On The Stress of Travel and Being

 Everything has an end point. An apex.  A rock bottom. That place where the only direction you can go is down or up. Or maybe nowhere at all.

One of my many nicknames is The Prize Winning Travel Pig named Andrew. The etymology of this in-joke is lengthy. Suffice it to say that it refers to an ability to win competitions: admissions and awards which are conducive to continued travels.

When I arrived for grad school in Wroclaw, I expected to settle well into local life. My summer internship in Thailand and Cambodia had been one of my more trying positions. My home-stay in Pakistan was an eye opening but uncertain adventure.  It was time to head back down. I know and love Poland. Travel there would be like coming home to a different world.

Then I got called away to Slovenia for citizenship matters. Twice to Ukraine for scholarship reasons. And back to South Hills for Christmas break.  Professors complained regarding my absences. I made a comeback to earn the equivalent of straight A’s that January. Even as Poland’s winter took its toll.  I still felt like I needed a vacation after I returned from February’s family trip through Italy, Malta and Tunisia.
That wasn’t an option. One of my closest friends contacted me while I was in Valletta  She wanted to know if she could visit in Poland. I knew the country and language. So, she asked if I’d show her the major cities. Of course I agreed. I immensely enjoyed my friend's company. The exercise of the trip drove me into the ground. I’d hit rock bottom. It was time to rest.

My USC Marshall international studies coordinator always encouraged students to develop a connection with were one studies abroad, instead of compulsively traveling to neighboring countries. I agree with him. During this semester I was finally able to take his advice.

It was liberating.  For the first time in a while, I lived at a slower pace for an extended time period. I attended class and cooked my meals. I dealt with reading of my utility meters. As corny as it sounds, I had time to contemplate my existence.

The liberation became oppressive after a few months. Attending class and going to the store became an outing. The squeal of a neighbor’s door bell began to spike my nerves.  My refuge became contemplation of my past through novels and childhood escapades.  There was no promise in the future. No reason to look forward.

 I enjoyed my time in Wroclaw. But after a few months, everyday activities became strenuous. I’ll have been here basically 4 months by June. I haven’t stayed in any city that long since I was 16. Stress is a masochistic alcohol. The less one habitually intakes, the more it’s effect.

I’ve contacted the same friend who visited me in Poland. We’re going to Ireland this June. The next family trip is in the works. It will be in some tropical local. I’ll be interning in Luxembourg this summer too. Hopefully, it will lead to farther opportunities.  The only place to go is up. The only way out is through. It’s time to reach for a new apex. 

The Land of A-thousand Suprises

I hate surprises. They almost always end up being something bad.  That bombshell in your inbox. A negative or no longer wanted response to a forgotten query. The shock of an unsolicited phone call.

Travel was always a refuge for me. A place to escape from life’s reality.  Even after days of logistical set-backs, belligerent drunks, or sleepless nights on university sponsored excursions.  At least, I’d left everyday life’s problems behind.    

There are also places that make an impression. Those I thought would be lackluster.  A well-known monument may disappoint. But, the unsuspected sometimes leaves its  mark.  Despite the up’s and down’s, I thought that I’d never tire of traveling

And then I did. The beginning of May in Poland is called ‘Majówka’.  It’s a de facto holiday season. Many on my program traveled to Italy or other locations. I stayed in Wrocław despite the risk of boredom. It was better than facing more stress of the unknown.

Stress I’ve known here is different from what I’d experienced in the past.  The unknown comes to you. Surprises call at your front door; they’re never good.  They don’t stop after a two week excursion. I’ve long wanted to tour to the Baltic states.  I have a few weeks free this June. Yet, I lack the energy.

I used to long for travel to new lands. In the past year I’ve noticed a change.  Travel options are relatively limited from Wrocław’s airport. It’s still easy to reach unexplored western European cities. After my travel-bloated fall semester it just means another trip to the airport. Another hotel I may not be able to find.
Next year, I’m studying in Vienna. Many flight’s go to western and eastern Europe. I can easily fly to northern Italy or Latvia. But, locations I’ve already been to now hold more attraction. A discount airline flies from Budapest to Skopje. I’ve spent months in Hungary’s capital. I can get to its airport. Macedonia’s western lakes are impressive. I know what to expect.   

