wingwmn

spreading my wings and sharing random lessons learned along the way

Gentle Portugal

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Evora, Portugal

“There is no menu.  We will just bring out various courses of traditional Portuguese dishes.”

So out came a parade of dishes.  It started with the nibbles:  olives, and jamon, cheese with jam, and a refreshing cold soup.
Followed by heartier small dishes including fish empanada, stew of pig feet, and a lengua sandwich.
The mains included a duck rice dish, slow-cooked black pork, various vegetables and mushrooms.
And the dessert platter consisted of a sorbet, fruit, and a flan.

It was all very delightful.
And all very Spanish.

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Similarities between Spain and Portugal shouldn’t come as a surprise.  After all, at different points in history, they were one and the same country. They were part of the same Roman Hispania province, then again they were unified under Philip II in the 1500s.  Throughout history, their royals married each other. 

Now, even as 2 separate countries, they share the same religion, the same Iberian land with its flora, fauna and animals, the same surrounding waters, the same climate.  

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However, there is a palpable difference between the two.

Spain, I would describe, has edge. 
Her people are intense and fiery.
The language is impassioned; it strikes the ear roughly.  Almost angry, always making a point.  

Spain has a cultural RBF (resting bitch face).  She comes off aloof until you beg and plead for years to make her like you.
Spain is proud.  She will have dinner at 11 pm just because she wants to.  

Meanwhile, on the other side of the border in Portugal, the difference is immediately visible.   

The Spanish landscape of austere scorched flatlands, grain warehouses, and endless rows of solar panels give way to rolling green hills dotted with age-old cork trees.  Wild flowers abloom where they can. 

As with its docile landscape, there is a certain softness to Portugal.

Her people are gentle.  And smiley.  And calm.
They are your instant best friends.  
Her language, too, has a lilt, a soft susurration.

And she eats dinner at 8pm because she is agreeable.  

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As the two Iberian kids, there is also a certain dynamic in their relationship.

If I dared, I’d say Spain is like the older sibling — the ambitious one with her sights far outside her backyard.  She wants to join the cool kids out yonder.  She’s busy achieving and doesn’t spend time thinking about what her younger sibling is doing.

Portugal is the agreeable younger kid.  Relaxed, going about her business with far less ambition, but always peering over her shoulder at any aggressive moves from Spain.

An Examination of Fear

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“You’re basically committing suicide. For a man.”

I usually eye-roll at my Mom’s hysterics. But this time, I understood what she meant: In an imploding world, you’re safe here. You have food, help, and a support system that can provide whatever you might need — doctors, supplements, oxygen concentrators, horse anti-parasitics.

But you’re leaving. Protected by a questionably-effective vaccine. Taking a long-haul flight into a country where you know no one, are unfamiliar with the health care system, and can barely say “cough” in the native tongue. You are launching straight into ever-morphing travel rules and anti-asian sentiment that might find you homeless and helpless.

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As a traveler, I used to be pretty audacious. Unfortunately, covid fearmongering changed that. I am now pure paranoia. For months, I equivocated about leaving. What nga if I get sick? What if i . . . die??? I needed to find a way through this fear and wrest back some of my power.

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The Stoic Epictetus said, “Philosophy’s main task is to respond to the soul’s cry; to make sense of and thereby free ourselves from the hold of our griefs and fears.”

I parsed through my angst and pitted them against rational thought:
What if I travel and get sick? / You could catch covid even if you stayed home.
What if I can’t get medical attention? / Getting covid doesn’t necessarily mean you will need medical attention. And worst case, you have medical insurance.
What if I leave and there is a family emergency? / Get over yourself; staying home doesn’t equate to the prevention of family emergencies. Talk to the family before you leave. Have a plan.
What if I die? / Well, then there really wouldn’t be anything to worry about, would there?

An examination of the fears we hold illuminates this important point: Our fears are not Fact. Nor are they Foregone Conclusions.

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And what about my other latent fears that haven’t had enough air time recently? The fear of regret. The fear of living with What Ifs. The fear of settling back into a too-comfortable life that doesn’t propel progress. Aren’t these more valid fears worthy of consideration?

