First: Make a list of things to do before you die. Realize that you are always inching toward death and still haven’t done a single thing on that list. This is the same thing your mom did; she put things off until it was too late.
Decide to do something about it.
Quit your job. Leave home. Book some flights.
Tell yourself, “If I make it to Ha Long Bay, this trip will be a success.”
Go to Peru. Go to Bolivia. Go to Argentina. Check some things off the list.
Meet a couple of Americans and drive around South Africa with them. Live in a village. Learn to carry buckets of water on your head. Go to Uganda. Ride across the country in a minibus with 24 people and a pregnant goat. Find work as a country-western DJ for the local radio station. Learn to harvest rice.
Go to Rwanda. Spend your days teaching English to genocide survivors. Cry. Teach them to play bingo. Laugh.
Fly to Egypt and immerse yourself in ruins. Find out your grandmother died. Find out your mom is dying, really dying. Fall down a tunnel of darkness. Hole up in a yoga camp on the Red Sea.
Go to your mother’s funeral. Wrap yourself in grief. Return to Egypt on the day a revolution begins. Feel yourself unraveling.
Take a boat to Jordan. Leave when protests begin. Go to Bahrain. Leave when protests begin. Get the nagging feeling that you are creating a trail of destruction around the world.
Go to Ethiopia, an extraordinary country, and plod your way through it. Feel like you’re something less than human.
Go to India, where something in your soul clicks. Love it. Embrace it. Drink in every hot day, every fragrant spice, every bit of eye-popping color. Move into an ashram. Pray.
Go to Thailand. Work with elephants. Meet a friend from home in Bangkok. Travel with her to Cambodia. Stay with more friends. Say goodbye.
Take a bus to Vietnam. Battle Saigon’s scooter-clogged streets and get a feel for the city. Slurp down bowls of noodles. Take a bus north. When the bus breaks down for 12 hours, sleep at a bus station. When the bus works again, it’s the hottest part of the day and the air-conditioning is now broken. Sweat. Make an unplanned stop in a beach town just because you desperately need a shower.
Take more buses. Take a train. Sleep in a dirty train car on soiled sheets. Arrive in Hanoi. Ride on the back of a motorcycle with a man even sweatier than you.
Schedule a boat tour. Pack up. Get picked up at 7 a.m.
Go to Ha Long Bay.
Wake up on a boat in a bay where everything is still. Everything is perfect.
Write that story.
Go to grad school to really dig into it.
Write that story again and again, edit it, excavate it. Work on it in scraps of time between your day job, when you stay up late, when you rise at 4 a.m. to have 20 quiet minutes before the baby wakes.
Sell it.
Have the perfect editor push you where you need it. He makes you laugh, he makes you cry, but most importantly, he makes you better. He reminds you to slow down where it hurts.
My focus word for 2017 was “abundance,” and I spent all year trying my darnedest to cultivate that.
And failing. I failed so hard, you guys. My failures were abundant.
Financially, it was one of my driest years since I started freelancing. There were long and seemingly endless spans of time where nothing was accepted or published, even though I wrote, pitched, queried, and followed up obsessively. At one point I read an article that advised writers to aim for 100 rejections per year, and I cackled like a mad woman in a Brontë novel — I was hitting about 100 rejections (or non-responses) per month.
It was depressing. It felt like I was trying to climb a mountain, and even though I was doing my part, I couldn’t quite get there. I researched the trail, I showed up in hiking boots, I carried all the right gear, I had the motivation and desire to put in the work. Then mere steps from the top, I toppled for whatever reason, forcing me to start all over again.
Just when I considered calling it quits, I attended the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop in magical Granada, Spain. It helped recharge my batteries on just about every level, from inspiring me to write new things and look at my work in a different way to satisfying my itchy feet and proving I can still travel solo.
Soon after, I placed some of my favorite pieces, like this essay for LitHub about Silent Book Club, a piece about wildflowers and making my own roots in the desert for Palm Springs Life (the online version is a little wonky with some repeated paragraphs, but you can see it here anyway), and a funny/sad essay about a rat for Mutha Magazine.
