Traveling - Moxie Gardiner

Sogni Siciliani

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again.

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again. In my sleep I could smell the oranges ripening on the trees; see the snug little villages in the dips between the mountains; hear the neighbors calling to each other from their windows, the familiar cadence like a song from my youth.

*Punta Secca, made famous by the TV series “Inspector Montalbano.” All photos in this essay by Moxie Gardiner.*

It was just a year ago this month that I ventured across the Atlantic to visit the home of my Sicilian ancestors. It is warm in Sicily in October, warm enough to see beach goers in the waters off Punta Secca down south as well as Cefalù in the north. The street vendors in Palermo are still selling lace parasols to tourists in October, not to keep dry from the rain, but to block the unrelenting sun.

*Valledolmo is where my great grandfather was born, worked in the fields, and left for America at age 21.*

It is said that a man named Frank Barone wrote to folks in his hometown of Valledolmo, Sicily in the 1880s, encouraging them to join him in Buffalo, New York. Over the years, some eight thousand Valledolmesi reportedly followed his lead and many settled on the West Side where they owned grocery stores or worked in factories along the waterfront, and went to church at St. Anthony’s where priests conducted mass in the Sicilian dialect.

*Mount Etna looms over the city of Catania.*

Many thousands from other small towns in Sicily—Montemaggiore Belsito, Serradifalco, and Villalunga to name a few—made their way down the mountains to the port cities of Palermo and Catania, and eventually found their way to Western New York as well.

*Montemaggiore Belsito, ancestral home of many Buffalonians, including my great-grandmother, sits high up in the Madonie Mountain range*.

*Fresh fruit is still plentiful at the markets in Palermo.*

Some Sicilian immigrants traveled south of Buffalo, to Fredonia, Dunkirk and the small towns and farmland along the Lake Erie shore that probably reminded them more of home. Sicilian families that did settle in crowded Buffalo neighborhoods would often travel to these towns and villages in the summer, to pick fruits and vegetables alongside relatives with a plot of land in places like North Collins and Silver Creek.

*Cefalù* *is one of the prettiest beaches in Europe.*

What a shock it must have been for my great-grandparents, along with thousands of others who fled Sicily, to experience their first October in Buffalo. Only a few tenacious oaks are typically holding their leaves at the end of October, and I remember more than one Halloween when I wore a winter coat and rubber boots beneath my costume.

The *Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista in the old city of Ragusa.*

*The iconic Valle dei Templi in Agrigento…*

For those who are descendants of these brave Sicilian immigrants and have never had the good fortune to visit Sicily, I offer you these photos for a taste of what your ancestors left behind—a place with few jobs and opportunities, but also a place of great natural beauty and charm.

For those who have visited, I hope you will join me in dreaming of a future time when we can celebrate our heritage in sunny Sicily once again.

*Province registry offices were established in 1809, which means you can find your ancestors’ records in Valledolmo town hall archives as of that date.* *I was told that with the birth records of my great grandparents in hand, I could apply for dual citizenship!!*

*The last view of Sicily for many immigrants was this statue of a woman with empty arms at the port of Palermo. Perhaps they saw it as a symbol of letting go, of bidding farewell.*

*Our guides and translators, the wonderful Salvatore and Gaetano Mendola, made the trip to find my ancestors an extraordinary experience.*

Do you have ancestors in Sicily? Where are they from? I would love to hear your stories, especially if you have visited or want to visit soon.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

Swimming with Sea Lions

I have never been met by a Welcome Committee quite like this one. They seemed very glad to see us–a group of strangers–pulling up in our noisy zodiac boat. They responded to our presence by doing somersaults, waving their fins and popping their heads out of the water in greeting. Perhaps this is the thing that is most striking about the Galapagos Islands. The wildlife is remarkably unperturbed by human intrusions into their domain, and some, like the sea lions, even seem to enjoy it.

*Few of the wildlife seem bothered by our presence. All photos copyright by Moxie Gardiner.*

I first heard about the Galapagos Islands when I was a child and the Catholic Church was still wrestling with Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. (Catholic schools today, in the US and other countries, teach “evolutionary creationism” as part of their science curriculum.) What caught my youthful attention, however, was not the theological arguments of those times, but pictures in National Geographic magazine of the awesome Galapagos tortoises.