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To thrive, the Stoics believe constant exposure to our fears allows us to prepare for them. They espouse practicing or at least visualizing the materialization of the worst. “The man who has anticipated the coming of troubles takes away their power when they arrive,” said Seneca.

Mentally going through what could happen allows me a prepared response. So, I do as much as I can. I grab myself a fully changeable airline ticket, good medical insurance, a hefty stock of vitamins and supplements, and a WHO-certified vaccination card. I do walk-throughs with my family about what to do in case of emergencies back home. I keep travel plans wide open and entirely flexible. I do contingency planning with staff. I write my will.

Then I take a deep breath and go forth.

Because if I am to flourish in a time of extreme uncertainty, I need a radical reframing.
I could choose to view this as committing suicide for a man. Instead, I choose to see it as recommitting to courage. For me.

Crisis and Freedom

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This time each year, I usually escape into a solo trip to fill my seemingly insatiable appetite for silence, and solitude, and freedom.

This year, I find myself in just about the EXACT opposite situation — locked down in my childhood home with my parents (and baby sister). If there’s one thing I am learning in this adventure, it’s this: all that childhood trauma you thought you’ve successfully namaste’d out of your life while living away? They were hibernating until the time you decide to quarantine with your parents. Then they fully activate.

It’s easy to be zen yogi when you live alone. Or at least on your own terms. But back under the parents’ roof?

A word, a gesture will be enough to trigger your childhood fears or teenage angst. A comment will conjure up those times you were convinced you were going to be put up for adoption.

But the difference is now, you have more options available than just the pavlovian response. You have the agency to disassociate yourself from the trigger. You possess the wisdom to take a breath, the space to examine your feelings, and the freedom to google “can parents be adopted?”. (adult adoption apparently is a thing). (Just putting it out there).

Oh Tong and Daisy (and Lex), you do not offer an ounce of silence or solitude these days, but you do provide endless opportunities to choose how to respond to all your triggers. For these incessant exercises in freedom, I am grateful. Thank you for being my quarantine tribe.

But I’m still sending you my shrink bill when this is all over.

Note: this map is neither here nor there. Just an expression of how much I miss traveling, and that includes travel to the corner grocer.

French Lessons

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Paris, December 2019

As we were leaving a boulangerie, my friend asked “Why did you say merci beaucoup?”
“Umm, to be polite?”
“But the lady didn’t do anything special. She just gave you your croissant. I don’t think that deserved a beaucoup. Save that for when they do something special.”

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Whenever I enter a store, I throw out a hearty “bonJOUR!” with the enthusiastic intonation of a Filipino and American combined (i.e., the pitch on the second syllable being several degrees higher than the first). My friend frequently reminded, “Not too enthusiastic. All very flat. bon-jour. One tone.”

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Ah the French. It’s all about restraint. They get suspicious about too much over-the-top eagerness. In fact, there is no direct translation in French for ‘I am excited’. Because the French don’t do excitement. Everything is subdued. To express what the rest of the us would call ‘great!’, they simply say pas mal (not bad). To say something is brilliant, they say c’est pas bête (that’s not dumb).

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I have a theory for this self-restraint. I presented it to my friend: “It’s all in the mouth formation. Speaking French is like speaking with a corset around your lips. There are no big vowel sounds that require the mouth to form large shapes. No AAAH EH EEEEH AAAAAW OOOOOH. French vowel sounds are made by puckering the lips, parting them ever so slightly, then making quick sounds by way of the nose — uh, euh, uoh, aw, iui. A lifetime of pouty faces certainly must do something to your facial muscles that it becomes difficult to make grand facial expressions. And physical facial restriction surely must result in that inherent cultural emotional reserve of yours.”

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My friend couldn’t disagree. Then she brushed it off with a big laugh … well, to the extent the French laugh big.

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Original photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels

#observationsonitchyfeet

Paris, who are you?

