Day 1- Puerto Rico

The plane still hadn’t arrived and they told us it would be a three hour wait. I sat in a row of isolated seats facing gate 7 while the rest of the people began to fill the larger group of seats to my far left. They sat down, one by one, with their overstuffed backpacks and comfortable clothing fit for a nine hour flight to London. I watched them every now and then, noticing when a new group of friends arrived until the gate was packed with college students anxious to start their 30 day adventure in Europe.

A part of me, the impulsive fun side that rarely makes an appearance, thought of getting up and integrating myself into the group I observed, the group that would be my roommates, bus companions and friends for the month of July. Just say hello, I thought. Or at the very least, sit nearby and listen to their comments about the trip. 

But I couldn’t bring myself to join them, already so afraid of rejection or appearing like the girl who had already finished college and was at least three years older than the rest of the group. So I stayed in the awkwardly situated row of seats, facing the busy flight attendants, with my arms wrapped around my midriff and my headphones blasting.

Even with the music muffling all the sounds of the airport, I could still hear the cacophony from the group growing louder and louder until at least sixty people were exchanging stories and anecdotes of all their efforts to make it to this place, to this day. It was impossible to conquer them now, I was outnumbered.

This trip, a month long expedition to Europe, was the biggest decision I had made in my life. It took a year and a half to sign up, come up with the money and reserve our seats for this delayed plane.  By then, I had already graduated college for about a year and most of the people here were just finishing their sophomore year. 

My chosen companions: my Mother, who took me on my first trip to Europe when I turned 16 instead of planning me a party, and whom I knew would keep me on my toes for 30 days. My aunt, the other woman I always traveled with, who would fly in to London from Washington DC and meet us there, and my British Boyfriend, who was waiting for me in England. 

The mission: to see over 11 cities of the continent, starting from London all the way down to the Greek Islands by the end of the month. To not waste a second with napping or eating at McDonalds but still find a way to get up at 6 am every day with enough energy for endless walking. To try every food, every type of pasta, every unfamiliar dish but still find a way to fit into the three pair of pants I had packed for the whole month. But most importantly, to not restrict the experience to the illusions formed before the trip or to following the imagined path we had thought deemed following since we started daydreaming about it more than a year ago. To simply let it happen, let it affect us, in the way the countries and the people and the food decide to do so.

Our purpose: Some would have said fun, others the first taste of wanderlust. But the truth was we were never entirely sure until the very last day. But I can remember that my original purpose was just to be present. To see, for myself and not through books or college professors, what Europe was like and what it would mean to me. There were other purposes like, crossing off my Bucket List visit to Mykonos or staying up all night in Amsterdam. To spend time with Mom in a different context than the mother-daughter scenario we were used to. To travel with my Boyfriend to all the places we had talked about for years. To think what I would do for the next few months if I didn’t get into Grad School. To get away from the familiar and find out whom I was when no one was watching. 

I’ve always felt like a late bloomer. I take forever to make decisions and my emotions come bursting in a few hours after the moment has passed. I like to think of myself as impulsive but the truth is, after a certain time in my life, I became afraid of jumping.

Now, sitting and waiting for our three-hour delayed plane to arrive, it dawned on me I had already jumped, and not just from a ledge but from the highest bridge and I hadn’t even noticed. I was forcing myself away from everything I found comfortable, my small group of friends, my 9 to 5 job, any access to social media and instead I was diving head first into languages I couldn’t speak, four hour night sleeps and spending a good portion of every day in a bus. 

I had made it. I had already jumped and if this is what free falling felt like, creeping fear sewn to the abundance of possibilities, I had a feeling I could handle it.

The flight attendant announced the 9 pm flight to London, Heathrow was ready to board and apologized quickly for the delay. Even though we had a long night flight ahead of us and a killer jetlag to follow, we all got up immediately and could barely stand still as we handed out our flight tickets and boarded the plane.

The Time for No Fear

With the tingling that precedes the birth of ideas, a tingling that makes you want to do more than you had ever thought before, also comes the paralyzing fear of failure, of never quite shaping your reality to the perfect model of a life you have dreamt about.