*Giant tortoises living the good life at the Charles Darwin Research Center*

The more I read and learned about how life developed on this isolated archipelago, the more I knew I wanted to go there. Not only were there spectacular volcanic eruptions creating new islands, and older ones sinking slowly into the sea, I wanted to see the strange and bizarre adaptions of mammals, birds, plants, and sealife unique to these islands, more than 600 miles away from any mainland.

*The Christmas iguana’s distinction is its unusual coloration.*

What might I learn about life on our planet, I wondered, and its future, from these survivors of a harsh and constantly changing environment? Would I come away with hope in my heart, or despair?

Let me say first that the Galapagos would probably not be your first choice for a luxury vacation or destination wedding. Most of the islands are part of Ecuador’s national park system and therefore highly restricted in terms of development. That said, it is possible to visit in relative comfort. We stayed on a cozy, 40-passenger cruise ship that docked 10 minutes or so from each island, and shuttled us from ship to shore by panga, the Ecuadorean word for zodiac boat.

*We traveled by panga from island to island.*

Blue-footed boobies have snazzy feet
and interesting mating rituals.

Each day we were able to hike across a different island, observing iguanas, colorful crabs, lizards, Darwin’s finches, frigate birds, and assorted boobies (blue-footed, red-footed, and Nazca boobies; not the other kind).

*Can you spot the green sea turtle swimming beneath us?*

We could kayak to remote cliffs and watch the mating rituals of the frigate birds, puffing out their red-feathered chests to attract females. We also had the opportunity to snorkel and see the incredible marine life that thrives below the surface of the clear, aquamarine waters. I will never forget swimming through enormous schools of colorful fish, while sea lions clowned around for our entertainment, and green sea turtles swam lazily by.

*The best snorkeling I’ve ever experienced!*

Most visitors only see the giant tortoises at the Charles Darwin Research Station on Santa Cruz, where the tortoises live in semi-retirement, their primary responsibility being to mate and have offspring. On the island of Espanola, however, lives a large 100-year-old male named Diego, known by locals as the gringo macho, or “playboy tortoise.” Before Diego was sent there as part of a tortoise breeding program, there were two males and 12 females on the island. Diego did his job, however, and reportedly fathered over 800 offspring. We looked for Diego when we were on Espanola, but he was apparently busy.[i]

A giant tortoise prowls the Charles Darwin research center. — *Nope. This is not Diego, the “playboy,” but another male giant tortoise.*

Did we see examples of “adaptation” and “natural selection” that Darwin observed during his voyage on the HMS Beagle? We certainly did. We saw cacti as large as trees (“gigantism”), birds with vivid coloring to attract mates (“natural selection”) and finches that developed different beaks (so they could more easily eat whatever was available, called “adaptation”). We saw the bones of creatures that did not, or could not, survive a recent El Nino and presumably other extreme weather events.

*The cactus finch developed a long, needle like beak to get access to food.*

Did I learn anything about the future of the human species from my visit to the Galapagos? Maybe. If we humans are resilient enough, or learn to more quickly adapt, we too might be able to withstand whatever harsh changes, global pandemics, or catastrophic conditions lie in our future. But are we that adaptable? That remains to be seen. Perhaps there is a “Diego” or two among us who will ensure the survival of our species, no matter what comes.

*Who knows what tomorrow may bring, to the Galapagos…or any of us?*

Have you ever visited the Galapagos, or had an interest in going there? Please comment and let me know what you think about this extraordinary archipelago. I would love to hear from you.

[i] For more details about the giant tortoises, see the many resources referenced in Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gal%C3%A1pagos_tortoise

In My Room

When I first heard the song “In My Room,” written by Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys in the early 1960’s, I knew exactly what he was talking about. As one of eight children, I desperately wanted a private space where I could be alone. When I reached the age of 16, I got my wish: my own room, or at least a corner of a room, that I could call my own.

I recently found this picture (above) of my teenage bedroom, decorated in a way that reflected my interests (and eccentricities) at that time. You’ll notice there are no posters of favorite bands or movie stars, no lava lamps or black light posters, no stereo, peace symbols or love beads, the typical accoutrements of teenagers in 1970 when this photo was taken.

*Some of my favorite teenage reading material All photos by Moxie Gardiner (except those obviously taken by her mother).*

Instead there is a campaign poster for Robert F. Kennedy, (although he’d been taken from us two years earlier). There’s also a poster for the musical “Hair,” an artifact from my first date. Next to the bed, where I could easily reach them, were my beloved books, ranging from literature to poetry to Nancy Drew mysteries, and everyone’s favorite bedside companion, The Sensuous Woman.

