why did I stay in for so long?” and “By the way, where am I?” (A little existentialism never hurt on a Thursday morning in quarantine, right? Ha!)
San Diego Repertory Theatre COVID-19 closing
The theatre I worked at for many years ended performances and shut its doors.

Meanwhile, I’m taking the opportunity to dust off a myriad of memories and photos of adventures that were tucked away for safekeeping.  Some long ago, like magical Berlin, and others recent, like boisterous Puerto Vallarta.  I was caught in the current for a long time, moving too quickly to download these adventures, but I’m sitting on the shore now, enjoying the pause, and putting them back together.  Because, in actuality, we all really can travel now. With our imaginations. Anywhere we’d like to go.  No one can stop us from that – we are bound only by the limits of our own creativity.
Chalk painting in North Park
A family diligently and creatively paints a North Park sidewalk with optimistic chalk designs.

I hope a few anecdotes and intriguing snaps from my travels will inspire your traveling daydreams from the comfort of your own homes.  New adventures coming soon.  Hope to see you then.
In the meantime, if you have some extra time on your hands, start traveling now with a few of my most beloved travel adventures:

And a personal favorite of mine, especially for artists and lovers of art:

My first backdoor experience at the Colosseum

I must admit, as far as travel experiences go, visiting the Colosseum never ranked highly on my list of favorites.   Until recently, that is.  The mass confusion entering the Colosseum and the stress of dealing with their stringent yet non-communicative ticket office, followed by feeling pretty much like one of a million sheep, and not much to do once inside other than take selfies or watch other people take selfies really downgraded the experience for me.
When my extended family came to visit Rome and asked me to help them organize their trip, I was struggling my way through the Colosseum website and thought, “There must be a better way.”  And entered, The Roman Guy.  But more on that later.

Frankly, Colosseum ticketing options are not ideal.  I’ve had first-hand experience through my work managing on-site logistics for groups of American and Australian university students with CISabroad.  Often we opt to pay the reserved group entry (which is an additional cost on top of the ticket to enter).  The group entry has its own entrance a bit closer to the metro stop than the single ticket entrance, but, ironically, there is always a line at the reserved group entry, and eventually, this “special” entrance converges with the non-reserved single ticket entry line.

A small part of the line to get into the Colosseum.


Being fairly disillusioned with the group entry options, I eventually decided to try arriving early with one of my groups and give the unreserved entry line a go, only to find out after waiting a half hour that I was prohibited from purchasing more than 12 tickets at a time.  I’m not sure how I would have known this rule in advance, but whatever the case, now I finally understood the need for reserving the otherwise unhelpful group entry in advance.
The final solution for entry into the Colosseum is to purchase your single tickets online in advance and print them out at home.  Then when you arrive at the single ticket entry line, you have access to a special line for people who purchased online, which moves a bit faster.

All that to say, there isn’t really an ideal solution.  Until I finally rolled up my sleeves and was determined to find a better way.  That’s when The Roman Guy came in.  The Roman Guy sounds like one guy, but it is actually a robust Italian tour company based in Rome.  They have a lot of different tour options for exploring the Colosseum with a guide such as Colosseum underground and floor tours.


The idea of having someone else manage the craziness of getting us into the Colosseum was reason enough for me to book, but the tour also resolved my other primary disappointment with visiting the Colosseum: the lack of information about Colosseum history available to visitors.  Having a trained guide would really open up the experience for us, giving us the narrative that would make the place come alive.
The day of our tour arrived, we met our Roman Guy guide, and everything started out smoothly and normally.  But then everything was suddenly different.

The backdoor entry to the Colosseum was empty other than us.

We passed the mobs of people waiting in the three lines I had mentioned, kept walking around to the back of the Colosseum, and stopped in front of a back gate.  I was flabbergasted.  There was no one at this back gate.  Our guide simply called the name of the guard, he came over, opened the door for us, and we walked into the Colosseum.

HALLELUJAH.
Instead of the typical mixture of stress, anxiety, and annoyance that I carry with me after finally getting through all of the hurdles to enter the Colosseum, we merely just walked in.  I was in heaven.

We then proceeded to walk onto a deck perched just above the floor of the Colosseum.  Every trip I’d made here, I’d seen people on this deck from the other side, and always wondered what this magic place was that was not accessible to us.  Well, now I finally understood.

The view I usually have, without a guided tour, of the exclusive access area to the Colosseum.


This area was regulated by Colosseum staff, and only a certain amount of visitors can be there for a given amount of time (20 minutes or so, maybe a half hour), meaning there was plenty of space to move around and take pictures.  Since The Roman Guy is registered with the Colosseum, they can reserve this special entrance onto the Colosseum floor (and other restricted access areas), and bring people in through the back entrance.

I was such a happy camper that I took a rare selfie.
My stepbrother with his wife, his brother-in-law, and his parents-in-law.


We had plenty of time (and space) to take photos, and then our sweet Roman Guy guide, an archaeologist, started explaining the highlights of the Colosseum history.

Our sweet and knowledgeable guide had great visuals to accompany her talks.

We walked around nearly the whole Colosseum together, up to the second level, then ducked here and there, finding shade, water, and places to rest, as she explained fun facts.  My favorite trivia was about the female gladiators.  I had no idea they existed!  We also learned that the ruins across the street were ruins of a gladiator training school.  So cool.

We had a lot of fun. 🙂


The second part of our tour took place across from the Colosseum at the Forum and Palatine Hill, where we learned about the fascinating Virgin Vessels, and our guide showed us where Caesar was cremated.  I’d been to the Forum many times but had never noticed the tiny sign that points out this incredible history of the temple, now partly in ruins.

The Roman Forum is so incredible it doesn’t seem real, but there are no historical explanations so we were so glad to have a guide.