I also started hosting a radio show about books with Tod Goldberg. I received an acceptance from an outlet that has been on my byline bucket list for decades. I registered for the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop, because I want to find my way toward humor writing again. I read 51 books.
Other good things happened: A road trip to Vegas, a quick jaunt to Portland, a terrific visit with my sister. I reconnected with old friends and made some new ones. As a family, Jason, Everest, and I slept in a tipi under the stars in Pioneertown, hiked through a couple of Canada’s spectacular national parks, and explored Vancouver, now one of our favorite cities.
Also Everest turned 3, and he has grown into someone I genuinely love to hang out with. He’s funny and weird and makes me laugh until I wheeze. We have dance parties, take silly selfies, and haven’t found a trail yet that we don’t want to explore.
In November Everest and I hiked 30 miles together, and most of those were quiet morning jaunts, clambering over rocks, scraping up knees, and listening to birdsong. I cherish every one of those miles.
Now we’re ending on a high note. We just finished a family road trip that was just about as perfect as those things get. We started by seeing the Yayoi Kusama exhibit at The Broad in Los Angeles, and stayed the night in Solvang, a quirky Danish-themed town. Then we spent a few easy days at Morro Bay, listening to seals bark, running on the beach, and sipping hot cocoa as the sun sank.
Our last morning in Morro Bay is a memory that I hope lasts, as it seems to sum up the whole year for me. It’s Everest, barreling down the pastel beach, gathering sand dollars by the handful. He carries them to me, holds these urchins to his chest, makes careful piles of them. He tosses some into the ocean; the rest he tucks into the pockets of my old college sweatshirt.
This is abundance. My pockets hang heavy with sand and salt and shells, and my heart is so full it’s buoyant. I am sand dollar rich, and I have all the things that matter.
“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.
Travel is very important to The Husband and me. But so is saving money, especially now that we have a baby on the way.
So while we did want to indulge in a babymoon — our last getaway as a couple before our boy is born — we also wanted to keep enough cash in the bank to afford diapers when it was all over. We decided to ditch the traditional advice, since an all-inclusive in the Virgin Islands was simply not in our budget, and plan our own luxury-on-a-shoestring excursion.
Here are five easy questions we asked ourselves. Use them to plan a babymoon, or any kind of vacation, of your own.
1. What do you want to do?
Are you seeking action or something more leisurely? Want nightlife or nature? Sightseeing or sunset gazing? Determine the kind of vacation you’d like to have. Once you figure out your priorities, you can whittle down the destination options.
Even though The Husband and I typically enjoy more adventurous excursions, we desperately wanted to relax and recharge. We decided to look for a beautiful location where we could hike and take long walks, as well as a nice room where we could curl up together.
2. How will you get there?
Decide how you want to get where you’re going. Think about what will be the best for your budget AND the most hassle-free. We all know how to get a cheap flight, but if you have to drive a few hundred miles to catch a redeye or endure a 7-hour layover somewhere, is it still worth it?
While The Husband and I love to fly, we knew driving would be the easiest and most frugal way for us to travel. Depending on where you live, though, you might find some terrific air travel deals that are both time-saving and low-cost.
With the goal of a one-tank trip in mind, we looked at locations within a five-hour driving radius of our home. Our options included Las Vegas, coastal California, southern Arizona and northern Mexico. I’m not crazy about Vegas (I know, I know — I’m THE ONE person who doesn’t care what happens in Vegas or if it stays there), and we’ve already spent considerable time vacationing throughout California and Arizona.
We figured Mexico would give us a new locale to explore, and our money would go farther there. For instance, for the price of two nights at a beach hotel in California, we could afford four nights in Baja.
3. What time of year is your vacation?
This sounds so simple, but you’d be surprised how often it slips past when planning a getaway, and it can actually make or break your vacation. Ask yourself: What’s the weather like where you’re going? Do they have any festivals or major events happening when you’ll be there?