What hints do I see in these old photos of the person I was to become? At this age I was obviously still transitioning from child to adult. Witness the juxtaposition of the “7 up” sign on my wall along with the one for “Utica Club” beer. A Chanel perfume poster hints at a longing to be more mature and sophisticated, but the stuffed animals and Chatty Cathy doll on the bed suggest that the girl sleeping there was still clinging to childhood comforts.

*We lived in a neighborhood full of kids, but I often felt alone.*

What I remember of that time is that despite my many siblings, classmates, and a whole passel of neighborhood kids, I often felt alone. My interests and way of dress were odd (we didn’t have the money to invest in trends) and I was nerdy. I sometimes mixed my West Side slang with “big” words from classic literature, making for clumsy conversation. I indulged in off-color jokes and barbed witticisms, mostly to mask my insecurities. And like all teenagers, I was a bundle of contradictions–funny but sad, eloquent and profane, smart but clueless, daring and fearful.

*Life magazine opened my eyes to a world of possibilities.*

In my room, I could dream of being the person I wanted to be, not the person I was. I could be an Avenger like Emma Peel, a detective like Honey West, a poet like Emily Dickinson who wrote about the world she imagined from the seclusion of her room. I could work for a senator, attract handsome boys, and travel to the places I’d read about in Life magazine.

*My friend Ginny saw this photo and asked, “What were you writing while wearing that Martian headgear? Your first science fiction book?”*

I could dream of seeing the “Big Five” on safari in Africa and watch whales breaching in Alaska. I could walk among the giant tortoises in the Galapagos Islands and capture them, with my camera and typewriter, of course. In my room, all things were possible, as they should be when you are young.

This little exercise in nostalgia and self reflection has helped me understand today’s teenagers a little better. Now when I see them glued to their smartphones, I wonder if their favorite electronic device, like my room, serves as their safe haven. A place they can escape to and shut off a sometimes frightening reality. A place to be alone in the midst of others. A place to fire the imagination, and dream.

*I am doing things now I could only imagine back then. Sometimes dreams really do come true.*

Come to think of it, many in my peer group today are just as addicted to their phones as their kids and grand kids. Maybe the need for a private safe space never really goes away.

Were you an awkward teenager like me, or were you one of the cool kids? I would love to hear your take on teenage angst. Leave me a comment—I love to read them!

What Your DNA Test Won’t Tell You

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to my ancestors for the many ways they shaped my life.

Dear Great and Great-great Grandparents,

We never had a chance to get to know each other, but I wish we had. What I wouldn’t give to hear in your own words why you left your homes in Ireland and Sicily to come to the United States and settle in Buffalo. I wonder if the reality of living in a crowded city, so unlike your rural farms, met your expectations. I wonder if you ever missed home.

*Friends and family are everything in Montemaggiore Belsito, Sicily,*
*my grandmother’s ancestral homeland. All blog photos by Moxie Gardiner*

Recently, I went back to the ancestral homelands. I learned that your lives in Sicily and Ireland as poor tenant farmers were very hard. Both islands had a tempestuous relationship with the faraway central government, and people like you sometimes felt forgotten or deliberately taken advantage of by those in authority. You came to trust only your community and family, and followed them to the Irish and Sicilian enclaves in the US, in search of work and a better life. You held on to the old traditions and your native tongue because they gave you a sense of security. You were proud to be Americans, but reluctant to let go of your heritage, and because of you I can empathize with the many who want to come here someday.

The Irish are born storytellers — *Stop in any Irish pub and you’ll find songs, laughter, a pint of Guinness, and born storytellers like me.*

You would be happy to know that you have many, many descendants in the US, and for the most part we are thriving. Some of us have started businesses, others teach, still others serve their country or community. Many of us still cling to the old traditions: we make cuccidati cookies for Christmas, eat pasta con sarde at St. Joseph’s Tables, and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. I think you would be pleased to know we have no problem embracing both cultures as our own.

It wasn’t until I went to Ireland and Sicily in October, and walked where you walked, smelled the sea-scented air, learned about your history, and rubbed elbows with the people who stayed behind, that I began to feel a real connection with you and understand where I fit in the long procession of humanity that comes and goes here on earth. Yes, DNA tests can tell us a lot about our biological and genealogical makeup, about inherited skills and traits, and physical characteristics. But what you bequeathed to me couldn’t be discerned through a DNA test alone.