I had a few favorite moments, including when she pointed out a piece of what would have been a massive statue, and now all that remains is a foot.  I wouldn’t have noticed it otherwise, and it is rumored to be good luck to touch the pinky so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

Touching the toe for good luck.


The tour finally wound down, and our guide shared one last insight with us.  “Rome is like lasagna,” she said. “It is full of many layers, all of them worth discovering and savoring.”


I loved that moment, as it really made me think, and appreciate all the insight that this lovely archeologist guide brought to our experience that we would have missed if we had done it alone.  It is an experience that I won’t soon forget.

 
 
 

Call me Jane: Adventures in the Los Tuxtlas jungle of Veracruz, Mexico

I woke up in Veracruz City on the second to last day of 2016 having no idea I’d be going to bed that night in a jungle.  Our hostel owner at the Oyster Hostel in Veracruz moonlights as a tour guide and is passionate about the many offerings of the dynamic state of Veracruz, especially the region of Los Tuxtlas around Laguna Catemaco which was our destination that day, compliments of his comfy mini-SUV.

We spent much of the day in the car, winding through the rural countryside of Veracruz on our journey to Catemaco, making pit stops along the way at a famous Cuban-style cigar factory, and a humongous waterfall.  The people-watching was as good as it gets.

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There was “animal watching” too, unfortunately.  I witnessed a group of turkeys standing in the rain along the road, very malnourished and somehow given up on life as their owner tried to hawk them to passing cars.  That was depressing.

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But Catemaco wasn’t.  We had no idea what to expect, which is somehow the best of ways to approach a new place. After arriving, we spent the rest of the late afternoon exploring Laguna Catemaco on a boat owned by a friend of our hostel owner.

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From land, the scale of the lake was impossible to recognize, as the lakeshore was lined by trees.  But when we actually got on the lake, I was overtaken by the size.  We sped along on the boat so quickly that the bumps of waves we hit started to feel like concrete speed bumps that sent us flying, over and over again.

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We explored every corner of the lake, from a lakeshore stop for volcanic mud face masks offered by the wife of our boat guide outside the vacation home of the owner of the cigar factory,

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to the sunset stop to drink water from a hole along the lake where naturally carbonated water comes up from the earth,

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and finally a pause in our boat to roll along the small waves of the lake for a few minutes and watch the monkeys on a small island.

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My favorite moment was turning the boat to the west and darting off into the sunset, as the least bashful of the monkeys watched us disappear while peeling a banana another boat had thrown at him.

We went to bed that night in one of the two guest rooms off of a coffee shop.

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I showered with no hot water and went to sleep hoping the thousands of birds that populated the trees along the shore wouldn’t wake us up too early.  Luckily, I woke up surprisingly refreshed the next morning, the last day of 2016, and enjoyed talking to the other guests over breakfast.  They asked what our plan was for the day, and I told him we were exploring the Reserva Ecológica de Nanciyaga, which is supposedly the most visited fee-based attraction in the region of Los Tuxtlas.  In other words, there weren’t many other options.

The reserve’s name, Nanciyaga, comes from the Nahuatl language and means “at the end of the Nance trees.”  I did some research on the area, and the discontinuous rainforest belt of Middle America reaches its northernmost extent on the mainland in southeastern Mexico.  Apparently, the forest in this region is not a rainforest, though, and is instead considered to be a moist forest.

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Ha!  Whatever that means.

We easily found a taxi to drive us the beautiful four-mile stretch along the lake to the reserve, the same route we had taken by boat yesterday.

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I was apprehensive about what we would find at the nature reserve, bracing myself for potential encounters with caged, unhappy animals, which happens sometimes when groups market themselves as sanctuaries to increase tourism.

When we arrived we were the only ones in sight other than the nice woman at the wooden ticket booth.  I don’t remember how much we paid to get in, but it was around five dollars each, and maybe even less.  After paying, the woman waved us toward a young man carrying a tall stick, who turned out to be our volunteer guide.  Instead of letting us wander around on our own and get ourselves into trouble, this young gentleman took us up and down the winding dirt paths and through a history of the ancient Olmec culture, and a bit of a background on the wildlife that call the Los Tuxtlas Biosphere Reserve home.   

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The ecological park is a self-sustaining property made up of ten acres along lake Catemaco including a mineral spring (Nipapaqui natural hot tub), a tiny lagoon for swimming, small bungalows that  accommodate overnight guests, and a wonderful open-air restaurant serving three meals a day to guests, but closing at sunset for those not staying on the property.

Really, though, there was so much more to the property than expected, which we discovered through our sweet young guide.   We stopped along the dirt path as we encountered random replicas of Olmec sculptures he used as talking points.  Highlights of the property included the temazcal (sweat lodge), which is actually functioning,  and group treatments are scheduled throughout the month.

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As a theatre person, I loved their outdoor amphitheater.  And then, of course, I was shocked-but-not-shocked at the wall of printed photos of guests in mud baths, mixed with pictures of celebrities.  Apparently, parts of Medicine Man (1992) with Sean Connery and Lorraine Bracco, and Apocalypto (2006) with Mel Gibson were filmed here.  The owner, a woman, is happily pictured in a photo with Mel Gibson.

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After enjoying the photo wall, we entered the wooden structure and found ourselves in a small but clean and lovely open-air salon.

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My friend enjoyed a mud face treatment, while I purchased the dried mud and some patchouli soap to take home.  Folklore claims a princess used to cross over from a neighboring island to use the mud in this region to beautify herself.  I took that as a strong hint I should be doing the same.

