Desert and Wilderness

I got off the bus. One of my colleges noticed me. We were both in the Diplomatic Protocol course I’m taking in Polish this semester. She asked me how long I’d been learning the language. “About six years” I replied.

How much I’d changed since that time. Yet, my situation was similar.

Six years ago, I was a junior in high school. Many students prepare for university admissions during these months.  The stress is incredible. To gain acceptance at an elite U.S. university, you must be the star of your class. Now, I’m applying for summer internships during my first year of graduate school. I’ve done so much, but the standards are higher. You still have to get picked out of the pile. All you have is the audacity of hope. Your constant companion is the specter of failure.

 I pushed myself hard during my third year of high school. In class, I forced myself to study collage level chemistry, history and Spanish. I began learning Polish over the weekends. My mother left for 2 months during spring semester. It was her first trip to Maldives. While she was there, I shouldered many burdens at home. I cooked the meals, handled the shopping and just about everything else except my father’s wash and feeding the dogs.

During that time, my Polish teacher gave me a book. An English translation of Sienkiewicz’s 19^th century work ‘In Desert and in Wilderness.' It’s a nakedly nationalist work which details the account of a teenage Pole and his young British friend’s abduction. The tome recounted their self-deliverance from captivity. It lauded the children’s victorious return to their families as leaders of a sub-Saharan army. The shockingly humorous certainty of the story sustained me through that time.

That summer I went to Maldives. Working in the capital as a reporter was the best experience of my life. Still, the point was to get noticed on college applications.  I applied after my return. During the afterthought known as senior year. I thought the impossible happened when I got accepted to USC-Marshall. I’d made it.

But that wasn’t the end. I recently downloaded the same Sienkiewicz novel. Only this time in Polish. The story’s the same. It’s still a narrative of audacious purpose. Yet, it’s also a first encounter with matters of unquestioning devotion, resentment and fear of failure.

Tomorrow I’m due to take yet another standardized test. Hoping to get picked from the pile. It’s as if past risks and accomplishments never even happened. All that matters is the next trial of survival. Four internships and a bachelor’s degree later; I’m still reading the same book.

 At least books have an end. The Polish protagonist returned to his family atop an elephant.  During this time, Poland was erased from the world map. He made his credo what is today the Polish national anthem’s first line.

 And I am still waiting to begin my career in Europe.  Still applying for yet more internships. Striving to affirm my place in international society.

Until then, I shall wander in desert and wilderness. My dreams have not yet perished. I hope they shall not. As long as I live. 

A Vacation From The Beach

This post begins in Rhodes. I found that stone-built dwellings evoked a noticeable connection with the history of this Greek island. I’d heard that Malta was similar. It was founded centuries later by the same knights who created the Hellenistic city-state. I assumed that Malta would be their crowning achievement.

About a month ago I made it to the island nation. It was carnival. My family was looking forward to attending the event in one of the world’s first Catholic countries  The show seemed like a small-time version of the Rose Parade. Still, this might be natural. We stayed in the pint-sized capital of Valletta  How could the celebration have exceeded the dimensions of its historic streets?

I’m not exaggerating when I mention that Valletta is small. You can see the whole city in less than a day. The sights that are there will astound you. The Co-basilica of Valletta was one of the most amazing churches I’ve ever seen. Even after setting foot in St. Peter’s. Walking the main streets of the capital is a memorable experience. Yet, once you venture a few streets from the main thoroughfares the place becomes a ghost town. Valletta is famous for crowds during the day. It’s deserted at night.

Our family trip was in February. This was not the best time to take advantage of beach resort attractions. It didn’t matter. We could go to the beach elsewhere.  What we didn’t count on was that there’s less to do during low season than the guidebook might suggest.

We toured the Three Cities on our second day. These are Malta’s port-towns across the narrow bay from Valletta  They are supposed to be quite charming. During the winter they reminded us of any modern sea faring city. But, with more historic (and closed) buildings.