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Paris, December 2019

Can someone please tell me WHAT is up with Paris?? Like, HOW has Paris become so … agreeable? Seriously, it’s disconcerting.
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Suddenly, salespeople are delightfully helpful. Servers are serving with a smile. Pedestrians aren’t mowing down slow walkers. Children are welcome in restaurants. People reply in French when you speak in French, and in English when you speak in English. Restaurants and stores catering to various diets exist. Smiles abound. Seriously Paris, who are you???
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I feel like i’ve stepped into Paris-lite. … or Paris for Dummies. I’m getting the gist of this remarkable city without the cumbersome details.
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I would hazard a guess that this is a result of the airbnb-instagram-ation of the world. It fosters an ever-accelerating homogeneity of our aesthetic, of our standards, of our interests, of our causes, of our tempers.
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The benefit is that even in the remotest of villages, we will find semblance of the familiar. We will find the food we eat; we will find people who understand us.
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BUT we also lose out big time. With declining distinctions, we lose the transformative facet of travel that comes with being poked, prodded, and rubbed raw by the unusual and obscure.
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Original photo by Liam Gant from Pexels

#observationsonitchyfeet #travel

Leo

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Queen’s Gallery, London

Fifteen years ago, I read ‘Flights of the Mind‘, a superb biography of Leonardo da Vinci. For a fresh grad student (re)starting her career, it brought me to my knees – partly due to its physical heft, but moreso due to its humbling reminder that “greatness is not born but made”. The book illustrated in fascinating detail da Vinci’s tireless toil, the thousands of hours in pursuit of perfecting his craft.

Yesterday, I stood in a room with hundreds of da Vinci’s drawings. These drawings were never meant for public consumption. They were his private observations, notes, calculations and ruminations for his work. The copious (bordering on obsessive) studies of facial profiles, human anatomy, drapery, light and shadow, water movement, women’s braids, horses, etc were proof of the book’s assertion that behind every masterpiece were endless hours of examinations and analyses. With these came all forms of trials and errors (for example, his initial sketches of human proportions before his Vitruvian Man).

In these drawings, it was made evident where genius lies – in the hard work. In the thousands of hours of practice. In the rising above the rough sketches and failed theories.

And so again, 15 years hence, da Vinci brings me to my knees. This time, he picks me up from the floor where I’ve been hanging out on my back, staring ceilingwise, and indulging in self-pity over lousy first drafts and directionless projects. For someone (re)(re)starting her career, this was a nice slap on the face to get back on my arse, and put in the hours and practice. Because if the Genius OG Renaissance Man had to do it, I certainly have no excuse not to.

#daredtoputleoandmeinthesamesentence #foreverfan#leonardo #davinci #lifeindrawings

Observations on Itchy Feet

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In an attempt at organization, I’ve collected little travel observations that I’ve posted on social media and brought them here to the blog.  This way, I can more expediently answer life’s hard questions like, “What did I think of Iceland again??”

Paris, May 2019

Yesterday, dear Carina and Vic renewed their wedding vows in Paris. It was as moving a ceremony and as gorgeous a day as Paris commonly bestows on lovers.
But something was beautifully conspicuous about this celebration. For Paris, the City of Love, with its hazy atmosphere, nostalgic musicians, glowing lamp posts and cobbled streets, naturally celebrates the excitement of new love. Every corner exudes the sweetness of budding romance; of flirtation and seduction.

And here we were, celebrating not the heady beginnings of a love story, but the oft-glossed-over middle part. The trivial boring bits of “happily ever after” — dirty socks on the floor, romance-zapping stomach bugs, banal finance issues, incompatible travel-planning habits, in-laws.

“It’s a very different experience walking down the aisle knowing EXACTLY what you’re going in for,” Carina said, “and still saying yes to all of it.”

Yesterday, we celebrated not the stuff of Parisian love stories, but the full-on real story. The unedited middle part — of which without the plot twists, gory scenes, and battle-scarred heroes, there is no story.

Carina and Vic, and all the heroes of the middle part, i take my beret off to you. Big love.

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Budapest, April 2019

I’m not going to lie. I’m not rushing back to Budapest to dive into her traditional goulash. Or her national dish of chicken paprikash. Or even her schnitzel. I don’t think I’m alone in this. If we werent raised on these dishes, we wouldn’t be dreaming of them the way we do a rich carbonara or a comforting cassoulet.

