A Year Off

by Alexandra Brown

  • Down jacket: Our down jackets proved to be invaluable. When packed into their own pockets, they were great makeshift pillows, and when the weather got nippy, they provided instant but lightweight warmth.

  • Windbreaker: A lightweight windbreaker that packs into its own pocket is another invaluable item. You can carry it with you at all times, and it can provide an effective temperature shield if the weather suddenly turns.

  • Lightweight rain jacket: While you may not encounter a lot of rain, you’ll want to be comfortable and dry when you do. Umbrellas are awkward to carry, whereas a packable rain jacket fits neatly into your backpack.

  • Moisture-wicking socks: You’re going to want your feet to be in the best condition they can be in during your trip, which is a challenge when you’re constantly on them. Having proper footwear is one step, but having high-quality socks is another. Moisture-wicking socks are durable, quick-drying, and breathable. You don’t even have to wash them after every use.

  • Practical walking shoes: You’ll want a pair of shoes that feel great to walk and stand in but that you also like and feel are versatile enough to take you wherever you want to go.

  • Ziploc® freezer bags: These came in handy for so many things, from storing medical supplies to keeping dirty laundry separate. Make sure to get the name-brand kind because those last. Several years later, the Ziploc® bags we used on our trip are still functioning.

  PACKED AND READY

  As we spent more time on the road, we became packing ninjas. We began to understand how little we actually needed to live and dress comfortably. We developed systems for optimizing the organization of our packs. We got to a point where the essentials were at the ready, and we could pack our completely unpacked backpacks in just under fifteen minutes. We kept our loads light, and when we cinched down our packs as much as possible, we never struggled with fitting them into an overhead compartment. During our travels, we would see twenty-year-olds weighed down with seventy-liter packs towering over their heads and overstuffed daypacks worn on their chests, or nervously waiting for a checked bag to emerge from the mouth of a luggage belt. We would marvel at the bulk they carried and wonder what could possibly be in there.

  While there were times when we got sick of a particular shirt or felt constantly underdressed in cities like Milan and Paris, we were glad to have light loads. We were comforted by how contained our packs were, that everything we carried fit neatly on our backs. Life felt simpler.

  SECTION II

  ON THE ROAD

  Chapter 5

  Adjusting to Life on the Road

  Leaving home is a special moment. You know you are on the brink of something, at the beginning of an adventure. Everything beyond that point is generally an unknown, even if you have a plan. Yet one thing is certain: your individual experience will be unlike anybody else’s.

  Every traveler will have his or her unique transition to life on the road. Some people we met had easily left everything behind and transitioned into traveling effortlessly. Whatever challenges they might have had before their departure didn’t seem to follow them. Other people had left to actively process what they were grappling with at home or to work through something major. A few people had left with the desire to not return to any semblance of the life they had led before and instead pursue a course entirely different.

  Because everyone is different and traveling for countless unique reasons, it would be impossible to offer advice on adjusting to the journey. Each adjustment experience is going to be singular. We can, however, share what was most meaningful to us: stories. In this chapter, we share a few stories about how we adjusted to life on the road and a look into what we learned along the way.

  On the Edge

  Sámara, Costa Rica

  DAVID

  9.8820° N, 85.5290° W

  Alexandra was talking to me, but I was unable to listen. I couldn’t seem to register her words or much of anything else around me. Anxiety was swirling in the lower spaces of my stomach, but the rest of my body felt lifeless. My thoughts were boring. I had no insight on the conversation or anything relevant to the moment. An hour ago I had been searching Google for articles on early onset Alzheimer’s disease. For weeks I had felt as though someone let the line out on the anchor of my mind. “Sorry love,” I told Alexandra. “I can’t hear anything right now. I’m not feeling myself.” I could tell she was mildly offended and sensed she felt responsible for whatever it was I was going through. I had a visceral response to make her feel better. I said something ineffectual like a drunk apologizing to whatever was around him after bumping into a wall or a piece of furniture: “Sorry. Just ignore me.”

