Identity Crisis on the MTA

    Riding the train from Queens to Manhattan is comparable to a time machine. Except maybe it's a context machine. I think I experienced a minor identity crisis as I shuttled from one stop to the next, the population shifting with each MTA station. Psychologists say that humans have a need to belong; it's why we join clubs, churches, and gangs. For better or for worse, I exhibit that need to "fit in". So when the train kept chugging along it didn't leave time to make a costume change. In Queens I was the overdressed, trendy girl in a sea of blue collar laborers. In Williamsburg I was the conservative girl next to the overdressed, trendy hipsters. And in Manhattan I was the blue collar girl in car full of conservative businessmen.
    Maybe it was a crisis, or maybe a simple lesson in self confidence. Regardless of the context, we are who we are. Our uniqueness as individuals is what makes us all the same.

Prelude: One day in Boston

 With another trip planned for this weekend, I figured today is the day to start blogging about the five cities I've been in the past three months! When I dreamt up this crazy adventure I knew it would rearrange my life to a certain extent, but I never could have guessed that in only a matter of weeks a new rhythm has taken over. For starters, in order to fund this year I made a few conscious changes to daily living, the most substantial being moving in with two roommates and opting for homemade coffee over the latte at the shop. In regards to running away, I assumed that spending so much time away from home would make me less present, but in fact, traveling so frequently has had quite the opposite effect! The curiosity I embrace on the road has melted into my everyday living, from the opportunities I say "yes" to, to the conversations I strike up with strangers. It's a wonderful report card to bring back after such a small amount of time! But before I get ahead of myself, let me rewind back to November.....
  An opportunity came up to spend Thanksgiving in Boston, and even though my original plan was to officially start my blog in the new year, I decided to make this trip as a trial run. And after my friend Anne gave me a heads up about the $15 Fung Wa bus to New York City, I added the Big Apple to my agenda.
  On Thanksgiving day I landed in Boston and immediately hopped on the train to my friend Mary's in order to start cooking for dinner. Having not lived in a city where the majority of people take public transportation, the subway system is something that never ceases to amaze me. And this day in particular the trains were full of people holding casserole dishes! I saw the same thing a few weeks later in Washington DC on Super Bowl Sunday. Such a little thing but it stands out in my mind and makes me giggle every time.

The plan was to celebrate with a few of Mary's neighbors and I was to bake the pumpkin bread. This turned out to be quite a situation as there was no pumpkin, only squash, and no proper bread pan. Yanina, Mary's friend from school, and I put our brains together and managed to pull it off with quite a few laughs. Michael, the neighbor, loaned us a pan he kept ice in from his freezer, and we found a muffin tin. What resulted was some sort of coriander, anise, and random spices from the cupboard squash bread that I will never be able to reproduce, but was exceptionally good.                                       

  We made our way over to Michael's condo,  which was freshly renovated after the place had been destroyed by a fish tank that caught fire. He cooked the most incredible turkey and his mother's          

apple pie recipe. I have to say, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and this one took the cake. I can't put words to it, but there was something unique about gathering with a group of people I'd never met to share a meal and say thanks, like communion in the truest sense of the word. 

   The next morning was an early rise to commute to South Station to catch the Fung Wa bus to Chinatown in New York City. While waiting for a my train to the bus station, a local on the way to work shared his umbrella as it had started to rain, and spoke to me about a recent trip up to ski in Vermont. This gave rise to two thoughts. One, in the future it would behoove me to carry better gear for the elements. Two, is there an intentional act I
do that will increase the chance of me interacting
with the neighborhood while on the road?  Like something as simple as bright red nail polish which has frequently engaged me in conversation with women everywhere? It was food for thought.        

    This trip taught me to ease up on my overzealous

need to hear everyone's story. When I boarded the 

bus I mistakenly assumed that I would be surrounded by Chinese Americans, which was how it was ten years ago when my friend rode. Instead the bus was filled with hipsters and the man who sat next to me spoke on his phone the entire four hour drive.....in Spanish. So I took the opportunity to rest, enjoy my one holiday tradition of listening to Handel's Messiah in it's entirety, and wait for the Manhattan skyline to rise in front of me.