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Once my friend’s face was thoroughly green from this miracle mud, we left the salon to discover rows upon rows of tied leaves laid out for us to select from.  I was bewildered, as everything was in Spanish, so it was becoming a bit hard to keep up with all the surprises.  I followed my friend’s lead, green face and all, as he picked up a leaf and dipped it into a bucket of water.  To my surprise, the leaves were watertight, and the water was carbonated.  I took a gulp from my leaf cup: the water had a familiar taste, and I wondered if they pulled it from the same hole we had drunk from the evening before.  This was the first time, and possibly the last, I had drunk from a leaf. So far, so good.  I was thoroughly charmed by our jungle adventure.

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But the surprises didn’t end there. The handy leaf cup maker, a nice young woman, asked if we wanted to have a “White Magic” treatment.  I wasn’t aware of this at the time but later discovered from the mother of great friends of mine near Mexicali, Mexico, that this region of Veracruz was famous, or perhaps infamous, for its traditions of magic.  My friend and I decided to participate together, and we spent a thoroughly unusual but surprisingly pleasant five minutes being swept with leaves as our white magic doctor chanted and prayed around us.  At the end of the ceremony, he presented us with a clay ceramic face on a ribbon to wear around our necks, that he had blessed for us to ward off the spirits.  I keep it in my purse.  I figure I need all the help I can get. ;b

Our adventure continued alongside an algae-filled lagoon inhabited by more than a few crocodiles and turtles, with a fence separating us humans from these prehistoric-looking characters.  They were as still as statues.

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 And the turtles perched along the long wooden logs looked like a cartoon.

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Along with these guys, the area is apparently known for rich birdlife, including toucans and parrots, which we saw from a distance.

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In 2003, a few Howler monkeys were reintroduced in the reserve which apparently did well.  We saw a large iguana and babies.  And we didn’t see any unhappy animals.  I was relieved.

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Our tour wound down, and our guide showed my friend where to wash off his mask.

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Bowls of fresh patchouli leaves adorned the sinks, and our guide smiled and encouraged me to use them as my soap.

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I loved them: the fiber seemed to scrub my hands clean and left a wonderful scent.  We tipped our guide nicely as he handed me back my soap and mud that he’d carried, and we bid each other goodbye, at which point we were let loose in this little paradise!  I was thrilled.  It was lunchtime, and lunch at the open-air restaurant seemed like a perfect idea.

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We talked to a chef who managed the dessert bar, and she showed us some of the traditional cakes that they offer, tempting us to leave some room for later.

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We enjoyed a thoroughly relaxing, delicious lunch on the lakeshore, a beautiful piñata blowing in the wind above us.

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After lunch, we made our way back up the winding dirt paths to the wooden ticket booths and asked the woman to call us a taxi. While we waited, we chatted with the volunteer guides waiting for the next visitors to arrive. They were local students and all very proud to be a part of the reserve.

The visit couldn’t have gone better. I’ve promised myself I will return, and next time I will stay at the reserve. Full of good energy, happy people, and happy animals, this is the type of place I want to go to remind myself how much there is to appreciate in life, despite our everyday stresses and challenges.

And until my return, I luckily have quite a store of mud mask to tide me over. I put it on and pretend to be the princess of Catemaco. 🙂

For more information on Nanciyaga, visit this helpful website apparently maintained by an American ex-patriot not affiliated with the reserve.

Repurposing On The Right Side Of Travel And Fashion

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This week’s photo challenge, Repurpose, is inspiring me to share an object I’ve repurposed, and continue to use every day in my travels throughout the U.S. and Europe.
Traveling doesn’t afford the luxury of taking any object in your possession for granted.  Each and every piece that you carry with you is evaluated on the basis of size and weight.  And if either of those measurements outweigh its worth in any capacity, that object is dunzo.
Until I began traveling full-time, I was a lover of stuff of all kinds.  I couldn’t throw away a postcard or a receipt if my life depended on it. My idea of a fun weekend activity was going to a home-decor store and picking up a throw-pillow, or two.  Or maybe a doorstop.  Or a fruit bowl.
Nowadays, that life couldn’t be more foreign to me.  I don’t even own a pillow, let alone a closet.  I work as an educational travel coordinator, and I live from hotel room to hotel room, couch to couch, and when I’m lucky, my parent’s spare bedroom.  If I want it, I have to lug it.  But therein lies the rub: I can’t give up my passion for fashion.  So, despite the fact that I live on the road, I continue to have a lot of clothes, shoes and accessories.
My accessories were a mangled mess,  tangled and mixed up to the point that I was only wearing three or four pairs of my own earrings.  Yet, I continued to lug around the whole collection.  What a waste of energy, and potential fashion opportunity.
The solution came not a moment too soon from my pioneering, Pinterest-loving, high school friend Giovanna.  Over brunch one Saturday she said, “Peggy!  Haven’t you seen my travel board?  Pill organizers!”
And the rest, my friends, is history.  My ears are now back to being as fashionable as the rest of my body.  And not a moment too soon.  Thank goodness.
If you liked this article, you might enjoy My Secret Packing Tips, where I originally shared my pillbox jewelry storage tip.

Speak Out: How I Am Helping Make My Country Great, and How My Country is Making Me Greater

When I started this blog, Gracefully Global, I meant it as an evolving study on how to be a traveler, gracefully.  That is, to cherish and respect the cultures that we come upon as we learn about and interact with the world through our traveling ways.  Somehow, the political turmoil of this month has felt like a big slap in the face for many of us who value other cultures and exploration, no matter what our political identity.  In the face of the daily barrage of political news and the persistently changing landscape of our government, I almost feel like I should be cutting up my passport and never leaving my house again.
Luckily my passport is still intact, as, surprisingly, I’ve experienced some major positives as an outcome of the events over the last few weeks that I never would have seen coming.  Two positives, in particular, are keeping me motivated and steadfast in my beliefs and in working to maintain my optimism for whats to come.  So I’d like to share them with you.

I feel connected.