  I drank a third cup of coffee, and my long stares into nothing were disrupted by caffeine jitters. “Let’s get dressed and go to the beach,” I said as I began to stand up. As we walked back to our room, I was distracted by the incredible amount of wildlife around us. Several types of birds, lizards large and small, unusual insects, and monkey-like mammals moved around us, and the hotel cat appeared to be ushering us to our door. I callously registered the beauty of the moment as though I’d need to report back on the details later.

  After getting dressed, we walked hand in hand down a path leading to the ocean and came upon a few concrete buildings. They could either have been part of a home or a makeshift restaurant. I felt nervous we would need to speak to strangers, as the path led through the property. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but the alternative of forging our way through the jungle appeared even less comforting. Deciding on the path, my energy shifted, and my internal monologue grew hyperactive. Why do I not feel like I am on vacation? This looks a lot like vacation. A really nice one too . . . What about this situation is not awesome and totally relaxing?, I thought to myself as we quickly approached what proved to be a restaurant.

  A lovely young couple, presumably the owners, greeted us, and I lost track of my train of thought. I quickly transitioned to asking them all sorts of questions. Our conversation was fluid and jovial as I asked about where they came from and what they were up to in Costa Rica. I sensed Alexandra was a bit uneasy, and I assumed it was because her practically mute space cake of a boyfriend just became Mr. Social at the drop of a hat. “Would you like a drink?” they asked, and we accepted.

  We sat on a wooden picnic bench overlooking the ocean. I fixed my gaze on the label of my beer that was slowly coming off from the condensation. My mind returned to some of the themes that had come up on our way here and then landed on something that felt undeniable: not knowing is not a problem, it is your solution. Agitated as well as liberated by the thought, I distracted myself. Looking back behind me, I saw the jungle’s edge and noticed the work this young couple had done to keep it from enveloping their little establishment. Alexandra had wandered off toward the ocean, and I watched her as she explored the shore, stopping to sit on a rock near a fire pit and looking out over the waves.

  I looked over to my left and made eye contact with a large brown dog. Although he was without a collar, he didn’t seem threatening. He came toward me, and I could see he had kind, dark eyes. He performed a couple of false starts toward the ocean; it was clear he wanted me to play with him. I am allergic to dogs, so I generally do not accept these sorts of invites, but given my state of mind at the time, I felt compelled. The dog led me in Alexandra’s general direction, and she got up from her rock and joined us. She inquired about the dog’s origins, to which I shrugged and replied, “He seems sweet.” I grabbed a stick and threw it down the beach. It got caught up in a couple waves crashing in, but the dog quickly snatched it up. Without any impulse to return it, he carried the stick high and looked almost triumphant while leading us down the beach. After some time, he cut up to a shady spot under a tree that seemed quite familiar to him. With our new friend by our side, we relaxed and for the first time let all that was around us sink in. I could tell we both sensed a wildness within the dense jungle behind us, but we focused on the contrasting
calm energy of the blue ocean ahead. I felt a sense of rebellion toward the moment and an impulse to undermine its simplicity with chatter, but I held back. By the time the breeze dried our sweat, our dog leader roused us, and we followed him back to the restaurant. I expected the dog to have a plan for some food as payment for his tour, but when we got closer, he took off, running down the beach and into the jungle without a goodbye.

  Back at the restaurant, Alexandra and I each sat on a bench and quietly watched the colors of the sky slowly begin to morph. The light angled and brought out shadows as well as a chill in the air. We looked at each other like we both had good news to share. I reached out and took her hand.