*Nestled in the mountains of northern Sicily is the charming town of Valledolmo,*
*birthplace of my great grandfather.*

A DNA test couldn’t tell me why certain smells, sounds, and sights evoke powerful emotions in me. Why 20 years ago, when I drove through a valley between two mountains in West Virginia, I knew I needed to build a home there. As soon as I rounded a steep mountain curve and saw the small village of Valledolmo, Sicily, I knew why West Virginia spoke to me, even though I grew up in a city.

The wild northern coast of Ireland speaks to my heart — *The wild northern coast of Ireland, home to my Irish ancestors.*

The smell of Grandma's homemade bread brings back memories — *In Sicily, they still bake bread*
*like my Nonna used to bake.*

When I saw the wild coast of County Donegal and the cliffs that march right up to the sea, I understood why I was attracted to the jagged rocks along Lake Erie instead of the comfort of the beach. When a baker delivered fresh bread to a home in Montemaggiore Belsito, I understood why the smell of it can still make my knees buckle. And when I hear the sad songs of the Celtic harp, I now know why I feel a tug at my heart, a longing for a home that exists deep in my temporal lobe, where memory and imagination sit side by side.

Sunsets are memorable along Sicily's northern coast — *Sunsets over the beautiful northern coast of Sicily speak to me of home.*

A Sicilian man expresses his joy of life. — *Gratitude is the foundation of a happy life.*

By visiting your homelands, I learned what you passed along to me is more than genetic traits, more than culture and tradition. My emotional make up, personality, artistic inclinations, even some of my bad behaviors, may have come from you. Is it possible that my imagination is drawing these conclusions? Sure. But I prefer to think my soul knows what it knows.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to you, dear ancestors, for the many ways that you shaped my life when you set sail for the United States. Thanks to your courage, I have a good life.

Beggar’s Night

October 30^th brings back memories of Mom putting the finishing touches on our homemade Halloween costumes, and us kids looking at the sky, waiting for it to grow dark. As soon as we finished supper, we would run out the door with a large paper bag—24 hours before the actual Halloween trick-or-treating began. Funny thing is, the neighbors were ready for us.

This was known as “Beggar’s Night” in Buffalo, and I along with hundreds of other kids on the West Side looked forward to two full nights of trick-or-treating. It was only as an adult that I learned a) most people in the US have never heard of Beggar’s Night because it’s a regional thing, and b) it was established to allow younger children to have their own night of candy collecting before older kids prowled the neighborhoods, looking to get into mischief. Since we did not know this was the rationale, we trick-or-treated both nights and collected enough candy to open our own corner store.

Little kids dressing up for Halloween — We loved to go Trick-or-Treating on Beggar’s Night

Today, of course, Halloween no longer features kids draped in bed sheets with holes cut out for eyes or wearing plastic masks of their favorite monsters. Halloween has become a money maker. According to USA Today, American consumers spent some $9 billion on Halloween in 2018, with over $3 billion of that spent on costumes alone. A good portion of that money comes not from the pockets of parents with children, but from young adults in the 18-24 year-old age demographic. Party stores, bars, supermarkets, pumpkin farms, candy factories, and the gift card industry, all depend on Halloween to fatten their end-of-year coffers.

Halloween costumes — Monsters and superheroes were Halloween favorites

Which makes me wonder, how did we get from the Beggar’s Night and Halloween of my childhood, to the commercialized holiday that it is today? And how far did the Halloween we enjoyed deviate from the original holiday? It just so happens that I am in Ireland this Halloween, learning about the lives of my Irish ancestors. According to the “Irish Culture and Customs” website (see link below), the Irish invented Halloween.

Legend has it that the ancient Celts divided the year into halves, one associated with the dark, the other with the light. The dark half began when the sun set on November first, which they called Samhain. On Samhain, the Celts would extinguish their fires and wait for the Druids to light the new fire of the year. At the end of the ceremonies, participants would take home a brand from the new fire to light their hearths anew. While many of the old Samhain traditions have died out in Ireland, the lighting of bonfires has survived.

On Hallowe’en, the night before Samhain, Celtic families would feast on the bounty of the Autumn harvest. Children visited relatives and friends and were given apples and nuts. A favorite traditional fall dish, still popular in Ireland, is Colcannon, a mixture of potatoes, cabbage and scallions. Other traditional Hallowe’en dishes are stampy, a sweet cake; boxty, the savory version of stampy; apple cakes and barmbrack, which is a rich fruit bread.