And this is precisely the reason why I think Budapest’s food scene is hopping. HOPPING! Aside from the fact that streets are teeming with all sorts of international cuisine, there is, more notably, a remarkable range of “modern” hungarian restaurants: from fine dining (there are 4 michelin star hungarian restaurants in the city) to creative street food.
Walking the city, it will be readily apparent that the innovative food culture is disproportionately much larger here than in the established culinary meccas of France, Italy or even Spain. And maybe that IS, in fact, the curse of having rich terroir and a celebrated gastronomic history – modernization is slow to come by and any is met with all sorts of resistance. The world does not want to see change on the tightly-held traditions and recipes of these culinary giants. We all come home or visit to taste the cannoli that great-great-great nonna used to make. Or the croissant that’s been fed to the kings since 1567.

Meanwhile, due to an absence of an illustrious culinary past, young Hungarians are free to, or even urged to, revolutionize their national cuisine on a steady clip, bringing in outside influences and creating something interesting and exciting and relevant. It all feels a little bit like London’s culinary story. Or do i dare say, even Manila’s. Some experiments in this city are more succesful than others; but overall, an interesting, dynamic, forward-looking, and globally-aware food culture is simmering aaaall over this town. And that, I would come back for.

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Madrid, April 2019

I like to think of myself as a seasoned and shameless solo diner. I have zero hesitation eating alone. In fact, I welcome it. I don’t do books or phones; I sit back, enjoy the experience, and stare down anyone throwing pity looks. More often than not, I find someone to chat with.
Since my first solo dining experience in Spain almost 25 years ago, i STILL maintain that this country is the most difficult place for solo diners. Particularly if you like to forego the more civilized sit-down restaurante experience, and choose to tapa-nibble your way through old school local tabernas, bodegas or taperias. There’s a certain attitude required to elbow your way to the bar, get the busy hombre’s (who knows everyone in the bar except you) attention, attempt 2nd level spanish at deciphering the difference between a tapa and a racion, ignore shrugs or mumbles suggesting that you stop asking stupid questions and just get on with it, tuck into your order which will invariably always be awkwardly too much, and know, while standing amidst large groups of friends in animated conversation, that there will never be an opening for you to join in on any of them. Then, you take a deep breath and muster it all again at the next stop.

What I once thought was hostile behavior, I now realize is just IS. The Spanish are not vigorously welcoming to outsiders. Only when you get to befriend them do you feel their warmth.
So meanwhile, I suck it up, dust off and keep doing it. Because even just a simple tosta of manchego drenched in their divine olive oil makes it all worth it.

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El Nido, Feb 2019

Living on an outrigger for 5 straight days forces an internal reckoning: CAN YOU LEARN TO EMBRACE YOUR INNER COUNTRY (OCEAN) MOUSE? And in the middle of paradise, I said NO. Museums, cafes, mass transit, urban maps, rude people, noise pollution — these are, admittedly, the stuff of my happiness. So while everyone around me swam with turtles and clown fish and sea cows, I stayed (mostly) dry with the most adorable 13-year old (who, ironically, is a competitive swimmer but is equally unimpressed by the water) and learned the rubik’s cube. Win-win-win!

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Turin, October 2018

Turin: Roman-style narrow cobbled streets, laid out in the New York-style grid system, opening up to Paris-style grand piazzas and avenues, peppered with Vienna-style art nouveau coffee and chocolate shops, layered with Berlin-style fascist architecture, mushrooming with global hipster instagram-style cocktail bars, inhabited by culturally-proud but lovely and generous people all its own. #tryingtoputafingeronit #torino #italy

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Vienna, Plachuttas Glasshaus, July 2017

I very rarely order meat, and I’ve never sung its praises. But because I cannot adequately describe Vienna’s jaw-dropping architecture, I will instead talk about lunch. My Austrian brother-in-law told me I had to try the Tafelspitz in Plachutta. I asked what it was. He said, “boiled meat.” “Ugh,” I grimaced, then called for a reservation. … So, Tafelspitz. The dish comes to you in a big, bubbling, copper cauldron of meat, marrow and root veggies. Sides of roasted potatoes and creamed spinach accompany the pot. Tafelspitz is to be eaten in three courses, somewhat like Peking Duck served three ways. First, you ladle out the beef broth and the root veggies into a bowl. Enjoy them with what looked like egg noodles pre-dumped in the bowl. Next, you take a bone from the pot and savor the marrow spread like jam (or heaped on like mine) on rye bread. Third, you inhale the melt-in-your-mouth beef with horseradish sauce, apple sauce, the roasted potatoes, and the spinach. Then you think about this lunch for months to come. Moral of the story: if you want to go all highfalutin Austrian, buy horseradish sauce and annoyingly serve your Nilaga in 3 patience-testing courses. #solodininginvienna#architectureisthebomb#proteinrequirementsmet #delish