There are plenty of travel articles that will tell you vacationing off-season is a great way to stretch your budget, and that’s true. But really think about where you’re going, consider the potential risks and determine your comfort level, which is particularly important when you’re pregnant. Are you willing to brave Miami in the midst of hurricane season? Will you still enjoy Costa Rica if it rains every day? Will you be comfortable in the desert if it’s 120 degrees? It’s fine if your answer is yes; just arm yourself with this information in advance and plan accordingly.
Now look at what else will be happening in your destination while you’ll be there. To use an extreme example: Say you end up babymooning in Rio during the World Cup. Not only will you be battling crowds for tables at restaurants and places to stay, you’re also going to face severely inflated prices. You’ll probably still have a great time — but it might not be the getaway you originally envisioned.
In our case, The Husband and I were a little apprehensive about heading to Mexico during spring break. But since we decided to stay in a sleepy, seaside village and not anywhere with a Señor Frog’s, we didn’t have any issues with drunk fraternity brothers.
4. Where will you sleep?
Think about what kind of accommodations will make you most comfortable. Do you want to stay in a big hotel with a lot of amenities? Or are you looking for a boutique hotel with a lot of personality? Do you want a pool, a gym, a restaurant on site? Or are you looking for a totally unique experience, like a B&B? What’s important to you? I’m not much for room service, but I have some friends who consider it one of life’s greatest pleasures.
The Husband and I like to use Airbnb, an accommodations website with unique listings all over the world — anything from private rooms to entire houses. (Even clock towers and treehouses!)
For this vacation, we wanted an entire apartment to ourselves. It was also important that we have our own kitchen, because we both have special dietary needs, and we wanted to keep costs down by making some of our own meals. (We tend to cook two of our own meals a day, eat one nice meal out.)
What made this place special is that our host gave us the kind of personalized experience that you rarely find from a hotel, unless you’re paying top dollar. Cathy organized our Mexican car insurance for us in advance. She booked our massages with a trustworthy and experienced professional. She welcomed us with a tray of fresh-basked cookies. And she gave us invaluable advice on places to go, things to do and what to eat.
5. What else will make you feel comfortable?
This will be different for everyone and will depend on your situation.
I had two major concerns about leaving the country for my babymoon: Medical care and clean water.
Again, our Airbnb host was incredibly helpful. Cathy is an American who has been living in Mexico for 12 years, and she assured me of the quality doctors/hospitals located near her rental. She also offered to give me a list of physician names and phone numbers.
Her place does have filtered tap water (and all the restaurants nearby use filtered water too). That said, I’m very, very careful when it comes to water, so I purified it anyway. I use a SteriPen Adventurer Opti, which is my constant travel companion. It’s portable, it’s easy, and it works. And it’s saved me thousands of dollars over the years, because I never have to buy bottled water, no matter where I go in the world.
Here’s the final breakdown of our babymoon, which you can read more about here:
* The price of the suite rental came to $320. ($300 + cleaning fee).
* Our Mexican car insurance, required by law, was $40.
* Before we crossed the border, The Husband and I took out $200 from an ATM to pay for our food, massages, tolls and other assorted expenses — and we returned to the U.S. with $10 in our pockets.
So our grand total for five days was $550. (Plus one tank of gas, but I factor fuel into a different place in my budget.)
I’ve definitely traveled cheaper, but our priority here was comfort as well as a budget. We could have done without massages or some of our pricier meals, or we could have stayed at a smaller place off the beach. But we wouldn’t have quite as many beautiful memories — and those, of course, are priceless.
As I write this, my hair is sloppy with sweet almond oil from this morning’s massage, and my feet are caked with sand.
It’s day four of my babymoon, and I don’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed. My shoulders are no longer hunched. My spine is loose. I feel the thrum of a kicking baby in my gut.