That fear, has been with me for far too long.

Before typing the first sentence, I have already thought of how people won’t like it, how I will be laughed at or worst, ignored. I cringe at the thought that the words, that sound so potent and loud in my head, won’t be any louder than the squeak of a door. But most of all, I fear that the writer I dream of being will never be more than a nostalgia I cling to when I am grey and old.

It is this collection of fears that stop me from writing full paragraphs that have been floating in my mind for years. Stories have been lost forever because of this fear. The flawless construction of descriptions has crumbled into pieces I can’t put back together, all because I didn’t have the guts to put it out there for the world to see.

But this is not the post where I’ll let fear have its moment in the spotlight, but the post where I finally face it and hold my ground when I tell it it’s got no business being here anymore. For too long it has lingered and bothered. Too long it has served no purpose. 

This is the moment I say to myself, and anyone who reads, that it is worth it. It’s worth it to click ‘Post’ while you tell that little voice in your head (the one that says “this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever written”) to go to hell. It’s worth it to feel silly, to feel unsettled and exposed because it means you are trying, you took the step forward instead of staying frozen. The embarrassment, the extra cups of coffee to jolt the enthusiasm, rewriting a sentence fifty times until it has melody… it’s all worth it.

I find myself constantly preparing for perfection. All the stars must be aligned in order to take action. And when they are not, I postpone. I need to have the perfect structure of the story in my head before my fingertips touch the keyboard, the right pictures, the absolute best looking website before I say “Now I can do it.” But now I know perfectionism is not my friend but a constant excuse maker for me to use when I’m too scared. When I’d say that I needed to write down all my ideas first, come up with a schedule, it would really translate “I am terrified of not being good enough and I will never become who I want to be.”

I vow to stop this search for perfectionism and begin a hungry quest for what is true. I promise to rip out of my vocabulary the sentence “I’ll do it later” or “This can wait”. I promise to stop thinking about those few times someone made me feel like I didn’t have it in me and recall every day the countless times I impressed someone or made them feel something with my words and I’ll use those moments like prayers from a rosary that will keep my spirits high when writing days don’t have better results than staring at a blank page. I promise to risk what I am for the possibility of becoming all that I ever wanted to be.

There is no more preparing to be done. No more excuses can be said, even if they are amusingly creative. It’s time to shoot and aim later, to fill pages and not edit as I go.

It’s time to write.

The Beginning

I was at work sitting on an old squeaky chair, facing my dated soon-to-be-thrown-out desk, looking at the same papers and pens I had for the past eight months when I suddenly had a glimpse of my future.

        I saw myself three years from now, still working in the same run down office, sitting in the old chair, counting down the hours until I could go home. The same thing, same place every day because that’s what a full time job is about.

        It was this image of a socially acceptable cage built out of trivial responsibilities and utter dullness that ignited cold and brutal panic in me, the kind that makes you want to do something drastic and stupid because at least then you’d free of the boring foreseeable future of steady pay checks and zero creativity.

        I took one more look at my square surroundings, so unlike me and confining, and I felt completely sure that a lifetime of settling was never going to be enough. If I stayed, I would have to let go of what I wanted for what I thought I needed to do. 

        There were so many things I wanted to do, so many places I wanted to escape to, places that would take my breath away and teach me about culture and people. I wanted to see the Machu Pichu, to walk for three days until I made it to the top and took in the view of this forgotten city. I wanted to dive into the beaches of Mikonos in Greece and float in the water; to live in New York City, backpack through Europe. 

        It wasn’t just about traveling to all the beautiful places in the world, but to find wonder and adventure in everything I did, whether it was going on two month trip or just visit the art museum I pass by every day to work. 

        A whole world of beauty and discoveries was just at arm’s reach, far away from the socially accepted and the cookie cutter idea of what life should be. It was full of amazing things, great or small, created by God and men, all equal in their splendour.

        As I kept thinking of all the adventures I wanted to have, all the countries I wanted to visit, I no longer felt panic but a fire in my heart that ignited the courage I needed to escape the everyday life and dive into the world, so vast and daunting but so full of promise and wonders that were meant to fill out the pages of my life.