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Marching together and writing postcards together! The fight continues. 🙂

The fact that I am writing this post now is a testament to the higher engagement I’ve experienced online and in person over the last few weeks, connecting with friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike.  Not to say all of the connections have been positive, but they have all certainly been illuminating.  Life somehow feels more interesting when you delve down a bit deeper to what makes each other tick, doesn’t it?  And with connection, and a deeper understanding, it seems the sky is the limit on what could happen next.

The standout occasion for this connectedness was, of course, the women’s march, an incredible wash of positive energy, and a unique, historical moment of togetherness.  Peaceful and optimistic, women of all shapes, sizes, ages, religions, politics, you name it.  We were all there, and even better, we all seem to agree on the quality of this experience.  I made a video about our experience at the San Diego march.

And the connectedness continues.  I read a Vogue article about advocacy that I immediately trivialized as being too “beginner” in its advice.  But really, it was perfect.  It suggested that we organize groups of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances to work together on political advocacy goals.  I don’t know why I originally thought of the article as overly simplistic.  A few hours saturated with of frustrating political news later was all it took to change that thought, as I was fired up and the Vogue article suddenly seemed genius.  I reached out to some friends, and we’ve already had our first meeting!

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My college roomie holding up her stack of postcards.

The friends that agreed to participate in these meetings are the women from each of my life’s major adventures that have stood out as the no-nonsense, powerful, empathetic, energetic, intelligent people that made life feel better.  We met in a cozy, neighborhood café in San Diego.  There were a few new faces, friends of friends, who I was thrilled to welcome.  We enjoyed our food, and rolled up our sleeves and started writing Women’s March postcards to our political representatives.  We cracked jokes and strategised.  Laughed and shouted (the café staff were really patient with us, thankfully).  It was exactly what we needed, after starting the evening feeling rather helpless and overwhelmed, politically, and each leaving that evening with a stack of postcards covered in the ink of our thoughts and concerns, and addressed to each of our political representatives. If meeting together these ten times for the 10 Actions/100 Days movement serves only to give me a bellyache from a good laugh and some updates from my favorite people, then so be it.  That would still be a win in my book.  And, ironically, the action for the current 10 Days is forming huddles, just as we have done, which we realized on the night of our meeting.

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Writing postcards to our political reps!


The other equally significant outcome of this rollercoaster of a month is something that I never saw coming:
I feel comfortable calling myself a feminist again.  

As much as I’ve changed as a person over the last few decades, I’m realizing that I really haven’t changed that much.  I’m still that gal that took gender studies my freshman year of college, and started making my own t-shirts in the first versions of Photoshop with whatever deep feminist theory was on my mind at the time.  Which I wore to the annual feminist theatre production I produced at UCSD.  As I’ve increased in age, I’ve learned to “tone in down.”

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My beloved godmother. Let’s just say, this wasn’t even close to being her first march.

I can’t put my finger on exactly what caused my current change of heart. I surmise that Hillary, Pantsuit Nation, and our participation in the largest protest on American soil – a women’s march – has something to do with it.  I hope that feminism can now achieve for politics what it once was criticized for not achieving for itself: bringing together women of every background, united in our quest for ethically minded government leadership.

That’s the lemonade I’ve managed to squeeze so far, and I’m expecting a lot more of it to come.  So I hope to have many other positives to share, soon, as well as more reports from our meetings!  In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you.  Have you felt more connected, more feminist, or anything else that is personally positive?  Thanks in advance for your thoughts!

I wrote this piece to join others in the WordPress hosted conversation, Speak Out.

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My wonderful friend Lindsay, who made the trip to Washington.

Being an American Abroad in 2017

I woke up New Year’s Eve day in a small guest room off of a coffee shop on the lakeshore of Catemaco, Veracruz (Mexico) to a large flock of birds chirping incessantly.

I decided to take advantage of my early rising and unusual lodging arrangement by sitting on the porch of the coffee shop and enjoying a cup of tea and the lake view (pity I don’t drink coffee because Veracruz is famous for delicious beans).  At the next table, a pair of men – also enjoying the porch – were switching their conversation between English and Spanish.  My German travel companion and I played the typical game of “guess the home country of the ex-pats/tourists without directly asking them.”  We thought they were German, as the owner of the coffee shop was a German ex-pat.

Eventually, my friend got up to use the restroom, at which point one of the men decided to introduce himself while his buddy was packing.  He was an organic pesticide salesman traveling for business, and taking a holiday break to visit the famous butterflies and this beautiful lake in Veracruz.  He was the sort of man who used a bad word every three sentences, but it didn’t bother me because someone once told me people who swear are more honest.  Which was ironic, considering our next topic of conversation, where the inevitable question arose:

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“El Centro, California,” I responded.  “You?”

“I’m Canadian!” he belted, his voice rising above the hundreds of chirping birds across the street.
Now, I’m no expert.  But this accent was not the accent of a Canadian.  Or rather, since I don’t know Canadian accents well but can certainly recognize an American accent, that was the sound of an American if I’d ever heard one.  Our conversation continued on into past experiences he had “visiting” Seattle, and how much his Mexican farmer clients supposedly “hated” Americans because of Trump.  Which was a bit of an “ah-ha” moment for me in deciphering the mystery of this man.  I had never experienced any animosity as an American abroad, but I was open to hearing his opinions.

We said a pleasant goodbye and my friend and I headed out to a jungle sanctuary for the afternoon, followed by a rambunctious New Year’s Eve celebration in Santiago Tuxtla, and finally, back to Mexico City.  God, I love that city.  I had such a great time in Mexico City (posts to come!), and truly enjoyed the Mexican people, above all else.  Often I felt safer as a solo female traveler than I do in big cities in Europe, as I was frequently surrounded by families, and felt a much more relaxed, considerate vibe.  That is, with one major exception.

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The famous fountain in the Anthropology Museum’s courtyard known as “el paraguas”, Spanish for “the umbrella”.

