by Kim Dinan
Chapter 2
One thing that Brian and I never quite got used to was that we’d ended up in Portland, Oregon, in the first place. We’d met in college in the Appalachian foothills at Ohio University. We’d fallen in love, and when I managed to land my first job all the way across the country in Oregon, Brian came with me.
I was 23 and had barely left the state of Ohio. But somehow I’d managed to get hired by a woman named Michele to run the recycling program at an Oregon university. It was the luckiest break I’d ever had.
Much from those early days eludes me. If I felt scared or apprehensive about moving across the country with a boyfriend I’d known for less than two years, those memories have been lost. I can only recall the thrill of the adventure and the shock I felt that someone had actually hired me for my first real job.
Over email I told my new boss about our plans, outlining the date we’d leave Ohio, the date we expected to arrive in Oregon, and the day I anticipated I’d be able to start my new job. Oh, I added, and we’re going to camp until we can find an apartment. Brian and I were broker than broke. We had both just completed a postcollegiate year of volunteering in AmeriCorps where we earned a stipend that kept us well below the poverty line. We had a sum total of seven hundred dollars with which to drive across the country and put a deposit down on an apartment. We had to camp. We couldn’t afford a hotel.
Michele must have thought we were crazy. There were no legal campsites within the city limits of Portland. Yet instead of telling me that I’d lost my mind, she simply extended an offer: Why don’t you stay with my husband and me until you find a place to live?
We couldn’t accept their offer. I’d be arriving in Portland with my boyfriend and my two dogs and my friend Jenny who decided to tag along for the road trip. Had I been coming alone I might have said yes, but I’d be showing up in Portland with a posse.
Over the phone a few days later I explained the situation to Michele. “Stay anyway,” she’d said. Her voice sounded kind and encouraging through the receiver. And because Brian and I were ridiculously broke and ridiculously naïve, and because we clearly had no idea how much we were putting Michele and her husband out, I said okay.
We all arrived at Michele’s door on a rainy August evening in 2004, tired and wide-eyed and so far away from everything we’d ever known. “You brought the rain with you,” Michele said by way of greeting. “This is the first time it’s rained in months, I promise.” It’d struck me as odd, her sensitivity about the weather. Such was my lack of knowledge about my new home—I hadn’t even known about the rain.
In the days that followed, Michele and her husband, Glenn, showed us around the city. They took us to the movies and to dinner and refused to let us pay for a thing. And when we found an apartment a week or two later they gave us their old furniture and dishware and sent us on our way. Brian and I were flying by the seat of our pants. Michele and Glenn were pure goodness and kindness.
Over the years, Brian and I had reminisced about the sequence of events that brought us to Portland, and we were always awed that we had the good fortune to show up at the door of two of the kindest humans in America.
For two years I worked for Michele, and then I moved on to another job. A year after that, I took the job that I’d just quit—the one that left my bank account full but my spirit incredibly empty.
• • •
Since Michele had brought us to Portland, and Portland had changed our lives, we wanted to make sure that we thanked Michele and Glenn for taking us in and showing us such kindness in those early days. We set up a final dinner with them at a local pizza shop.
The evening unfolded easily as we fell into the familiar conversation of catching up. Brian and I talked about where we planned to travel and what we hoped to see and do on our big trip. Michele and Glenn told us about their jobs, dogs, and families.
As the evening wound down, Michele folded her napkin into her lap and leaned down to dig into her handbag. “Glenn and I have a small gift for you,” she said.
My eyes followed her hand into her purse. “Michele, you shouldn’t have done anything. We brought you here to thank you.”
“I know, I know, but we wanted to,” she said. Then she reached across the table and handed me a beautiful yellow envelope tied with an elaborate silk bow.
I looked over at Brian who eyed the envelope perplexedly. “Should I open it?” I asked Michele.
“Yes. But let me explain first. There’s a letter inside that I’d like to read to you so that you understand the gift.”
The silky bow unraveled easily as I pulled it. Inside of the envelope my fingers found a letter. I pulled it out, and as I did, a check for one thousand dollars fluttered to the table. I gasped and looked up at Michele, “Michele, we can’t accept this.”
“Wait,” she said. “Let me read the letter to you.” I handed it across the table to her.
The cramped restaurant bustled around us. Michele unfolded the letter and began to read.
Kim and Brian,
We can’t believe that the date of your departure is almost here. We are so inspired by what you are doing and proud of you for having the courage to do it.
As is often the case when someone is about to experience a major life event: moving into a new home, getting married, having a child, celebrating a big anniversary—quitting their jobs and traveling the world!—we (society) feel the need to commemorate the occasion with a gift.
So, as we were pondering over this grand adventure you are about to embark upon, we kept bumping into this compulsion to get you a gift of some sort. In part, this is probably because we sincerely want to acknowledge the enormity of what you are about to do.