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East Village, Manhattan, July 2017

Hipster overheard: I’m changing people’s lives because I’m helping them with content strategy, so they reach everybody, y’know?
Oh east vill, you’re so special. #sundaywisdom #nojudgement#doyourthing

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Harvard Business School, Boston, June 2017

I joined my dad at his 50th reunion. I witnessed the surfacing of his american accent 😂, listened to stories from his former roommate, and heard them reflect on their careers and lives. From a school that churns out the biggest captains of industry and government, these were some of their insights:

Don’t delay your happiness: “Be careful of the myth that if you do everything right – you get in good schools, you get a good job – you’ll be happy ‘in the future’ “.
Don’t be rigid with your plans: “Be open to the shifting of context, the shifting of cultures. I would never have guessed then that I’d end up where I am now.”
Don’t let anything other than your happiness dictate how you should live: “Know who you are and be true to yourself.”
Pause consistently: “Take time to reflect.”

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Iceland, May 2017

I’m an urban traveler through and through. Give me traffic gridlock, smog, dogshit and rude people any day, as long as they come with some culture and interesting cuisine. Iceland met none of my criteria. There are exactly 6 buildings and 2 cars in the entire country; the people are too nice; there is no edge to the place; and the food doesn’t stand up to their atrocious prices. AND YET, for its strange, eerie and awesome terrain, Iceland deserves some respect. #bow#thelittlecountrythatcould#arayangmahal

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Dublin, May 2017

My brain making sense of the scene while walking around Dublin: “Whoa the Irish pubs are packed today. St Patrick’s Day? …. oh wait, that’s right, I’m in Ireland. It’s like st Patrick’s day everyday… and it’s where Irish pubs are just called ‘pubs’.” “I don’t understand anything they’re saying … oh that’s right, I’m in europe… oh wait, that was English.” #compused #confused#foundthenicestpeopleintheworld#dublin #friendschineserestaurant

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New York, May 2017

Home for a tune up, dietary reset, and laundry. Feels a little disorienting to suddenly understand 100% of every conversation around you. Must be why some of the hearing-impaired choose to forego their hearing aids. Because sometimes, you’d rather not know. #greatestcityintheworld#greatestboroughintheworld#jetlagchronicles #brooklyn

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Rome, May 2017

Sora Margherita – a tip from our painfully-hip host two years ago. This place isn’t hip, though. It’s a hole in the wall marked only by random red rope curtains. It houses two very memorable things that brought me back yesterday: (1) scrumptious Roman cuisine, and (2) a purple-haired, thick-eyelinered, non-English-speaking dictator of a server who may or may not (a) veto your order of a salad and instead fix you a plate of vegetables that will be the best plate of anything you’ve had in a long time, (b) interrupt the conversation you’re having with the next table to remind you to “Mangia! Mangia!”, and (c) literally force feed you any carcioffi alla giudia left on your plate. #iloverome

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Rome, May 2017

On the train into Rome, I sat behind 2 Italian women. They were panicking that they had not validated their tickets, and if caught, would have to pay a fine. True enough, the conductor arrived, looked at their unvalidated tickets, cluck-clucked, tsk-tsked, shook his head and charged them 50 euros. “Ma, signor, per favore… ” A 5 minute animated negotiation ensued. He then scribbled on their tickets; they breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him profusely. He then turned to me. I handed over MY unvalidated ticket. But since I didn’t have the vocabulary for ticket validation negotiations, I smiled at him and gave two half bows. He looked at my ticket, smiled, handed it back to me, and moved on.#ownyourasian #iloverome

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Rome, April 2017

Because I’ve been so deprived of niceness the past couple of days, when the train conductor answered my question logically AND THEN asked me how I learned to speak Italian, I almost asked him to marry me. #loverome #happyagain

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Venice, April 2017

“Wow, the Venetians reeeally don’t like tourists, huh?” I told a local. “Pffff,” he said. “You have to understand, there are 60,000 tourists that come to the island every single day. There are only 50,000 of us residents. Yesterday, I went to the supermarket, and the tourists bought all the eggs!! No eggs in the store!!” Friends, if you encounter Venetian rudeness, don’t take it personally. Remind yourself that they are just protein deficient. #lastrantonvenice

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Venice, April 2017

I swear it takes a certain type of smarts to navigate Venice. Case in point: a typical Venetian address would read like “1304 Cannareggio”. That’s equivalent to “1304 Makati” or “1304 West Village”. So you are expected to get to the neighborhood and figure it out?? Whuddufudge, Venetian urban planners of yesteryear? What happened to user experience design? When designing a product, you’ve got to take into account all potential customers — including 21st century tourists from nyc who can’t operate outside of a grid system. Instead, you’ve produced a city that has become like all things (or persons) good looking: confusing and frustrating. #ohyesiwentthere#dontmakemethink #lovehatevenice#cantgetoverhowlostiwas

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Venice, April 2017

Venezia travel tips: (1) when planning a visit to Venice, plan on going when it’s cold, wet, and dreary. Zilch swarms of tourists, zilch lines into museums. The cold, wet, dreary city will be all yours. (2) Swarms or none, accept that you WILL get lost. If you ask a local for directions and he starts with “It’s easy… “, run away. Because the street on which he tells you to turn left will be a bridge, and the second bridge he tells you to cross will be a lagoon. (3) Do not have multiple aperol spritzes to settle the frustration of being lost, particularly when you know you are on the opposite side of the island from your hotel. Because you will NEVER get home. (4) If all else fails, look for a vecchia signora Italianna who would rather walk you across the girth of the island to get you home than figure out your map.#emptyaccademia #tintorettoithi k #stmarkfreesaslave

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Venice, April 2017

Why did it take me over 20 years to return to magical Venezia? Instead, I wasted waaaaay too much time in Manila’s Venezia bar. So not the same. At least in the former, the liquid involved creates beautiful memories.#youthiswastedontheyoung

 

 

Midlife Strolling

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I just returned from a walk through the Provencal vineyards. I started the walk following a wide and well-trodden gravel path. Soon enough, I was venturing down the various small dirt roads that veered off course. I have all the time in the world, I thought. Why not? Some of the dirt roads were too uninviting to explore in full. Some led to dead ends. But some opened up to lavender fields, to quaint stone houses, to a river, or back to the main pathway. After the exploration, I returned to the hotel buzzing with a fuller appreciation of the village’s landscape.

Soooo with that, let’s talk about Dating, shall we?

A few days ago, I ended a relationship. The guy, for various reasons, was not of the typical mold of past boyfriends. “Off path”, if you will. But I was sufficiently intrigued by him, so we dated. It was a good few months — easy, enjoyable, drama-free. Circumstances were not right for a longer relationship, though, so it ended as quickly and as smoothly as it began. We talked, we agreed to disagree, and we parted as friends.

The absence of complications in this relationship was in stark contrast to my early dating years. All through my late-30s, my romantic story was a rom-com-horror show running on repeat: ditching perfectly good relationships and grasping on to bad ones; neglecting the good guys in favor of the bad boys.

To be fair, the pressure to find our Forevers before impending ovary failure would throw anyone into neuroses. Dating becomes akin to finding love in a factory. Our ability to discern becomes questionable at best. We force ourselves to decide on potential partners within a few hours of meeting based on their perceived capacity to charm us, make us laugh, hold clever conversations, keep their fingernails clean, make cute babies, and pay for said babies’ college tuition. If things (surprisingly) go past the first few dates, we clamp down on any wiggle room to turn back. We end up staying in unhappy relationships longer than necessary just to avoid starting the maniacal process over.