There’s also a certain fear.  What if the places I’ve visited don’t measure up to the memory?  The circumstances under which I see them will be different.  I haven’t been back to Maldives in five years. During Iftari at Karachi’s boat club, I vowed to return to Pakistan during February of this year.  I visited a friend’s family in Tunisia instead. Macedonia’s Lake Ochrid may not measure up.  Unexpected hazards may present themselves. Time differentiates the known and the newly  discovered.       

This afternoon, I received a rare surprise. After a year of grad school and a summer internship with the European Investment Bank’s Finance Directorate in Luxembourg , I’d planned to return home for a few weeks rest. My parents had informed me we’d be going on a tropical vacation. I wouldn’t know where until I saw our connecting flight’s destination.

 It could be to Mexico, Miami, to French Polynesia, the BVI, or back to Nicaragua for all I know. It’s the first time in a while that I can live with the surprise.

I ordinarily would have inquired about our destination. For better or worse I didn’t. Not knowing in this case would mean something.  I’m reminded of trips to Russia, Spain, and my first travel to Poland.  When the focus was not on the stresses I’d encounter - but on the wonders I’d find.

I appear to be doing fine in the short-term.  Yet, I’ve come to fear the future. It’s the perpetual surprise; many pundits predict it negatively for my generation.

the respite of my parents’ undiscovered country awaits me.  Before what may ever be after it:  The final frontier where none of us want to cross. 

The Promised Land. An Undiscovered Country. And A-List Problems.

I thought my life would be better when my parents moved back to California. I’d spent my childhood there. We lived five years in Florida.  I thought things would go back to the way they were. They didn’t. Family members I’d known as nurturing accused me of being a spoiled traitor for enjoying travels to Poland, Russia and other foreign countries. During those past five years Walnut, CA had become a promised land. It didn’t measure up. I felt betrayed.

After that I never stopped traveling. My first home abroad was a dorm room in Beijing’s no.4 High School. I only had a roommate for a few days. He dropped out of our program. I was able to experience life abroad. The cafeteria’s bad food set me on a hunger strike after a couple of weeks. For the first time, I had my own friends; my own space.

Come to think of it, I’ve never had a roommate for an extended period of time.  I shared an apartment with family and acquaintances in Maldives. I took the multiple balconies and maid service for granted at the time. The interpersonal drama drove me up the walls. It also motivated me to journalistic success.

 I lived by myself in Bucharest too.  The apartment had an ionic view of the Palace of Parliament. I often reveled in it while cooking meals of my creation, or enjoying Moldovan wine. I dutifully cleaned the floors, and sprayed for cockroaches at midnight.  It took a visit from my mother to remind me that the place was a shit hole. No hot water. The balcony filled with standing water. Broken window panes.  Still, it was mine.  

During the latter half of that summer I lived in another dorm.  The impossible happened. My roommates were my best friends on the program.  We had some minor disagreements. But, our Polish courses finished after 6 weeks. As one of them put it: “it’s after two months that the drama starts to happen.” I’ve had the experience. I’m done with it.

At USC, I was forced to share an apartment for a year and a half. I had my own room. Yet, the situation was insufferable. Returning South Hills became a boon. My high school friends grew closer. I eventually moved back.  College became a necessary evil.

I’ve lived in other locales since then. There is something new you learn to appreciate in each city. Some more desirable than others.  In Budapest, I reveled in my flat’s grand piano, chandlers and short walk to the opera. In Bangkok, I lived on my balcony. I was forced to cook pizza with a hot plate.

Right now, I’m living in Poland. In a one bedroom apartment for what couldn’t buy a studio in the West.  I’ve never seen a roach. Everything works according to its Ikea design. I don’t need my mother to tell me that it’s not a shit hole. I dutifully vacuum my own floors.  I keep from my balcony for fear of unwanted solicitors.

Next year I’ll study in Vienna.  The best I can hope for is one room with no balcony. But, I know I'll live alone. Pursuing an uncompromising future. The rent will be more than for my Polish flat. The standard of accommodation will be less. I’ll learn to live with it. Yet, I now  realize what I’m embarking on.

I recently saw Verdi’s La Traviata.  In it, the protagonist’s father attempts to remind him of the pleasures his family’s home offers.          