On my second-to-last day in Mexico, I found myself enjoying the Teotihuacan pyramids followed by an afternoon at the National Museum of Anthropology, one of the more respected museums in Mexico.  I was taking a rest at the museum’s restaurant, as I love myself a good museum café, when a bit of a ruckus fired up near me.  I don’t like to make assumptions, but what seemed to be a fairly affluent American family sitting at the next table was complaining about everything, and the restaurant management was making rounds to appease their barrage of complaints.  I was embarrassed, as I feel inherently linked to other Americans while abroad in a way I don’t when I’m in the United States.

Everyone sitting on the beautiful patio trying to enjoy their lunch heard the ruckus, and an English-speaking Mexican randomly spoke up: “Be careful,” she said.  “Stay in the museum.  There are riots, and they are after Americans.”
I heard her words, and I immediately went from trying to tune the scene out, to hanging on their every word. “My husband called me and warned me,” she went on.  “They are angry about the oil prices, and they are blaming Trump.  They are going after the Wal-Marts in the city, looting, because the store is American.”

As I quietly freaked out by slumping in my chair and frantically texting my German friend who works at the Goethe-Institut and is very connected to city happenings, the American family didn’t make any effort to hide their concern.  They went from table to table, asking for more information from anyone that would respond.  Nice Samaritans began googling local news sites, and a young man tried to calm them, “The United States Embassy is next door.  You couldn’t be in a safer place.  And if you want, you can call them, but you really don’t need to.”  The family spent the next half-hour on their cell phones, calling various people at the embassy.

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Hiding away in the Anthropology Museum, and watching other visitors take it all in.

Meanwhile, my German friend started getting answers.  The Mexican woman was right.  There was looting going on, and they were targeting Americans.  His local friends that knew he was hosting me had started to text him, worried about me and urging me to stay inside.  I spent a surreal few hours in the starkly quiet museum surrounded by ancient treasures, trying not to think about the potential chaos outside.  They finally closed and ushered us out, and I called an Uber to take me directly to meet my friend.  As we drove along, there were guards armed with semi-automatic weapons outside all of the stores we passed.

The night ended without incident, and I was even able to enjoy the historic center the next morning, despite the warnings of a few friends in the city.  I returned home to San Diego unscathed, but with a lot on my mind.
This was my first trip outside the United States where my president – or rather, the president on everyone’s minds – was not Obama, a president that I have never heard a negative word about in all my travels.  Admittedly, I have a limited perspective, as I didn’t travel much before the Obama administration.  Hiding away in the Anthropology museum that afternoon in Mexico City was the first time I’ve felt vulnerable due to my nationality and the international politics of my president.  And technically, Trump hadn’t even been inaugurated yet.  The words of the “Canadian” organic pesticide salesman began to resonate.

Whether we like it or not, however long or short our travels are, we are mini-ambassadors to the United States in every interaction we have.  Interactions that are now under the shadow of the Trump administration, an administration that has sent a clear message to the rest of the world that they are putting “America first.”  Whatever that really means – I don’t mean this to be a partisan issue – it is left to the interpretation of the receiver of that information, which we can’t control.  And in the case of the Mexicans, understandably angry about the rise in oil prices, the Trump administration was an easy bad-guy, a scapegoat for their woes.  But here I am, in their country, face-to-face with these angry people, and Trump is safely in the Whitehouse with men with semi-automatic weapons standing on his roof, protecting him.

I’m considering being “Canadian” as well in order to safely live my ex-pat life, the life that I’ve become so accustomed to over the last five years, a life I’m not ready to give up yet, but a life that has drastically changed shape within this new international political landscape.

I’m curious if any of you have had similar experiences abroad in the last few days, weeks, and months.  I would love to hear your thoughts, insights, and concerns.

Thanks for reading.

Bologna: the city of nighttime.

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As the host of the oldest university in the western world, Bologna has been a second home for young people from across Europe for centuries. And with the saturation of young people comes the inevitable nightlife of those who don’t have morning meetings and people depending on them to make breakfast.
I’m one of those students that made my pilgrimage to Bologna, only to be charmed by the nighttime energy of this city. Only in Bologna does coming home at 3am on a Saturday night feel early.  After five years of this, I’ve finally learned to prioritize my favorite places, and cut my nights short so I actually come home before sunrise.  Sometimes.
The energy of the city is visceral, and therefore photographable.  Instead of always wasting my nights away in laughter and Italian wine, I’ve started shooting instead.  Or at least, taking a few minutes to shoot on my way home, ha!  My new lens is a f/1.8, and the results have been fantastic.  I hope you enjoy my meanderings through the streets of Bologna, seen below.  And stay tuned for a vlog coming soon, featuring interviews with Bologna’s best bartenders!
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My Life as an Agatha Christie Novel


These contrasting black and white words in front of you were written and rewritten a million times in those unpredictable moments of reflection that inevitably sneak up on me while on or en route to public transportation, or just sitting alone in general, wherever I happen to be. But until now, the words never made it on paper (well, actually, my iPhone notepad) because the more time passed, the harder it was to come back to you guys. Thankfully, a recent conversation with an old friend finally gave me the inspiration I needed.


You see, I’m back in America now. Since last May – May 18th, to be exact. I’ve gone from Bologna to New York, and finally, back to San Diego. And this is my first blog post since returning to the United States. Let’s just say it has been a long few months. The good news is I’ve traded in my exotic travels for the chance to finally be able to enjoy my old friends and family. They are the highlight of being “back.” Being able to say “we knew each other when” is a luxury that I’m loving indulging in.

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My first “selfie” after returning to the United States from Italy. I met my wonderful friend and host, Janet, at work at MOMA in New York.


