The Picture Alive.

Good evening to all from Boston;  It’s a chilly night in New England and I’m wrapped in one of my Dad’s old sweaters and peeping at the big, glowing full moon up outside my window.  I’m letting the draft carry me back to another (warmer) full moon that I danced under on the island Koh Phagnan, Thailand in early 2011.  I painted my face, jumped in a longtail boat with Spainards, Canadians and Germans and we left our secluded beach to go to an infamous party with an even more diverse international crowd.  Fast forward to another full moon a few months later and I’m sleeping on top of a big, green school bus in South Dakota’s Badlands National Park.  The boys and I had spent the late evening hiking sans flashlights through the hills and through full herds of buffalo.  

According to old Native American tradition, tonight’s full moon is named the “Full Snow Moon” because the season typically brought the year’s heaviest snowfall.  Lucky for me, other tribes also called this moon the “Full Hunger Moon” as hunting was especially difficult during the harsh winter.  To keep up with the tradition of the latter, I’ve spent my evening warding off hunger by cooking a raw brussel sprout salad and eating a squash and kale risotto with my parents.  Tonight’s moon in the familiar outskirts of Boston first seemed incredibly uninspiring compared to my previous lunar nights in Thailand and the West. But I’m slowly realizing that it’s humbling to spend this moon surrounded by family, warming up to the cold February while cooking what’s in season. Full Moon’s are often associated with insantity (hence the root of lunatic) but I’m feeling grounded and thankful at this present moment back at my parent’s house.  So, my new goal for the coming lunar cycles:  do not compare them to the one’s of the past but keep them feeling fresh and purposeful.   And if I do turn into a lunatic while I’m stressing over this post-travel transition, I’ll blame it on the moon.  

I recently responded to an email from an acquaintance of mine who is finishing school in the spring and is entertaining ideas of backpacking in foreign places upon graduation.  “How did you do it alone?” she asked.  After answering with a “you got this girl!!!”, I revisited a more recent article on the gender gap in travel by the Seth Kugel, the resident “Frugal Traveler” for the New York Times.     The subject of traveling alone as a girl is one that I haven’t discussed on this blog often;  I was partially conscious to have this site give off a vibe of “safety” and “well-being” for the anxious familial readers.  Well, I’ve made it back with all limbs in tow and I hope some stories and insight can now make their way out of the woodwork.  To start, here’s my response to Kugel: 

Traveling alone as a woman is an experience of extreme freedom and fun(!) but it can also be exhaustingly difficult due to the hassles of unwanted male attention.  Kugel speaks truth in that “waiters turn out to be the some of the most absurdly, self-anointed ladies’ men of all time.”   Such servers in Turkey, for example, seemed to have the least boundaries of all;  they were persistent in asking to pose for photographs while their hands inched south and shameless in talking about my body parts in the midst of taking an order for lentil soup.  I was out to dinner with my lovely mother one night in Istanbul and was forced to convince yet another local that I wasn’t from Latin America.   “But you must be!” he pleaded as he refilled my mom’s water glass,  ”your eyes, your lips, your breasts!  The women in Turkey don’t look like that.”  (Casual service industry banter, no?) The brash gestures continued past talks of my chest size to the scribbling of love letters on the back of our receipt.  

The cat-calling, groping, grabbing, stalking and staring can, without question, have a sinister intention.  The key to traveling (and to enjoy traveling) alone as a female is to filter the torrent and to be open to honest and exciting invitations.  On her time in Cairo,  author Elizabeth Eaves writes that, “this filtration of bad from good, as though we could separate smoke from a heady hit of nicotine was the trick:  If you shut yourself away too much, you shut out the whole world, and there were delightful things here too. “  Traveling alone as woman is balancing act between being on guard and surrendering to the adventure.   It takes time and experience to feel comfortable, but it’s worthwhile in every way.  

A few tips if it’s your first trip:

1.  Don’t hesitate to use someone for their Y chromosome—ask a guy to tag along on a trip for a couple of days.  Don’t be independent to a point where you’re a stubborn pain in the ass.  It’s not worth looking over your shoulder five times a minute and having a man around can keep inquisitions and invitations at bay.  

2.  Pack a rubber door stopper.  Weights nothing, costs nothing, and amounts to that extra door security in those dank and sketchy hostels.

3.  You have a boyfriend back in New York.  Your fiancee proposed on top of a mountain.  You’re married to a stock-broker named Harold.  Have your story ready before someone offers to marry you in exchange for a few camels.  

4.  Ask the local woman for advice.  For example, the local busses in South America always seemed to drop my friend Colleen and I off in new cities in the dead of the night.  Getting into a taxi blind is dangerous or in the least, unnerving.  We developed the habit of asking una mujer which cars were the safest, how long it should take to get to our destination, etc.  Have your map out.  Act alert.  

5.  No push up bras.  Loose, simple clothing is flattering to your safety, not your figure. 

It’s a particularly glorious afternoon in Todos Santos, Mexico and I’m taking a quiet moment for myself to breathe in some good ocean air off the Pacific. I’ve crossed the Rio Grande to dine on fish tacos and surf with my madre for a week on the Baha California peninsula. After a goodbye hugfest with the Love, the Bus boys at LAX, I felt a familiar rush of anticipation as I grabbed my wrinkled passport for yet another border crossing.  A year ago today, I packed up my trusty Kelty backpack and boarded a one-way flight to Istanbul, Turkey.  In the past 365 days I have been lucky enough to travel on three continents, in nine countries and across twenty-two U.S. States.  I’ve swung in many a hammock, survived a motorbike crash, learned how to white-water kayak from a bad-ass twelve year old and snacked on grasshoppers and Thai-spicy curries.  The penny pinching of budget backpacking is often tough, but I’ve found that cheapness can sometimes be a barometer of something else and can measure a person’s initiative for adventure. I’ve been able to learn about the world from Kentucky residents with slow southern drawls and through the disarming kindness of a Balinese stranger who invited me into her home for a hot meal on banana leaves.  I’ve been tested and alone (really alone) without a family member or an acquaintance on the same continent and I have found myself surrounded by strangers who have seamlessly fit into the rhythm of my days after only traveling together for a short period of time.  Cheers to the street food, the good intentions of strangers, the surprises that my own country had to offer, and to this huge world for letting me roam around and soak it all in.  There’s so much more to learn.