Pinocchio costume — Apples were traditionally a special treat on Halloween

Many traditions were brought by Irish immigrants to the US and adopted across the land. Jack O’Lantern, for example, was an Irish blacksmith, a lost soul doomed by the devil to roam the Earth with a hollowed out turnip lit by a burning coal ember. In the US, we continue this tradition with a hollowed out pumpkin. Druids disguised themselves to elude ghosts roaming the land on Hallowe’en night so they wouldn’t get carried away. Centuries later, the tradition of disguise continues.

Like all pagan rituals in Ireland, Samhain was frowned upon by the Catholic Church, and by the 13th century, although many of the old Samhain rituals remain as folk customs, November 1st had become a Christian holy day.

I look forward to spending the next couple of days with the Irish to see how many of the old traditions remain, as well as observe firsthand if there is any resemblance to the billion dollar holiday, known as Halloween in the US, in Ireland today. I will try to post some pictures, though Wifi connections are spotty here in the land of the ancient Druids. Stay tuned.

Do you celebrate Beggar’s Night? Halloween? All Saints Day? Or do you ignore them all? I would love to hear your comments.

https://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/

Root Bound

I am headed to Valledolmo and Montemaggiore Belsito in Sicily, to learn more about my great grandparents.

In October, I along with countless others will head to Sicily in search of my roots. The recent popularity of DNA testing has spurred renewed interest in finding one’s ancestors, and I decided that this year, I too, would walk in the footsteps of my forebears on a journey of self-discovery.

Hah. For me, that was easier said than done. The first challenge was figuring out where to go.

You see, like many people born in the melting pot that is, and was, the West Side of Buffalo, I am of mixed heritage. My paternal grandmother, a full-blooded Sicilian, was a significant influence in my early life so naturally I gravitated to Sicily.

Some were scandalized when my Sicilian grandmother married my Irish grandfather!

But what about my other ancestors? My Sicilian grandma married an Irishman. My maternal grandfather was born in Hungary. His parents were born in Switzerland and my grandmother’s people were German. The DNA tests also showed some surprises, like ancestors from France, England, and even Northern Africa, (not all that surprising if you know the history and geography of Sicily). Therefore, if I were a dog, I’d be what they call a “mixed breed,” or less politely, a “mutt.”

What’s a girl to do? I’d run out of money before I’d be able to take that kind of ancestry tour.

Which made me wonder, what are we really looking for when we search our roots? What is it we think we’ll learn? Certainly, it would be helpful to know if we have a predisposition toward certain illnesses or behaviors. For example, is my anxiety something prompted by today’s environment, or is it simply part of my genealogical makeup?

For many, I believe an ancestry quest is something more profound. It is an attempt to answer that essential, existential question—who am I—to know where you came from, and who gave you the characteristics that distinguish you from billions of others, that make you unique. How rewarding it is to find your place on a family tree that is part of humanity’s great forest. Furthermore, we gardeners know that the strength and health of a plant’s roots are essential to its ability to thrive.

I solved my personal dilemma by focusing this upcoming trip on the homelands of my father’s people—Sicily and Ireland—two small islands surrounded by vast, daunting seas. I want to learn something about why so many tempted fate and left, and if they found what they were seeking. I hope to find long-lost relatives who will help me understand.

Great Grandparents Elisabeth and Anton were Swiss

I know that all my ancestors who came from disparate lands to settle in Buffalo did have things in common. They came from impoverished circumstances in hopes of making a better life for themselves and their children. And like many immigrants, they were met with suspicion and intolerance from the people who arrived before them. The English resented the Germans, the Germans disliked the Irish, and the Irish despised the Sicilians. We sometimes forget that prejudice exists within races, as much as it does between them.

Great-great Grandma Mary was born in Ireland during the famine

It is an indisputable fact that we are a nation of immigrants. Immigrants learn that how warmly they are welcomed in their new home is a matter of timing and numbers. In our 200- plus-years of history as a nation, the US has accommodated great waves of poor immigrants many times. They came unskilled, spoke little if any English, and often required government assistance. Many times as a nation we have feared there were too many of them. However, we need to remember that immigrants also bring something our country, any country, always needs: an infusion of new blood, strong backs, determination, ambition, and dreams. Just like our ancestors.