 Our house is near Walnut. We call it The Village. I miss its multiple verandas. The effluent privacy;. its effortless cleanliness. Its manicured yards.  I hope its balconies shall always exist. That the friends I’ve made since Florida will be eternal.  I can’t help but long for the respite my summer return will bring. But what awaits beyond its premises?  

Once I leave my family’s home, my future can only be global.   

I must move ahead. Despite the difficulty. To improve my accommodations . To create The Village again in a new land. On my own terms.

Even if it’s impossible.          

A Search for The Best of Both Worlds

Today was one of those days.  I woke up to an email I’d both been anticipating and dreading.  It was the response to a query I'd sent to the European Investment Bank, regarding the status of my internship application.

I didn’t want to open it. It might contain yet another rejection. I waited for my water heater's serviceman to show up  for the better part of a day in mental agony. This was either an end or a beginning.

When I applied to my graduate program, it was due to its connection with Poland. I thought it would launch my career here.  Many international firms operate in Poland.  I applied to most of them. The only response was silence.

Polish water heater regulations are crazy. The gas company has to inspect it. Then the company that sold you it has to service the damn thing. Then the commissar’s office has to take a look.

I headed for the store afterwards.  I picked up five liters of water, bread, a couple bottles of wine for the equivalent of 8 Euros.

By the time I returned to my apartment, I was choking on dust. Psie Pole is one giant construction site these days.  You have to pick your way through torn up side-walks , foul smelling water , and piles of dirt. The experience reminds me more of Albania than Poland. I finally clicked on the EIB’s file. I’d been accepted to intern in Luxembourg for three weeks.

But in Poland, the construction is a symbol of modernization. The economy continues growing. The country moves toward the future. I’m happy with my one-bedroom apartment in a newly constructed blok.  Wroclaw’s restored old town is indicative of a synergy between Slavic and western culture.  

In addition to my accommodations, I don’t skimp on the wine,  the cheese or opera tickets. The pay for this month long internship is more than Poland’s median urban salary. It would last me for two months on Europe’s historical chess board. Of course I’m going to accept it.

My parents have told me repeatedly that I’m ‘living the dream’ during my most recent stint in Poland.  This dream’s brought me closer to reality than I ever anticipated. I’ve had to deal with everything from bank accounts to senseless government regulation.  It drives me up the walls.   And now it’s coming to a close.

Yet, don’t want to leave Poland behind.  These problems would be facts of life in any country. I never had to deal with them in the US.  Where I’m headed next may be even be worse. According to the EIB’s website my comfortable Polish life is mere ‘spending money’ in Luxembourg.

This isn’t the end. I may have to venture west to go east. I came to Poland expecting to find an arbitrage of living standards. It exists. But not necessarily on a global scale for those who start here.

My road to Poland will be longer than I expected.  It may lead to the rest of Europe and back again. But, one day I hope to find myself standing on the smoothly paved roads of Psie Pole -- on a western salary. Living the dream in the best of both worlds.           

Epitaph

If anyone reads this blog, they know I’m kind of obsessed with Sienkiewicz’s novel ‘In Desert and In Wilderness’. I first read the tome when I was seventeen and have recently read it again in the original. I found the humor of the novel to be appealing.

 The main characters - ages 14 and 8 – perform tasks that would be unbelievable for most adults. They start their own adventure after being kidnapped from their families. The boy and girl free themselves from captivity. Avoid plagues and sickness. Acquire state-of-the-art arms. Convert modern-day Kenya to Christianity.  Raise an army, and return home despite their fathers’ fears.  The protagonists do so with hilariously awesome naivety.  They try to act like adults while not getting it quite right.

I was shocked to find that this novel was originally penned as a tale for youth.  I could see that it might be appealing to a younger person to ride atop an elephant, and be followed by a faithful dog that seems to understand spoken language. But, it’s hard to believe that any child would imagine himself giving the Last Rites to a hoard of 60 dying Africans.  The 2001 film of the work was made 90 years after the book’s publication. It isn’t faithful to the original.

Still, the novel sticks with me.  It says something about the audacity of youth. The belief in endless possibilities. I tend to be rather cynical. Yet, this fantastic story hits close to home.