  We sat together silently, and I returned to my thoughts. I realized that I feared being unclear about what I was doing on this journey, so I attempted to ground myself. I was here to fulfill a lifelong desire to explore the world, meet people, and learn new and amazing things. I was also here to question my career choices and give myself the chance to make better ones going forward. I was here to be more real and more honest than I had been with myself or anyone else. I was here to do all this with a woman I hardly knew but had loved from the start, in a relationship that could last another week or my lifetime. I know what I am doing, I thought to myself, but before the words settled in, I realized they were what I had needed in order to leave. What I needed now was to wake up and arrive in my new way of living. I needed to let go of what I knew and embrace what I did not.

  Meeting Yourself

  New Zealand

  ALEXANDRA

  36.8485° S, 174.7633° E

  I have always struggled with letting go of mistakes I’ve made or regrets from the past. It is a side effect of my long struggle with anxiety. A mix of genes, my upbringing, and traumatic life events resulted in my having some high-strung instincts to control and worry. When we boarded our first one-way flight to New Zealand, I felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps this time, I could finally leave that tightly wound person behind. That by taking this dramatic step I would free myself from the manifestations of these instincts: self-reproach, a compulsion to perform, and excessive planning. It took me roughly a week to recognize that the traveling version of myself was not miraculously much different, and it took another four months before I found a way to be comfortable with that realization.

  The first week after leaving the States was relatively smooth because an underlying feeling of shock infused everything. On our first morning in New Zealand, I lay in bed looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling and felt the gravity of literally being on the other side of the world. I had never been this far away from home. Traveling across the United States and Costa Rica felt like a lightweight entry into traveling while this felt real. During the five days we spent on the North Island of New Zealand, we bound ourselves to each other and moved about in a semi-dream state. I felt in awe of what we were doing. An incredibly generous family friend had offered us not only her beach house up north but also her car and several days’ worth of groceries. Feeling so taken care of gave us a sense of comfort as we embarked on our first small adventure. That time was easy. We drove through gorgeous landscapes, cooked simple and delicious meals, discovered beaches where we were more often than not alone, and held each other close at night. I felt free and suspended in midair but was also afraid of what would happen when my feet touched the ground.

  It wasn’t until we met up with two friends taking a shockingly similar trip to ours but in reverse order that I took my first stumble. We were taking a ten-day road trip through the South Island together, and everyone was excited to experience even a fraction of the beauty we had heard so much about: water that glowed turquoise even when the sky was overcast, mountains that whispered of fairy tales, and fiords that made you feel smaller than an ant. We wanted to experience it all. Perhaps it was our highly structured itinerary or the hefty New Zealand price tags contrasting with our meager budget, but I began to feel the familiar tug of anxiety. The course we had mapped out for our road trip also felt similar to the one we had taken in the States. Our days were spent mostly driving, and our collective exhaustion quickly mounted. Distances that had appeared small and doable on the map were taking twice as long to cover in reality. Even though everyone else wanted to slow down, I felt an irrational sense of obligation to the plan. I could feel myself becoming more and more irritating as I reminded David about how long we still had until our next destination on the road trip, but the more he pulled away, the more anxious I became. I fell into a vicious cycle I was ill-equipped to break. Fixating on our itinerary became the outlet for all my nervous energy. It felt less painful than ruminating on how my uptight energy was ruining the trip or wondering about whether David’s feelings for me were changing.

  As we made our way through the South Island, I could feel a distance growing between David and me. At first I thought the gap was because of our grueling pace or introducing two new people to our crew so soon into our trip, but as we continued south, I couldn’t help but think the distance I felt was about something else. The further he pulled away, the more desperately I tried to hold on to him. I was panicked. As crazy as it may sound, our new love had felt unquestionable to me; I had taken this leap of faith into the unknown in part because of it. David began to vacillate between reserved coldness and tender connection. The logical part of me was able to take a step back and recognize a new relationship under so much pressure would likely experience a couple speed bumps, but my emotions felt otherwise. I began to question if David still loved me. When he looked at me sometimes, I could feel him questioning me, questioning what I was saying, how I was acting, or what I was doing. I felt desperate and clingy and needy, but the more I tried to calm myself down, the worse it became. My subconscious took over as I began to perform in ways I thought David would prefer or would make me the partner he needed. Unlike many other people in my life before him, David was more repelled by this performance than by how I had been acting before.