But we also think it is because we have the distinct and unique honor of being the first people to welcome you to Portland. It seems like only yesterday you both rolled up to our house after having driven halfway across the country, with everything you owned in your car, including your friend and your two crazy pups. You were both so excited to be off on this new adventure called “Portland” and had such determination and complete faith that it was all going to work out.
It’s been fun to watch your life in Portland take shape—getting and changing jobs, making friends, buying a house, getting married. We have been so thrilled to be a small part of it. While we are sad to see you go (setting out with even less stuff than when you showed up!) we are so excited for you.
Which brings us back to this gift-giving dilemma. We thought about this long and hard. After all, what can you get people that are about to strap all of their belongings on their backs? And then the answer struck us like a bolt of lightning.
While you are out experiencing a myriad of countries and all of their wonders and adventures, we want you, at the same time, to make the world a better place.
Enclosed you will find the money to create what we are affectionately calling the “Kim and Brian Yellow Envelope Fund.”
During your travels, we want you to give all of this money away in whatever way you want. You can give it here in the United States or in some foreign land. You can be serious in your giving or be totally crazy, funny, or harebrained. You can give it away visibly or anonymously. You can plan how you are going to do it, or just give it spontaneously. You can give it to adults, to children, to animals, or to the environment. You can give it all away at once, or you can spread it out and give a little bit here, a little bit there. You can give it away in any combination above. We don’t care.
We do, however, have three simple rules:
Rule #1: Don’t over think it
Don’t stress about doing the “best thing” with the money. Don’t dwell on all of the world’s ills and feel pressure to try to fix them. We want you, instead, to listen to your soul. Give the money away in any way that makes you come alive.
It can be as simple as handing out some candy to the local
village children or buying admission for the family behind you in line at the museum. Give it to some group you discover doing environmental work that moves you. Give it to a local women’s co-op. Pay the dinner bill of the family sitting next to you. Buy someone a new pair of shoes or a bike. Give the funny waiter or helpful cab driver a fifty-dollar tip. Whatever you want.
Rule # 2: Share your experiences (…if you want to)
We encourage you to share your experiences with friends and family. But only share what you want—keep the rest in your heart. You are not accountable to us or anybody else for how you choose to give the money away.
Rule # 3: Don’t feel pressured to give it all away
We want you to tuck this money away in your back pocket (somewhat figuratively of course) and give it away as the mood strikes. We imagine it might be hard at first…but once you get used to doing it we hope it becomes fun and adds richness to your travels. While we encourage you to find ways to give it all away, at the end of the day we don’t want you to feel pressured or stressed about doing so. You can come back with all, some, or none of the money.
You are both two of the most inspiring, fun-loving and compassionate people we know. It seems you have always wanted to make a difference with your lives, and when you found you weren’t quite living up to that dream, you had the courage to hit the “reset” button in a grand way. We can think of no one else we would rather live vicariously through. In many ways this will make it feel like we are traveling right along with you. And for us, this promises to be much more rewarding than writing that annual check to our favorite nonprofits (don’t worry, we’ll keep doing that too).
At the end of the day, the money itself is just paper. What gives the whole experience meaning are the thoughts, emotions, and feelings that come with giving the money away in ways that make you smile and make your hearts sing. While doing this bit of creative philanthropy isn’t going to cure cancer or save the rain forest, we hope it can bring a bit of happiness and joy to folks you meet along your adventure—and that it will give you even more fond memories to look back on.
Good luck, have fun and be safe!
Two of your biggest fans,
Michele and Glenn
By the time Michele finished reading the letter I was crying right there in the restaurant. When I tried to say thank you, I fumbled over my words, feeling dumbstruck and awed. Michele and Glenn were asking us to be a conduit for their goodness, and I felt blessed by the amazing opportunity and humbled that they trusted us with their money.
Steering off of the well-worn path had been hard and scary. Oftentimes the dream felt so far out of reach that it would paralyze me, and I’d be unsure of what to do next. But one truth kept revealing itself to me: the next step would appear when I needed it to. That wasn’t something that I’d ever believed before, but so many things had fallen into place to make this dream possible that I couldn’t chalk it all up to chance anymore. The gift from Michele and Glenn felt like the next step.
The gesture inspired me so much that I told everyone I knew about the gift. I felt certain it would lend more weight and meaning to our travels. Secretly I dreamed up how far it could go, my mind somersaulting with the possibilities. Nothing seemed too big or out of reach.
• • •
As our remaining days in Portland ticked down, my anxiety level reached gargantuan proportions. Brian and I spent hours packing up the remaining boxes in our apartment, making endless trips to Goodwill and tracing and retracing the walk out to our car to load it full of the things we’d decided to keep: Christmas ornaments, my wedding dress, and old journals—the things that served no useful purpose but that I couldn’t bear to get rid of.
I cried constantly, overwhelmed by the sadness I felt over leaving our life in Portland. My heart ached like it’d been beaten with a hammer and I couldn’t say for sure whether I even wanted to go anymore. My life felt like it dangled from a pendulum, swinging through every emotion: joy, trepidation, back to happiness, and then on to pure terror.