The two best decisions I’ve ever made occurred at the same time: I decided to turn 40, and to step off this insane train. I released myself from the pressure of marriage and children — rather than Must haves, they became Nice to haves. And immediately, the heavens parted, angels carried the weight off my shoulders, and the dating world transformed for me.

Dating became so much more joyful. And sane! When the objective of each date ceases to be To Find The One, we can fearlessly explore, wander off path on new dirt roads, and frolic for as long or as short as we want. That is the gift of Midlife dating — it becomes a series of mini-adventures to relish.

To be clear, when I speak of midlife relationships, I am not talking of the stuff of quick flings.  These relationships can be every bit as sincere, meaningful and enriching as any other. First, because marital union is not the foremost goal, people are together because they enjoy each other’s company. Period. Off-spring potential and tax implications do not enter the equation. As such, there is an inherent acceptance and respect of partners as they are. Rarely are there judgements (“can I live with THAT for the rest of my life???”) or attempts to change each other.  Rather, each person is afforded the freedom to fully be themselves.

Because midlife dating allows us the space to explore atypical unions, it can also help shift our patterns and open us up to new perspectives. It expands our concepts of love and relationships. They expose us to different types of love and help us determine what works and what doesn’t work for us. More importantly, they expand our understanding of ourselves. Believe me when I say, being intimate with someone very different from us has the power to change us profoundly.

Finally, when we stop relying on any one person to make us happy, we learn to take care of ourselves. We learn to guard our happiness fiercely, and entrust it only to the worthy. If a particular route threatens our happiness, we need the courage to turn around. Happiness becomes the key criteria in our choices — including whether or not to be in a relationship at any given moment. When we decide to be in one, we can bring into it our whole selves.

By embracing the gift of midlife and the options that come with it, we fearlessly venture further afield with open hearts, armed with the knowledge that we can respond with a certain maturity and level-headedness that midlife brings. And while venturing out without the pressure of Finding Forever, perhaps we will gracefully stumble upon it.

Or, we may find ourselves exploring for longer than expected. And I promise you with all my heart that that route is equally as lovely, like a stroll in Provence.

 

I’d love love love to hear your thoughts.  Please comment in the section below.

In Defense of Solo Travel

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Chiang Mai, Thailand.  Alone.

“What does a public tuktuk look like? I mean, as opposed to one belonging to a family? Do they have medallion numbers? . . .
And how do I know if one is available? Are they lit? Can I hail one from anywhere or should I go to a tuktuk stop? . . .
How do I pronounce that road again? Ra-cha-dam-no-en?”

I’m obviously in a state of mild panic. The concierge half-smiles in disorientation. I shake my head as a signal to ignore me, and I head out.

This is my first solo trip in Asia. Thailand is a friendly neighboring country, yet being here seems more daunting than the time I was left stranded alone in the middle of Nowhere, Tuscany or the time I was cooped up with 3 strangers in a night train cabin in France. At the back of the (easily recognizable and hail-able) tuktuk, I pondered why this was.

I arrived at the theory that it was because for the very first time, in this trip, I look like a local! Traveling around Europe or Latin America, for example, it was readily apparent that I was an outsider. Locals, then, would be more inclined to help or would be more forgiving of any faux pas. Looking like one of them, though, burdens me with an assumption that I can speak the language, am familiar with their customs, and know how to hail a tuktuk. And if I didn’t (because I don’t), there was a higher chance of not being assisted, or of being misunderstood!

The rumination continued: could this penchant for being an “other” extend to my life as a whole? Is this why I gravitate to places where I don’t fully belong — so there are lower expectations of me? Am I, then, just an unambitious coward?

Solo Travel as Philosophy

I don’t have answers to this far-too-early-in-the-morning cogitation. That was just an anti-climactic demonstration of where my mind wanders when I travel solo. And crazily enough, it is incidents like these that fuel my solitary travel habit despite being called “unorthodox”, “weird”, or “insane” (mostly by my very own mother).

Traveling unaccompanied offers experiences that don’t normally occur in a group setting — the aggravating decision to venture out or stay in, the pitying looks, the fulfilling conversations with strangers. During these experiences, we are also able us to listen to the ripples of thought and emotion that normally go unnoticed in the presence of company — nostalgia, anxiety, excitement, curiosity, fear. These ripples, while sometimes annoyingly circuitous (aka, this morning), can also be profound. These arising thoughts present clues to who we truly are.