  After about a week, we settled in for a few nights at a quaint waterfront camping village at Lake Wanaka near the epic Milford Sound. With evening descending, I walked to the end of the pier in search of some clarity. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains framing the lake, I watched the sky darken and illuminate with a magnificent peppering of stars. I looked up into the never-ending expansiveness of the sky and felt the sickening grip of fear on my heart. Tears stung at the back of my eyes, and I felt caught between complete awe of the surrounding beauty and hopelessness in the pit of my stomach. It had been hard enough to embark on this adventure with all the skepticism I’d felt from family and friends back home, and now this layer of doubt from David took me over the top. I was caught in the story that actions I had taken back home were “catching up to me,” that my messy puddle-jumping past was haunting me and making David question who I really was. I felt disappointed in myself for not becoming the carefree person I had hoped to become. I couldn’t believe we were only a few weeks into the “no return” part of the adventure, and I had already begun to fumble.

  Night had fallen, and warm yellow lights began to spring up in homes on the other side of the lake. They looked kind and comforting. The stars were endless and dense, leaving little room for blackness. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cool, refreshing air. When I opened my eyes, a brighter light streaked across the sky—a shooting star. Reaching for the comforts and nostalgia of childhood, I held my breath and made a wish, feeling a quiet sense of hope wash over me. There was a real chance everything could end that night: the trip, our fledgling relationship, and my belief in myself to overcome the things holding me down. Even knowing this, I had faith we would continue and that I could overcome my fears. I sat on the end of the pier for a while longer until the outlines of the mountains melted into the dark sky. When I heard footsteps behind me, I knew without looking that it was David. He sat next to me, our legs dangling over the end of the pier, and we sat together quietly, watching the lights flicker in the houses across the lak
e. We talked a bit, and it was clear my concerns were accurate and shared. Somewhere between something I knew and something he said, I recognized that the only way I could move forward and be present on this trip would be to let go and accept myself.

  The next morning we woke up early and drove to Milford Sound. One of our splurges had been a kayaking tour of the sound. Upon arrival we were pleasantly surprised with a free upgrade to a longer, more in-depth tour. It felt like a gift, and we took it as one. We were taken twenty-one kilometers out in a speedboat to where the sea met the sound. With the engine quiet, we could hear nothing but the gentle lapping of the waves. We were paired up in kayaks and began our journey back with two guides leading the way. I had never felt so small. The cliffs on either side towered over us while the deep, black water beneath seemed to go on forever. About halfway back, we arrived at a magnificent waterfall. It was staggering in its tallness and ferocity. The guides told us it was twice the height of Niagara Falls, which was astonishing given it originated from a point only a third of the way up the cliff. The guides also explained that if you paddled hard enough, you could fight the powerful wind and current coming off the falls and get quite close to the bottom. Although the force would be too great to actually get right under the falls, a quick turn at the last moment of forward momentum would send you catapulting back into calm waters. They then gave everyone a chance to give it a go. For reasons unknown, David and I really gave this challenge our all. Although I could hear the guides warning us that a false move would send us flying into the rocks, I was surprisingly not scared. We began to paddle, and as we felt the stunning intensity of the wind and current push us back, we fell into connected strokes, working together as a team. David yelled instructions over the roar of the waterfall, and I paddled harder than I thought possible. Although this was by far my most “extreme sports” moment, my mind felt clear and calm listening to David’s voice and trusting his prompts. The waterfall was immense, the sound of crashing water was deafening, and the winds felt like a hurricane. We were soaked as we neared the thunderous base, and as we made what felt like perfectly synchronized strokes, we aligned ourselves to turn just shy of the tumult of the cascade. We were shot out like a cannonball, eyes wide open and smiling broadly. It was euphoric.