Our vet once told us that dogs with “hybrid vigor” live the longest, healthiest lives. Armed with new DNA research, I am joyfully embracing my mixed heritage, my chance at longevity, and my future opportunities to travel to all the homes of my immigrant ancestors, to pay homage to those who made me, uniquely me.

Have you taken a DNA test yet? If so, why did you take it and what were you hoping to find? I would love to know where my readers stand. Please send me your stories! I promise to include them in the comments.

It Bit Me on the Rocks of Lake Erie

Lake Erie shoreline. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.

Several readers have put the question to me: “Moxie, your website says ‘A West Side Girl in the Big Wide World.’ We’ve heard about your West Side experiences. What’s this ‘Big Wide World’ stuff?” Fair enough. Living on the West Side of Buffalo shaped the outline of who I am. The big wide world has certainly filled in the details.

Since I left Buffalo, I’ve lived in four US states and a foreign capital, visited 45 countries and all 50 states. My most recent adventures were in Africa, where among other things, I caught a leopard (on camera) that was stalking me in the dark. On my journeys I’ve seen extreme poverty and extraordinary wealth, spectacular scenic beauty and tragic wastelands, humanity at its best and at its worst. Always, I keep a journal.

As a writer, my job is to look for and contemplate universal truths. A recent question I’ve been pondering is, what prompts a person to leave the comfort of their home to travel? What are we seeking on our sojourns, especially now when one can “travel” anywhere without leaving the couch, courtesy of the Internet? I’m not talking about annual beach vacations or trips to visit friends and family over the holidays. I am talking about traveling to distant lands that are culturally unfamiliar, sometimes uncomfortable, and not without risk. These are the places that tend to attract me because I’m a sucker for unexpected experiences, for the serendipitous surprise.

I think I can trace the day I was first bitten by the travel bug to a place just 20 miles south of Buffalo. I was about 11 years old. Each summer, our family would pile into the station wagon and head to our rented cottage in Angola, NY and a windswept beach nearby called Point Breeze. This particular summer, my cousin and I were allowed to leave the family beach blanket and walk a half mile up the beach by ourselves to a rocky outcropping we grandly called “the sea cliffs.”

From a distance we could see the waves crashing over the slate rocks, and on stormy days the spray would leap 20 feet in the air. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, we thought, to sit on those rocks and get splashed by that wild spray? We hurried along the pebbly beach as fast as our flip-flops would take us. We scrambled up the hill, and as soon as our parents were safely out of sight, climbed carefully down the embankment to where water met rock. We sat and waited for the spray. To our disappointment, the waves had settled down and lapped gently at the rocks below us. We inched our way down further. The waves came up around our ankles, so we scooted down another foot, and waited.

Whether the wind shifted or it was simply the normal fluctuation of the waves, I’ll never know. But the next wave that hit came up over our heads. I’ll never forget the force of the water as it pulled us into the lake and the somersaults we turned as the water churned us below the rocks. We came up coughing and gasping for air. I looked at my cousin as we treaded water—and we started laughing hysterically. “Let’s do it again!” we both said and climbed back onto the rocks.

How did that prompt my love for travel and adventure? I learned that day about the adrenaline rush of exploration, of taking risks, the electricity of finding yourself in danger, and the thrill, afterwards, of being alive. Why, if I could survive this, I could survive anything! Sitting on those rocks I would let my mind wander to the Wide World of Sports and the cliff divers in Mexico, then on to climbing the Great Pyramids of Giza, Machu Picchu, perhaps even Mount Everest. My 11-year-old self decided that nothing would stop me from doing what I wanted to do, as long as I didn’t let fear get in the way.

Sure, there have been a few downsides. I’ve been injured, sick, lost, robbed, and harassed on my travels, and survived a few scary plane flights. I’ve had to flee more than one burning building, wear a flak jacket on a road favored by terrorists, and hold my breath when a bus driver did a u-turn in front of six lanes of oncoming traffic. But oh, the stories I could tell!

The big wide world is a fabulous place that provides grist for the writer, a classroom for the intellectually curious, and cultural and culinary immersion for us rank sensualists. Not least of all, it gives us a better appreciation of home and the things we sometimes take for granted.

Do you have an interest in travel, dear reader? Do you remember when you were first bitten by the travel bug? If so, drop me a line. If there is enough interest, I’ll add a few travel blogs to my website.

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