On one such visit recently with an old college friend in Las Vegas, my friend said offhandedly: “Boy, you sure do have a lot of stories.” I don’t remember which story in particular inspired his remark. Possibly it was the one involving the sombrero and the bus (definitely a crowd-pleaser). We were standing in the living room of his beautiful home, and I stopped and took in what he said, agreeing. “Yeah, I guess I do.”


Believe it or not, I’d never thought about it. But his point was true. As his house was growing, my luggage was shrinking, but my ability to entertain groups of acquaintances at cocktail parties was growing exponentially.
The conversation awakened my deep-rooted pangs for a more “normal” life. Getting older and acquiring more stuff of increasing value feels like the expected life progression. My annual trips back home to the U.S. used to make it easy to spot the transitions that my friends, family, and colleagues were going through. With a few exceptions, I noticed their gains in weight, wealth, and family clearly, since I missed the gradual daily changes.

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Touring Las Vegas!


My life path has been a bit different. So far, I’ve spent all of my 30s on the road. Instead of engagement parties, I’ve had tearful goodbyes in Milan with my now ex-boyfriend. Instead of Christmas with my family, I’ve lived (as my father said), an Agatha Christie novel of hopping from Venice and, in the same week, ending up in Paris during the terrorist attacks. Instead of settling down and enjoying home ownership, I have memories of frantically signing the final documents to sell my condo, located in San Diego, at 5pm on December 31st while sitting on the floor of a mall in Budapest using their wi-fi with my laptop and having a mall security guard yelling at me indecipherably in Hungarian to – I’m guessing here – get out.
I have managed to spread my friends and possessions across the globe, giving the illusion of less friends and less possessions. No gaining weight, wealth, or family for me. On the bright side, I save on gym membership.  And wealth, as they say, is relative. It just depends on what we each want and need, right? But what is that, exactly? Wouldn’t it be nice to know.


Being home and attending the baby showers and weddings and funerals that I normally glimpse from afar via Facebook makes me wonder when my next milestone will be. Or if there will even be a next milestone in the foreseeable future.  I am struggling to regain my footing in my own country.  But, as a good friend of mine reminds me, so is she, and she never left.


Somehow, holding onto my traveling ways gives me a sense of stability.  I still live out of a suitcase because, oddly (or not so oddly?), I’m more comfortable that way. My most important possessions include my pink LL Bean travel toiletry case that my dad bought me when I was 25 and I scoffed at, naïvely unaware of the future that awaited me.  My second and third most important possessions are my laptop computer that my computer nerd ex-boyfriend bought me in 2008, and a small stuffed toy that once belonged to my old dog. And the rest of my “prized possessions” are wound up somewhere between my heart and my head – memories of friends, of things I used to have, and memories of experiences. A lot…of memories.

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Relaxing in my hometown, El Centro, CA.


Not what I expected I would be using to measure my life by at this point. But in those inevitable moments of doubt and loss of perspective, I force myself back to a moment ten years ago when I was overhearing a colleague on the phone with a travel agent planning her second vacation to Italy with her husband. While I sat at my computer at the next desk, I clearly remember thinking to myself, “Oh, that will never be me. I’ll never be lucky enough to visit Italy.”
Ironically, I never doubted my impending milestones back then – it was the vacation to Italy that seemed unattainable. Well, it is true. I wasn’t lucky enough to visit Italy. Instead, I was lucky enough to make a life there.  But I wish I had never taken the normal stuff for granted.


I should just start creating my own weird “milestones” to quench my need to measure my life in a more mathematical way. I’m wondering how Hallmark might handle the increased demand for cards for non-traditional life events. But I can rest assured my friends will know how to help me celebrate, even if they can’t find a card for it.
The good news is, I have enough material to keep you all entertained on this blog for a very long time.  And I’m lucky to be a part of this blogging community, full of other adventurous spirits and wandering souls.


It is nice to be back. 

An All-Women Work Trip to the Suburbs of Milan

This post is my latest in a short series celebrating the success of my random and wonderful traveling adventures with friends over the last month.  This adventure in particular is not a typical travel story – not at all glamorous, with minimal photo ops.  But before you wonder why you are bothering to read this, give me a moment to explain…

As an ex-patriot living in Italy, I have a distinct need to really understand this country and the people in it.  The more I get out of my bubble of American white girl, the richer my life becomes.  So my recent work trip with a fabulous group of fellow non-American teachers to a not-so-vibrant suburb of Milan called Cassano D’Adda was exactly the kind of trip that shows me the side of Italy that most foreigners don’t experience.  Full immersion in Italian culture brings me that much closer to understanding Italian life, and my fabulous friends.  So, here it is.

My friend, Vale, the head of a Bologna school of English, is a bottomless resource of fun, and also my boss.  A few months ago she asked me to be one of the three performers in her English Quiz Show for children on this special trip to perform in Cassano D’Adda.  She made a clear point of telling me she wanted me to come because I am “fun to travel with.”

Despite the inadvertent non-acknowledgement of my actual pertinent skills for the job (performing and English teaching), I was flattered.  So, naturally, I accepted the invitation.

I walked up to Vale’s house with my co-worker Martine at 5:45am on a damp, dark Monday.  She was sitting in her idling, heated car ready to go.  We jumped in and picked up the missing member of our team, Giulia, a few blocks away, who was armed with coffee and croissants.  Mix Giulia’s offerings with my own bag of Italian style chocolate chip cookies (delicious and way less sugar and fat than their American counterparts) and we were pretty much our own traveling cafe.  Let me tell you, there were a whole lot of crumbs in laps on that particular drive.

The sun finally joined us on our way to Cassano D'Adda
The sun finally joined us on our way to Cassano D’Adda

On the road to Milano we went…well, ahem, Cassano D’Adda to be specific.  We had a long day ahead of us – at least a two-hour drive, then set-up, and finally two performances of our Quiz Show for young English students.  And we did it with gusto.  Martine, Giulia and I performed and sang our hearts out while Vale took pics and networked with the teachers.  We were a great team.