In a sense, solo travel is an exercise in philosophy — the pursuit of wisdom to live a good life. According to Socrates, at the core of all philosophical tenets is the knowledge of self. When we have an accurate sense of who we are, we have the ability to make better decisions based on truth.

As collective species, we, unfortunately, are not very good at knowing ourselves — what we want, what makes us tick. We latch on to societal models hoping they will bring us happiness — get a good education, work hard, earn well, marry better, have children, save for retirement. These suggested models may not suit us, but we follow simply because it is what is done. Then we realize much further down the road that our lives have turned out to be very different from what we wanted them to be.

The more ambiguous we are about ourselves, the easier it is to be influenced by others. But the deeper we know what we want and where we’re going, the less threatening societal formulas can be. Our inherent truths, then, can (and should) be our compass for our decisions and actions. This is at the heart of a well-lived and happy life.

As such, the Roman philosopher, Seneca, urges the constant pursuit of self-discovery.

“. . . Examine yourself; scrutinize and observe yourself in diverse ways. . . [Philosophy] moulds and constructs the soul; it orders our life, guides our conduct, shows us what we should do and what we should leave undone; it sits at the helm and directs our course as we waver amid uncertainties.”

Caution: May Cause Happiness

While there are countless ways to gain self-knowledge, solo travel, I believe, is one of the most potent avenues. It rouses latent aspects of ourselves, introduces us to resonating perspectives, and teases out obsolete self-concepts. If we pay attention to our true inclinations, i.e., uninfluenced by others, and take the time to understand what they reveal, we go home from our journeys having made an even more valuable inner journey. These could lead to profound changes in our lives, which after all, should be the point of all this.

It was in one of these trips that I realized how valuable freedom was for me. This eventually led to my career shift. It was also in another where I realized what “enough” was for me. This eventually led to my lifestyle change. I don’t know what or where my rumination in Thailand will take me, but if history is any indicator, it most certainly will be another step towards a life more authentically lived.

 

Would love to hear your thoughts.  Please feel free to comment below.

New York, the Buddhist

By ·

London
“New York will always be here, and [will] never care,” a friend texted.

Another friend, in a separate conversation, intimated, “When you leave New York, the void left will instantly be filled by endless other New York incidentals — MTA delays, work frustrations, other friends . . .”

After silently recalling that quote about not needing enemies when you’ve got friends like these, I thought about the Buddhist lesson in non-attachment these guys were inadvertently imparting:  you’ll miss out on the promise of what is in front of you if you don’t learn to let go.  New York knows this all too well.  Things slide off New York like teflon. Fiery arguments provoked in the subway are shaken off a minute later with a shrug of the shoulders. Extraordinary dates kindled each night fade off under no-follow-throughs. Transformative conversations transpire and vanish between strangers who will never see each other again. New York is bu.sy.  It keeps moving. It doesn’t dwell, doesn’t cling. What is important, though, is when it is there, it is there.

As I took a bite (literally and figuratively) out of everything the city offered, New York was there with me. The romance between us was intense.  It educated me, then it partied with me until I had no more party left to give. It extricated preconceived biases out of me. It stoked my corporate ambition then drained me of all of it. It bombarded me with creative inspiration, and assaulted me with new aesthetic sensibilities. It beat organized religion out of me and crammed in place a solid home-spun spirituality. It wrung out of me love and hurt I never knew I had. It squeezed independence out of me, and pounded me with solid support. And it etched out for me the finest group of friends one can only dream of. New York put this very sheltered island-girl through its furnace and spat out something unrecognizable 15 years later. Then yesterday, as I was made to realize, it gave her a good-bye squeeze and turned right back around to dealing with its endless New York incidentals.  Youch.

So fine, New York.  It’s a deal. You go back to relishing the best blue skies on the planet, the bushy-tailed newcomers, and your majestic efficiency. I’ll concentrate on my current incidentals and feel the feels of this upcoming adventure. No jealousy.  And when I return, we can continue this insane love affair.

Meanwhile, feel free to drunk text once in a while. I really won’t mind.