 Of all Malta’s attractions, the Hypogeum is not to be missed. It’s small like most other things in Malta. Yet, its significance is immense. Other ruins I saw on this trip alone were more impressive. This tomb is thousands of years older. It provides insight into an ancient culture.

My family and I had some trouble finding that archaic tomb in the first place. A local Maltese woman helped us. Not only did she give us directions. She insisted on showing us the way, while recommending her favorite local eateries. She also informed us that she’d pray for our trip in church. It’s hard to meet the locals in countries with a history of tourism. In Malta, they approach you just to converse.

Of the countries I visited on this trip, Malta is the least impressive. It’s like the dog named after it. Small, but regal. Quirky, yet dignified. Somehow it leaves a big impression. Its a crossroads. The canon is Catholic. The language derived from Arabic. Its culture influenced by Italy. English is one of the country’s official languages.  

The nation is small. It’s history unlikely. It’s existence significant. 

In Transit

It was time for my friend to leave Poland. After buying some mint-apple juice from a nearby convenience store she mentioned that she had to use the facilities. My friend returned three minutes before her train left. I was exasperated, but didn’t want to ruin our goodbyes by ranting. It’d been amazing to tour the major sites of Poland with a friend of many years. Yet, I was ready for a brake. For the past week, I’d been Travel agent, Translator and Tour guide in-one. This is travel. But, not the way I’d grown up understanding it.    

About a month ago I embarked on the most recent family trip.  I was looking forward to the three week experience. After January in Wroclaw it would be heaven. The trip was planed mostly by my parents. The money would be their problem. The biggest thing I had to worry about was what to order for lunch!

I’ve traveled on my own before too. The experience is enlightening. You really get a feel for how people treat foreigners. Alone with your own thoughts, you develop an understanding of a peoples’ history -- Their way of thinking and living.

But, it’s anything but relaxing. You’re free to do as you please. Yet, there’s no one to share the experience with. The burden is all yours. I remember days in Albania when I thought I’d be kidnapped. Making a Belgrade train reservation is only possible with helpful locals. Avoiding drunks in Lwow is practically impossible.

Avoiding the drunks in Wroclaw was impossible with my Asian-American friend. It was as if we had a sign on our backs that said ‘give us crap’ at every street corner and tramwaj stop.  We had fun laughing at in-jokes and trying to ascend centuries old battlements. Still, when she lost her cell phone I was the one who had to deal with the national railways’ unhelpful blue-collar workers.

My mother voiced a similar complaint in Tunisia. There, she was the itinerary planner and translator for the entire family. “When will I be on vacation?” she vented one day. I felt relived of all concerns. My father just seemed proud that he was responsible for getting us on the plane to the country in the first place.  

When we arrived in Sicily, my mother began to relax. My father shouldered the driving. I handled the navigation. Mom provided the itinerary.

I felt life’s weight returning in Malta. After visiting Rhodes, I’d expected the country to be the knights’ crowning achievement. Even during Carnival, it turned out to be a Disneyland for old British people. For most of the trip, no expectations had been placed on me. Now, I realized that the trip would end. Reality is inescapable.

We got lost on our way back from Amalfi. My father, known for being needlessly cautious about travel plans, complained strenuously. It was a mere inconvenience for me and my mother.   

 Back in Poland, I’d misread the train schedules. The express my friend and I were planning to take wasn’t running. Only one other train departed to Wroclaw that day.  After a quick dinner, I informed her that we needed to head to the platform: now.  It was strange how much I sounded like my father as I sternly told her why she could not use the lieu at this critical juncture.     

Travel comes in many forms. With family, you defend against onslaught of reality. With friends, you hide from it as best you can. With solo travel, you immerse yourself with no life lines. Each holds a new type of knowledge; its own type of stress.

  As Ayn Rand opined in the Fountainhead: travel “is not for going places, but for getting away from them.” It’s an attempted escape from reality. A futile flight from that which is. No matter where one goes.