Today I had a revelation. When I was 13 I wrote a full length screen play called ‘Budgie Goes to New York’. In it, a trumpet playing teenager and his talking female yorkie take off for New York.  The two thwart a kidnapping by a blue-collar crook. They win the Westminster dog show and become the talk of New York’s jazz clubs. The duo returns home with thousands of dollars. Looking back, my characters talk as if attempting to be grown-ups.  This story sounds somewhat familiar.

I’ve had the idea to take a second look at Sienkiewicz’s characters. To update their story.  The Polish nationalist protagonists would have fought in the resistance during World War II. They most likely would have lost their grandchildren. Only to have Poland placed under Soviet rule. His Kenyan disciples would likely be reviled for collaborating with the occupiers during the era of decolonization. Their still-alive grandchildren would find them, after a similarly unbelievable adventure. And restore their hope for the future.

The screenplay has sat in a drawer for a decade.  My life has moved on. No one returns to restore thoughts of its revival. I haven’t  even thought of ‘Budgie’ for a long time. Ten years ago, I might have sat down and put my newest vision into words. But the audacity of youth has left me. I’m a business student.  I can only marvel at the character of my past.

 There was a real Budgie. She died two years ago. Her makeshift tombstone stands in my grandmother’s backyard.

The future still lies ahead of me. The possibilities are uncertain. 

Budgie is dead.  

A Grim Preface to the Memoirs of a Twenty-Something-Year Old

I feel silly. Only 22 years old and I feel like calling it a day. Settling down and writing my memoirs. It’s so wrong. Yet it makes a kind of elegant sense. I’ve done more in 10 years than many do in a lifetime. ‘Yet, what have I gained?’ I ask myself. ‘What’s the point’? 

What will the future bring?

I’m currently reading a retrospective si-fi book about an alien society. Its promising youth are sent for nine years of brutal training in preparation for leadership. Every three years a review is conducted. Those found unworthy are relegated to the service ranks.   All true identities are forbidden. The students become know to each other through codename – a façade of birthright and cunning. Success is not solely determined by marks in course subjects. Ability to lead deviously is part of the unofficial curriculum.

The book’s protagonist excels in scholastic and tactical matters. But, he fails to successfully define this last criterion as his own.  He comes into the fold of a prestigiously designated upperclassman, One Charaban, who embodies the latter ideal. Later, he betrays the protagonist, who is recruited into covert services. One Charaban continues to rise in the traditional manner. They become deadly enemies.  

I can remember being egged on from middle school. I had to perform well to get into the state’s top magnet school for academics.  And I did. Rising above small town pettiness. I was better than that.  After my family moved, I did even better. In an Asian community, I became respected as the ‘white kid’ who achieved top grades in advanced classes where oriental students dominated. I graduated nominally 13 in a class of over 750. The top 7 were ties for valedictorian. We’d all be attending the same university.

I’d always been told that I’d have it made if I got into a good collage. USC prepared me for the next round. I excelled in my studies and graduated with great honors a year early to pursue graduate school in Europe. Some of my Marshall classmates are now receiving jobs with the multi-national companies in LA. But, I spent little time thinking about those few with higher honors or more public gregariousness. I’d picked my goal. I had held my space.

Now I’m in the third phase of my education; nothing is more uncertain. For the first time, I’m around those who what I want. A career in Europe. Like collage applications, we still apply to multi-national companies on impersonalized websites. We hope to get noticed. Or to have someone pick us out of the pile. For the first time it galls me when anyone else gets accepted to anything.

My program is composed universities including LSE, and the University of Vienna. My second year will be at the latter. That’s not a bad thing. Yet, I am haunted by the question: What went to the former?

The ‘One Charabans’ of our existence will always haunt us.  They’re a reminder which belittles our efforts.  

I’m reminded of the Polish novel I recently read. In it, I learned a word that describes this situation better than any: Rozżalenie. It’s often mentioned after the main character’s most tragically heroic efforts.  It translates as ‘resentment’. But, literally refers to the portioning out of one’s own regret toward others. Of one’s own fears that they haven’t done enough.

Maybe I’ve gained nothing. But after so long, I grimly can’t stop. I’ll repress the ‘One Charabans’ that threaten. Achieve my goal at all costs.  After all, I've nothing else to fight for.    

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.