Two days before we were scheduled to leave, we threw a going away party in Laurelhurst Park, a beautiful expanse of green grass and ancient trees in one of Portland’s oldest neighborhoods.
Our friends gathered around us, arriving with dishes of food and cards inscribed with wishes. We filled the cooler with beer and rented a bingo set, and Brian called out letters and numbers into the sweet, warm air of spring. The lucky winners took home stuff that otherwise would have ended up in our Goodwill pile: a slotted spoon, an out-of-style sweater-vest, a framed picture of Brian and me in our Halloween costumes circa 2006.
I looked around at the faces of the people who had become our family in Portland—Michele and Glenn, Wendy, our old neighbors, our soccer teammates—and I felt a tidal wave of blessings wash over me. The life we’d built in the eight years since we’d moved to Oregon was rich and full. But then I thought, We’re leaving it all. We had so much here. Why couldn’t it have been enough?
The sun set and the park closed, and Brian and I and our closest friends headed to a bar where we squeezed into a photo booth and made faces as the camera snapped, freezing us in time. Back at our table I caught Brian’s eye and realized that he was as exhausted as me. Our bed beckoned, but we both fought the urge to leave. We’d squeeze every drop out of this life while we still had it.
• • •
On Monday morning, May 21, 2012, Brian and I locked our door for the final time and walked out of our apartment building. We pointed our wheels east, heading back in the direction we came from eight years before.
The day dawned damp and gray. Rain puddled on the roadway, and the windshield wipers swayed back and forth in a rhythmic dance. I couldn’t believe we were leaving.
Brian steered the car onto I-84 East, and I watched out the window as Portland disappeared behind me.
My phone buzzed and I looked down to find a text from Wendy. I know the real reason that Portland cries today, it said. Good luck. I love you. Up until that point I’d been feeling solid, strong even, but her message reduced me to tears. Brian looked over at me and patted my leg. A whole chapter of my life was ending right there on that highway. “Hey,” he said. “It’ll be okay. I’m sad too.”
But it wasn’t just sadness I felt. I couldn’t find the words to explain that I was both heartbroken and breaking open with possibility.
A few days later we arrived safely in Ohio. We visited with our family and friends and tucked our few remaining possessions onto my in-laws’ basement shelves.
On the morning we left for Ecuador neither Brian nor I could choke down breakfast. We sat at the kitchen table wordlessly drinking coffee, wrapped up in our own thoughts. I’d imagined our departure day a thousand times over the nearly three years I’d been absorbed by this trip. And in every daydream, I was overjoyed—triumphant—at finally achieving the thing I’d set out to do. But as I sat at that table on the morning of our departure, I felt only terror. I wondered if we weren’t making the biggest mistake of our lives. Digging through my purse for the tenth time to check to make sure our passports and credit cards were still inside, I spotted the yellow envelope. I’d hidden it in an interior pocket and pulled it out to reread Michele’s letter once again. Even if we were doing some irrevocable damage to our futures by taking this trip, at least the yellow envelope guaranteed that something good would come out of it. We gathered our bags and boarded the plane to Ecuador, and the whole wide future stretched out before us.
Ecuador
Chapter 3
Our plan was to have no plan. After years of knowing exactly where I would be Monday through Friday from 7:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m., I wanted the freedom to go where my heart desired. For months leading up to the trip I’d imagine Brian and me sitting cross-legged in hostel common rooms, swapping stories with other travelers and learning of secret locations deep in the Amazon or high on mountaintops that no guidebook co
uld name, places only real travelers visited.
It went against everything that my reservation-making, type A personality felt compelled to do, but we’d managed to arrive in Ecuador with just two nights booked in a guesthouse and one-way tickets from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to Delhi, India, purchased for three months down the road. How we got to Buenos Aires and where we went in between was completely up to us.
We arrived in Quito, Ecuador’s capital city, on a cool morning. The city was sprawling and half-built and notoriously riddled with crime. I didn’t know if it was inexperience or genuine threat that made me feel uneasy, but something felt just a little off about Quito.
A ten-foot wall rimmed with barbed wire and broken glass bottles surrounded our guesthouse. Downtown, armed guards stood on Quito’s street corners swaying shotguns like appendages. It scared the shit out of me. I was sure that Brian and I looked like easy and obvious targets, that our ignorance must be plastered all over our faces. And yet at the same time I felt untouchable—high from that magical mix of jet lag and the miraculous shock of boarding an airplane in familiar territory and deboarding it in a wholly foreign world.
A 150-foot stone monument called the Virgin of Quito stood perched above the city on a hill called El Panecillo, and on our second day in Ecuador Brian and I decided to visit. We wandered through Quito’s Old Town district, lost on the meandering streets, winding our way to the base of the hill. But as we drew closer we lost sight of the statue, buried as we were in the narrow, cobbled alleys.
“I think we’re officially lost,” I said to Brian and stepped into the middle of the road to gain a clearer view. “I don’t even know if we’re headed in the right direction anymore.”