We wrapped up our workday by pre-setting for our next show at 8am the following morning and then headed out in search of lunch in little Cassano D’Adda, proud of our work, relieved to be done for the day, and absolutely famished.

We pulled up to the restaurant recommended to us for lunch by the teachers at the school.  It was so closed, there wasn’t even a soul remaining inside other than a waitress who was peacefully eating her lunch in the dark.

We were baffled.  In Bologna, the lunch hour is 1pm to 3pm.  It was currently 2:30pm.  How could this be possible?  The Italians never cease to be a mystery.

We got back in the car and fired up our smart phones, following Tripadvisor suggestions and the Google map to the nearby center of the city where there were a cluster of recommended restaurants written into the Google map, meanwhile debating the mystery of the lunch hour.  We decided the issue with finding an open restaurant was that Northern Italians eat their meals earlier, combined with the fact that we were in a small city.

Crossing the bridge in Cassano D'Adda, surrounded by typical Milan-esque weather.
Crossing the bridge in Cassano D’Adda, surrounded by typical Milan-esque weather.

After several more failed attempts to find a restaurant, a whirlwind tour of the small typical Italian city, and a few run-ins with local characters, we ended up at the last Google recommendation, i Satiri, with an open kitchen.  The environment was comfortable and we were relieved.   Our waitress ended up in somewhat of an argument with their frustrated cook who wanted to close the kitchen.  She returned to our table with an apologetic look and an announcement that the compromise was panini.

My artichoke panino at i Satiri was actually amazing.  I got another one right after I finished eating this one.
My artichoke panino at i Satiri was actually amazing. I got another one right after I finished eating this one.

We could order any panino on the menu, and that was all.  Well, I took two. 🙂  The rest of my team had a panino and a dessert.  Everything was delectable.  And I’m not just saying that because, despite my vegetarianism, I could have eaten a horse I was so hungry.

Dessert at i Satiri was pretty impressive.
Dessert at i Satiri was pretty impressive.

After lunch we followed Vale’s iPhone and a random man biking with a stick to our hotel, the surprisingly large and modern Park Hotel, most certainly serving business travelers in the Milan area.  Cassano D’Adda is a bit too close to Milan to have its own identity, and yet a bit too far to really reap the resources of Milan.  The hotel is perfect for salesmen traveling to and from the Milan.

Somehow this man biking with a stick was a recurring theme in our trip.
Somehow this man biking with a stick was a recurring theme in our trip.

We reached our room, a huge room with four beds (a typical solution for European travel, rather than taking two rooms with two beds each).  After some delirious laughter, we all konked out.
Disliking naps, I got myself up after a cat nap and headed out in search of a café in which to do some computer work.  I strolled around the nearby industrial shopping area, and found my way into a small, typical, Italian café.  Despite the café’s lack of apparent identity, I liked the music and decided to stay.  The music reminded me of home.  I quickly forgot my plans for tea and decided on a glass of prosecco instead, and sat there for a few hours on my tablet, waiting for the gals to wake up, and making friends with the owners of the cafe who had dreams of moving to America.  We danced, talked sports (there was a big soccer game), and had a great time.  Finally, my phone rang. It was Vale.  “WHERE are you?” she asked in disbelief.  She and the rest of the team were already in the car, en route to dinner.  “Ok, I just pulled up outside,” she said.

I said a hurried goodbye to my new friends and ran outside and jumped in the car.

“Peggy!” my team laughed at me. “WHAT were you doing?  How many proseccos have you had?”

“Just two, I swear!” I defended myself, laughing.  “It was a great place!”

They teased me all the way to the restaurant, a pizza/pasta place the hotel had recommended called Pizzeria Il Birbante.  I was thrilled upon arrival.  The environment was lively and comfortable, and they had Brooklyn Lager on draft – this was my kind of place.  I exclaimed enthusiastically to the bartender, and he chuckled in surprise when he figured out what I was so excited about.  In Italy, the little things like this that bring you a little bit of home are something to be revered.

They all copied my beer order.  I adore them.
They all copied my beer order. I adore them.

Being the truly awesome team they are, Vale, Martine, and Giulia all ordered the Brooklyn Lager with me.  Ordering dinner proved more difficult – the selection of pasta on the menu was so different from Bologna, as Italy’s cuisine is so regionally centered, it was hard to choose from all the interesting options.

A dinner of Gnocchi and Brooklyn Lager at Pizzeria Il Birbante, aka heaven.
A dinner of Gnocchi and Brooklyn Lager at Pizzeria Il Birbante, aka heaven.

I ordered the gnocchi.  Everyone loved their dinners, the beers, and the company.

Having fun at dinner at Pizzeria Il Birbante
Having fun at dinner at Pizzeria Il Birbante

It was an all-around fabulous day, and we slept hard and peacefully that night at the Park Hotel.
The next day was a work day.  We woke up early and enjoyed being the lively table of women at 7am sharp at the hotel breakfast, surrounded by a sea of serious faces and grey and black suits slightly diffused by our colorful clothing and happy conversation.  We performed three shows that day at the school, said goodbye to the satisfied teachers, packed up the show, and jumped back in the car.

One of our performances in Cassano D'Adda.
One of our performances in Cassano D’Adda.

For lunch we had finally learned our lesson and ate fast food, then headed back to Bologna, leaving little Cassano D’Adda behind.  The car trip was just another opportunity for some heart to hearts – culture, Italy, America, English, guys, work, you name it, the topics with limitless.  Smiles to the end, it wasn’t until we reached Bologna that I realized I had never had such a successful trip with a group of people who weren’t best friends.  A combination of simply being nice and gracious people, the team was also well-balanced personality-wise.  The experience was awesome…one that will remain fresh in my mind for a long time.