What is a babymoon? It’s like a honeymoon but with a dumber name. It’s basically the last getaway as a couple before a baby arrives — which sounds slightly ominous but is actually pretty special.
Goodnight, sun. Hello, babymoon.
For The Husband and me, we’ve never had a vacation like this before. Our actual honeymoon was spent hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, unshowered, our muscles spent and sore. Then we explored the Amazon rainforest, slathered with DEET and stink.
So this babymoon — a road trip to Baja, Mexico — has been more of a traditional romantic getaway than anything we’ve ever had. No plans, no watches. The kind of lazy days where the question of “What should we do today?” is answered with “Let’s get tacos.”
Our time here has been unscheduled but busy. Mornings are for watching whales and waves. We read books and eat bagels on a patio that overlooks a wide swath of sea, and the early mist makes my hair frizzy.
Misty morning in La Mision. For some reason, this makes me croon the song “Memories.”
Afternoons are spent strolling the beach, finding patterns in the sand, unearthing pretty shells. The sun is hot on my shoulders, but the breeze is cool. We take naps and get tangled in the sheets. In the evenings, we sit on our patio and watch the sun sink into the ocean, our wine glasses filled with Trader Joe’s sparkling pomegranate juice. At last, when the sky goes navy, we sip peppermint tea under the white fairy lights that are woven into the wooden trellis.
After I took this photo, I pretended we were in the North by Northwest crop dusting scene.
We brought Lemon along, and her reactions to the beach have been a never-ending source of delight. She enjoys digging in the sand and sniffing out birds. But my favorite thing is how she becomes temporarily paralyzed whenever a cold wave hits her little legs. She is not a water dog, that’s for sure.
What do you call a blind and deaf dog on the beach? Nothing. She can’t hear you anyway.
The other day The Husband and I made an excursion to Ensenada, a city chock full of vice and rowdy cruise ship passengers, but there wasn’t much for us to do. We don’t like to shop. Horseback riding is out. I can’t drink and don’t need any cheap pharmaceuticals. And it’s hard to buy a lap dance when I no longer have a lap.
Next time, Bar Wetlips.
Instead we ate tacos. And then we walked on a beach. On our drive back to the B&B, we stopped at a fruit stand situated on a road shoulder in the canyons. We shared a cup full of fresh-sliced mango sprinkled with chili and lime, while a grubby white dog slept at my feet. Then I bought a coconut and slurped down all the water and meat. It was pretty perfect actually.
I love it here. They get me.
Here’s the update for the week:
Baby: Depending on the source, he is supposedly as long as an ear of corn, as big as a cantaloupe or the size of a large zucchini. Basically, he’s a whole Ohio produce stand.
Melon belly.
Food: I’ve probably been eating a little too adventurously. Every time I see my produce chopped with a rusty machete, I cringe and think, “Maybe I should ask for a clean machete.” But I can’t help but eat this way — I have a difficult time going to a boring restaurant when there are so many street vendors cooking up fresh, homemade goodness.
I also have this belief, based in no scientific evidence whatsoever, that chilies kill bad bacteria. So overall I’ve been feeling very confident about my food choices, as long as everything is topped with incredibly spicy salsa.
Body: My poor lower back has started to take notice of the new weight I’m carrying. I feel my spine curving just a little, compensating for the bundle on my hips.
Also this week my breasts started leaking. Not gushing, just a teensy dribble. But it was enough that I looked down and thought, “Huh. So this is why I have these things.” It is SO WEIRD! My body is navigating a brand-new landscape, and it doesn’t even need a map. It just knows what to do.
(By the way, I thought about not divulging this bit of information. But I have a male co-worker who tells everyone about his busted nipple, which is persistently erect, like a Raisinet glued to his chest — I know some of you have seen this — and so I figured all’s fair when it comes to nipple stories.)
Husband: At night when the baby is most active, The Husband likes to place his ear on my belly, resting on the slope of my stomach. This means we have a lot of conversations like this:
