“When you realize the value of all life, you dwell less on what is past and concentrate more on the preservation of the future.” — Dian Fossey, Gorillas in the Mist
Dear Everest,
Once, on drizzly Rwandan morning when the Virungas were swathed with mist as fine as cotton candy, I hiked into the mountains to follow a family of mountain gorillas. To get there, I sliced through tangles of vines and branches with a long, solid machete. When the mountain got particularly steep and slippery, I used the machete to carve steps into the mud. Finally, after a few hours and a lot of sweat, I reached the gorillas.
They were remarkable. Truly. Gorillas aren’t aggressive unless threatened, and I think this group knew they were among friends. The silverback walked past me and put his enormous hand on my shoulder before moving on. He paused at the edge of a clearing and surveyed the landscape.
There were other adult gorillas. Some male, some female, although I didn’t really know how to tell the difference. They were gentle and kind. And there were babies, joyful baby gorillas, who plucked ripe berries from the bushes, scratched their heads, and awkwardly tried to swing from one tree to another.
I watched as the gorillas nurtured their young, the babies riding on their mothers’ backs or nestled in the crook of an arm.
One of the adult gorillas flattened some of the foliage into a nest and placed her baby there to rest. When the baby was good and comfortable, the mama perched nearby where she could keep watch. They were so much like humans.
Even so, I remember thinking, “Nope. Not me.” I didn’t think I could ever care for a child in that way. I didn’t have that capacity for selflessness, and when I searched within myself, I found zero maternal instinct. I was a woman who wielded a machete in the mountains, after all, not the type to nurture anyone.
Even when you arrived, I was unsure about this arrangement. I spent the first few months struggling to figure out how to make room in my life for a baby. Your bassinet was shoved between my bed and my nightstand, and it always felt like I was trying to wedge you into someplace you didn’t belong. Someone said to me, “I guess you’re done traveling now,” and I wondered if that was true, if my world was shrunken and small now.
But somewhere along the way, my world didn’t just stretch to accommodate you — you completely expanded it.
In fact, I suspect now that everything I’ve ever experienced, every skydive and every sunset, every place I’ve ever been, every trail I’ve ever walked, it was all leading me to you. And everything I have yet to experience, it already seems bigger and brighter because I’ll be experiencing it for two.
I get it now, this primal drive to care for another being. All I want to do is build a nest for you, a place to keep you safe and warm while I stand watch. We are a family.
I ended up spending a lot of time at home the past several days, which is why this week has been all about my cat.
Kung Pao Kitten has always been loving and cuddly, but my pregnancy has made him even more so. Like, affectionate x 1,000. Every time I sit, he clambers onto my belly and makes it his home, as if he’s a hen on a nest, trying to hatch an egg.
This guy.
When I sleep, it’s with a cat slung across my middle. When I wake up, it’s with a cat in my face. And when I stand up, he leaps into my arms and sprawls out on my shoulders.
The purrfect companion. (Get it? See what I did there?)
This is why I think the baby will come out purring. It’s possible that my uterus is like Dr. Doolittle and can talk to the animals.
Oh. The dog is here too.
Also, I’ve had a lot of irrational anxiety this week. This is where having a logical, math/science guy husband is frustrating comes in handy. For instance, the other day I didn’t do any of my normal errands because I suddenly became scared and sad and didn’t want to leave the house. Then I told The Husband about it.
ME: Well, I was afraid the baby might fall out.
HIM: Fall out? Is that something that happens?
ME: I think it has happened to someone.
HIM: The baby just falls out?
ME: Yes. I’m pretty sure that happens. I read something online …
HIM: What are your sources? How often does this happen? What are the statistics on this? How often do babies just fall out?
ME: I mean, I don’t think anyone keeps numbers on that kind of thing.
I’m also leaving for Seattle this week. Normally I’m a girl who loves planes — I’m an Air Force brat, I love to fly, I even maintain a top five list of favorite aircraft — but I’ve suddenly become a nervous flier. So I told The Husband I am unsure about going to Seattle now.
HIM: Did the doctor say it was OK for you to fly?
ME: Yes. It’s just … well, I think the baby might explode.
HIM: Has a baby ever exploded on an aircraft? Ever?
ME: I think so. It’s something to do with cabin pressure.
I’ve also been obsessively following the pregnancy of JWoww, of “Jersey Shore” fame, since she and I are expected to give birth around the same date. We’re pregnancy twinsies! Frustratingly, she still seems to have abs.
See? She looks great.
It makes me worry that I’m getting too big or maybe I’m not using enough self-tanner.
Irrational fears aside, here’s how everything else is going this week.
Baby: 10.5 inches long. Depending on the pregnancy app, baby is either the size of a pomegranate or a small cantaloupe or a carrot.
Listen, I thought this comparing-baby-to-food thing was charming at first, and it certainly made trips to the market with my husband more fun — “Look, a lime! Awww, this is what our baby looks like! But not green or nubby!” But now it’s starting to weird me out. Especially when none of my resources agree about basic size. Or shape. Or even type of produce.
Exercise: I’ve still been walking, hiking and doing yoga, but pregnancy is starting to affect my stamina and center of balance. It’s not too bad yet — just something I’ve noticed.
Cravings: Lots of berries. Chips and salsa. I also ate my weight in homemade hummus this week.
Total weight gain: 10 pounds. That seems about right on track for a person who is not part of the “Jersey Shore” cast.
Belly: Big. I think everything popped this week. I can barely tie my sleepy-time shorts anymore.
Whoa, baby.
One of my pregnancy iPhone apps shows me what my body would look like if it were split in half, kind of like a dollhouse. To be honest, I should have paid more attention in health class, because until now, I wasn’t quite sure how everything fit together in there.
So this is where babies come from.
It’s starting to make more sense now.
HUSBAND: Felt the baby kick for the first time! He was very excited and didn’t quite know how to put the sensation into words. He just shook his head and muttered, “So cool! So weird. But so cool! Wow. This is a big deal.”
A woman stopped me in my neighborhood as I was walking my dog. She pulled a bag of organic dog treats from her purse.
“Can doggie have a tweat?” she said in a high-pitched baby voice. She began to kneel by my dog.
“Um, sure,” I said. Then I launched into my prepared spiel: “Yes, my dog can have a treat. But don’t be offended if she doesn’t take it. She was born blind and deaf, so she gets a little nervous around people she doesn’t know.”
The woman stopped, stood up, put the treats back in her handbag.
“Well,” she said. “A dog like that should’ve been put to sleep. Put it out of its misery.”
I wanted to say, “You should’ve been put to sleep,” but I bit my tongue out of decency. Instead I said, “She’s a good dog,” and walked away.
That woman’s response was uncommon. Usually strangers act as though I’ve been feeding lepers in Calcutta. “That’s so good of you,” they say. “It’s very noble of you to take that on. She’s very lucky.”
But that’s not exactly what happened. I did not seek out a special-needs dog. This wasn’t an act of charity.
What happened was this: I was a newspaper reporter, covering a story at a local animal shelter. All of the small dogs at this shelter lived in the office, where I was conducting my interview. One of the dogs wiggled around my feet. She was long and weird-looking and moved too fast. I took a picture of the dog with my phone, and it turned out like a blurry thumbprint.
It was kind of like falling in love. There was a spark, a moment. When I couldn’t stop thinking about the dog two days later, I returned to the shelter.
That’s when a shelter worker told me the dog was deaf. “She’s broken,” he said.
I went home again and considered if I could raise a dog that couldn’t hear, couldn’t respond, would never know the sound of my voice. I discussed this with my then-boyfriend. Together we decided we could do it.
When I showed up to sign the adoption papers, I discovered the dog was blind too. Her left eye was misshapen and clear blue. Her right eye was clouded and brown. Both of them pointed in different directions, like a cartoon animal that’s been hit in the head with a frying pan. She was really broken. But by then I was too far gone to say no.
We brought the dog home and named her Lemon, like a bad used car. The cat hissed at her. She bumped into a lot of furniture. We suffered through long training days and many sleepless nights.
Now, four years later, Lemon has grown into exactly what I told the lady on the street — a good dog. She is an integral part of our family, and I don’t know if I ever want an unbroken animal companion again.
On behalf of Lemon, and all the other Lemons out there, here is why you should consider adopting a less-than-perfect shelter animal.
1. Broken animals have a different kind of intelligence. Lemon has keen instincts. She is a quick judge of character. And she plays the hell out of fetch, even though it’s more like hide and seek. I simply spray her toys with vanilla scent first, and Lemon can sniff out any tennis ball, rope twist or soft stuffed gorilla.
2. Broken animals are brave. My dog can find her way through a maze of furniture, hop on and off the bed and negotiate hiking trails — all with her eyes shut. Every day she teaches me something more about living fearlessly.
3. Broken animals are well-behaved. Lemon does not bark at the mailman. She does not notice when the doorbell rings. She is quiet in hotels. She doesn’t even glance at the dogs we pass on the street.
4. Broken animals are especially snuggly. Lemon loves fiercely and unconditionally. She doesn’t know me as the person who saved her; she only knows me as her family.
5. Broken animals improve your life. I am richer for having this dog as a companion.
Of course, adopting a broken dog also comes with some drawbacks:
1. Idiots approach you on the street and say your dog should be put to sleep.
One thing I did not expect about Morocco: Kitties everywhere!
That’s because cats hold a special place in Islam, as they are considered to be clean and pure of spirit. Muhammad is said to have loved his cat so much that he would do without his cloak rather than disturb a cat that was sleeping on it.
But Morocco takes that one step further. Their felines own the medinas. They are perched above restaurant terraces. They prowl the dark alleyways of the souks. And they have their pick of fish scraps and soft places to nap. Look up in the souk and you’re sure to see tiny paws on the tent fabric strung up above you — an army of cats making their own route through the crazy and chaotic bazaar.
Yes, I am that tourist — the one who travels to far-flung places to take photos of cats. Shut up.
Wondering why I didn’t take any photos of dogs? Well, they are not so plentiful in Morocco. I’ve seen maybe five dogs total, including these two pups.
I read this article about the world’s most outrageous hotel amenities. They include all kinds of super-posh services that cater to one’s every whim and desire. Like a tanning butler. A fragrance sommelier. A soap concierge — you know, for all those moments when you really want to get clean, but you also need options.
It got me to thinking about my round-the-world trip. I didn’t get any of that fancy stuff! Nobody coddled me, wiped me or sprayed anything on me. At least, not on purpose. But that doesn’t mean my trip was amenity-free either.
None of these things included a sommelier, concierge or butler, but they were amenities all the same:
Amenities: CARBS! Microbrewed beers, a pancake buffet.
After a month of downing watery Bolivian brew, a free beer with actual flavor seemed like the most novel thing ever. And Saya beer is brewed on site by good people who know what they’re doing.
So what if the hostel showers were tepid and the beds were hard? I drank beer — REAL BEER — all night long. And in the morning, there was a free, all-you-can-eat pancake buffet waiting to sop up my hangover.
Backpacking is dirty business. Filthy, actually. One time in Bolivia I found a twig stuck to the back of my knee, and I had no idea how long it had been there. So when my friend and I saw an advertisement for Sol y Luna, it only took two little words to convince us to stray from our planned itinerary: Hot. Tub.
We traveled many, many hours out of our way. When we arrived, we discovered that the ecolodge had a very different idea of hot tub than what we imagined. It was a stone tub, situated outside in the garden. And it was filled by hand, one kettle of boiling water at a time.
But you know what? It was perfectly lovely. It would have been great anyway, but it was especially memorable since I hadn’t felt hot water on my skin in almost two months. The dirt floated away, the heat turned my bones into butter and I was clean for the first time in ages.
Amenities: Movies, chill room, floating bar, bioluminescent plankton, illicit activity.
Bodhi Villa almost feels like something I conjured up in a fever dream. There were beaches, crabs, rope swings and Billie Holiday. A sprawling bar opened into a river dock. The scenery was slightly too bright and sharp and unreal, like looking through the wrong lens at the optometrist’s office. At some point, a chubby Cambodian man named James Brown put me on the back of his yellow Vespa and drove me through acres of pepper plantations.
Days were drowsy and often spent in the “chill room,” but the nights exploded with raucous live music. A group of strangers became my closest friends in the world. We drank together. We sang loudly and off-tune. We jumped off the dock and marveled over the neon clouds of bioluminescent plankton that swirled around our limbs.
I was there for days? Weeks? Whatever it was, it was much longer than expected. One morning I woke up and realized I might end up at Bodhi forever if I didn’t get out. I immediately booked a bus bound for Ho Chi Minh City, about 10-12 hours away.
Before I departed, a new friend handed me a sandwich and a joint the size of a lipstick tube.
I politely declined, “Oh, thanks, but I don’t think I want to bring any drugs across borders today.”
“What? You got big plans for the bus?” he said. “Just take it and remember Bodhi … If you can.”
Almost every night, the owner of this hostel takes all his guests on a bike tour of beautiful Malacca.
It became one of my favorite memories of Malaysia. We carried bikes down skinny stairwells. The hostel owner strapped a radio to his handlebars and blasted Lady Gaga from the tinny speakers. And then we pedaled off into the night, through downtown, down ribbons of waterfront, all the way to a local restaurant that didn’t have a name or a real address. The excursion forged a camaraderie between all of us guests, and I saw things I wouldn’t have found otherwise.
I arrived in Seoul around midnight. I was too tired to travel an hour all the way into the city, so I booked a night at a guesthouse that is located close to the airport. Everything about this place was marvelous. The owner’s husband, Jackie, picked me up at the airport. My bed was ridiculously comfortable. The shower was hot and strong. The wifi was fast. The coffee was brewed first thing in the morning. There were games, DVDs, a Wii, even traditional Korean costumes for dressing up. And I am not exaggerating when I say this was the cleanest place I’ve ever stayed. It was SPOTLESS.
The hospitality went above and beyond what I expect at a hostel/guesthouse. The owner, Liz, and I had long conversations about our travels and our favorite places around the world. We exchanged e-mail addresses. They took my photo for the guest wall. And then Liz and Jackie practically had to kick me out.
“We can drop you off the train station …”
“Thanks. Maybe in an hour or so.”
After some time passed, they tried again.
“Don’t you want to get into the city …?”
“Uh, yeah. Maybe later.”
Finally, they said I should probably go unless I was going to stay for another night. It actually made me ache to leave. The place felt just like home — only a nicer, cleaner version of it.
A few days later, I received a follow-up e-mail from Liz. She wanted to see how my travels were going, make sure I was safe and see if I needed anything. “Yes!” I was tempted to respond. “I want to pack you up and and take you with me!”