My kindred spirits in Rome

There’s nothing like spending a little quality time with someone who just “gets” you. Double that pleasure when you can spend time with them on the backdrop of one of the most intriguing cities in the world.


That golden opportunity came to me in the form of a surprising Facebook message from my American friend Clint in February. Simply put, his message went something like this. “Peggy, me and a friend are meeting in Rome for a vacation in March. Want to join us?”


Well geez, he didn’t have to ask me twice. I booked my train ticket to Rome immediately. I couldn’t wait.
Clint is one of the few people in my life that has seen nearly all the homes I’ve had as an adult. A feat in itself, he’s joined in my adventures coast to coast in the US, and even across the pond in Italy. He meandered into my life ten years ago carrying homemade banana bread, and the rest was history. He had just moved to San Diego and wanted to get involved in the arts, so he signed up to volunteer in the marketing department of the Old Globe, where I worked. After a significant amount of homemade baked goods, he had permanently won a spot in my heart as a wonderful friend. We share a love of art and people and traveling, and are somewhat of a pair of lost souls. So naturally, an invitation to travel with Clint couldn’t be turned down.


I arranged my schedule to spend the weekend with Clint, and on Sunday his friend would join us after his flight arrived.

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A Roman family enjoying a Saturday stroll.

I was thrilled to have a sleepy but happy Clint all to myself on that rainy Saturday we spent meandering around the center of Rome with no particular agenda,

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The rain just made for better photo ops.

interspersing glimpses of architectural wonders and warming up over tea and wine (in no particular order, depending on how the mood struck us).

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Roasting nuts.

Clint has a way of truly savoring the moment, and when I spend time with him, wherever we are, he always manages to get me to look at things differently.

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We stopped to do a selfie, but instead I took this photo that I love.

He spotted a balloon horse stuck in the ceiling of the Pantheon, which we stood and giggled at for what seemed like an eternity.

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The closing of the Pantheon at the end of the night.

And despite myself, he managed to convince me to take a silly picture with Pinocchio (photo not included, sorry guys 😉 )

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Alfredo photo op.

We proudly relished our tourist status that night when we went to Ristorante Alfredo for dinner (the home of the “American” pasta dish, Alfredo), which was actually on the recommendation of my student, who grew up in Rome. It was delicious.

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Our wonderful walk up the Spanish steps on our way back to the hotel.

The next day David woke us up upon his arrival from the Rome airport after his red-eye from Denver. David is a history buff (although the term doesn’t do his knowledge justice) who can’t get enough of historical cities, and our first introduction was that sleepy Sunday morning in the hotel in my pajamas. I had no idea what to expect from a day with David and Clint. Despite his long flight, David was already ready to start exploring. Poor guy, it was no easy task to get me and Clint dressed and out the door. 

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How could we stay in bed when we had this beautifulness waiting for us?

Being quite the gentleman he is, David deferred to my wishes for the day, knowing I had a shorter time to explore than he did. I was armed with a little wish list for sight-seeing in Rome, a list that I owed to an improvised english lesson with a student brimming with excitement about her recent weekend in Rome spent with her sister, a local. I was thrilled I had managed to find the list and had such a supportive crew with me with which to enjoy it.

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Balloon vender.

We started out the day in classic Clint/Peggy fashion, just meandering.

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David, our personal guide.

But now we had David, the perfect addition, who was able to legitimize our disorganized approach by explaining the history behind every random architectural ruin we stumbled upon in our meandering.

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The rain coming down from the architecture made the angels seem like they were crying.

Which, in Rome, are about a dime a dozen. In between our history lessons and my photo ops, David managed to charm me with the sweetness that he is.

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The trees were so romantic.

After a long trek to Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, highly recommended by my student, we needed to rest and eat a bit. David was more than content to stop and enjoy the area a bit longer, announcing it was his favorite neighborhood in Rome. Clint wasn’t in the mood for eating, but David enthusiastically copied my order for a Roman specialty (the dish even inspired him to learn how to make pasta by hand back home in Denver!), cacio e pepe with a splash of pistachio.  Heaven.  Over devouring each of our plates, I discovered how much we have in common, from blogging to traveling to friendships, David was one of us. A lover of people and places, and definitely someone I would make room in my heart for.


After an unexpected and truly impressive stop at St Maria in Trastevere Basilica,

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St Maria in Trastevere Basilica was breathtaking.

we continued on foot to a less widely known tourist destination called Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta. I knew nothing but what I had heard from several students: you go there, you look through a key hole, and you see the best view in Rome. Sounded promising.


Amidst more history lessons and lots of laughs, we made our way to the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta,

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My favorite guys.

which we found at the top of a hill in the center of an entourage of churches and gardens with seemingly limitless exploration potential.

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The light was catching the steeple just perfectly as sunset approached.

But where was the keyhole?

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The line for the keyhole.

The keyhole was at the front of the long line of people. Why is it that the most obvious of things are sometimes the most evasive?  We got in line and waited about five minutes (there were no other Americans in line), and sure enough. The view from the keyhole was beautiful.

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The keyhole…you are going to have to go for yourself to see the view…

But so was just about everywhere on this beautiful hill…each garden, church, and view seemed to surpass the last. And we even caught the sunset. It was the perfect way to end the day.

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Perfect sunset.

My train departure was impending, unfortunately. We grabbed a cab, enjoyed a whirlwind tour of the city amongst the craziness that is Roman traffic,

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and ended up back at our hotel in time to enjoy a drink at the rooftop bar. If it is possible, Rome at night is even more impressive. The city was like a sparkling wonder…


I hugged the guys a hurried goodbye and ran to the station. It should have been a somber train ride home, but my disappointment over my short visit was quickly overridden by my giddiness over acquiring a fabulous new friend, seeing Clint again, and, well, being in Rome. Enough said.