                   

  

Abandon

 Abandon. It's the word I have heard repeated to me as I speak to friends about this journey on which I embark. Of course, I couldn't really say what "abandon" means, so I had to hunt down my dictionary. What I didn't know is that abandon is both a noun and a verb. And the definition I was looking for was the noun. "A thorough yielding to natural impulses. Enthusiasm. Exuberance." My eyes skimmed down a bit to see that "abandoned" is defined as: wholly free from restraint. I like these two definitions. When I have considered the idea of reckless abandon in the past, I have never really been able to see farther than the reckless part. Reckless abandon seemed more idealistic than realistic. But looking at it as a noun is a completely new story. Abandon in character, not abandon of responsibility. 
 I have decided to start saying "yes" to my life. At the age of 30, I am utterly shackled down with expectations, mostly my own. I've repeatedly said "no" to much of my life, using "better judgement" as an excuse for my decision. But looking backward, I can see now that what I deemed "better judgement" was really fear. Fear of everything we all fear. Losing control, rejection, loneliness, fill in the blank. But I should like to live with abandon, to be free from restraint. And that is what I am motivated by as I begin a decisive adventure next year. 
 So far I have tallied fifteen cities I would like to see. How did I narrow my list? Every city holds a friend, and what is travel without people? Whenever I return and remember my journey, the part that always stands out is the people I encounter, old friends and new. I guess what interests me more than the cities themselves is who lives there. What is a day in the life of a New Yorker, a Californian, or a Seattlite? Will I walk away taking some of their lifestyle to integrate with mine?
 My writing is rusty and blogging is something that is new to me. The past month I have done a lot of thinking about the logistics of Runaway Marie. Thankfully, I came to one conclusion about the format I will be using. While recently sitting at a diner in New York City, I was eating an excellent hamburger thinking that I would like to share the experience on my blog. But the technology was too cumbersome, and I felt that if I was constantly updating a blog I might miss what I actually came to see. It's like walking around with a camera photographing an entire day, but never stopping to be present within the scenery.
 Instead of figuring out a way to share the tastiness of Heavenly Burger online, I picked up my Steinbeck book and enjoyed my dinner. I decided right there that I will be writing a couple of weeks after I visit each city, letting my experiences percolate and produce what they will. After all, a blog is not Twitter or Facebook.  


 "Go to the Ufizzi in Florence, the Louvre in Paris, and you are so crushed with the numbers, once the might of greatness, that you go away distressed, with a feeling like constipation. And then when you are alone and remembering, the canvases sort themselves out; some are eliminated by your taste or your limitations, but others stand up clear and clean. Then you can go back to look at one thing untroubled by the shouts of the multitude." 
John Steinbeck - Travels with Charley

Beginnings.....

"This is your harvest, the beginnings of sympathy and understanding of people. But it is only the beginning, Lesson One in the book, and all the other chapters are to follow. And in spite of myself, I felt a stirring of curiosity and eagerness to turn the page and see what lay in Chapter Two. In that instant, my grip began to relax." Adele Crockett Robertson - The Orchard

My name is Marie. Like all people do at one point or another, I have managed to find myself in a position where my slate is wiped clean. The precursor to beginnings is endings. And those "endings" are irrelevant, excepting that they put me where I am today. In search of new vision, saddlebags packed with lessons, I am setting out to experience the world where I reside.
On a recent trip to Los Angeles, I met a new friend whose story sparked again in me the want for wonder. That thing that's so easy to lose as the bills stack higher, and the systems roll over us. His story is simple. He was living the "American Dream", but flushed it down the toilet and chose desire. The hungry life of an artist. His reasoning was that he did not want to turn around in his sunset years and wonder "what if?" Brave.
Admittedly, I live a charmed life. The career I have chosen makes me incredibly happy, it's not something I'd like to give up. However, challenged by the risk my friend was willing to take, I started to wonder if there was something deep inside me that I buried. Some wild dream, the things I spoke of as a kid, when everything in the world was possible.
The answer was immediate. I've always said even in my darkest times, the only thing I've ever wanted to do is travel the world. And though I manage to get on an airplane a fair amount, my passport is rotting away in my desk, never used except for the original trip I acquired it for. Ten years ago.
Once I heard a woman say, "There is a difference between running and running away." I used to agree, but today I'm not so sure. Whether the motivation to leave our current position is running or running away, it seems that the fruit is the same. The joy of travel is that it always changes us, it shakes up what is normal. It is impossible for me to return home and look at my world with the same eyes. Travel is confrontational for my heart. It backs me into a corner and forces me to decide where I'm content or discontent, and then to act.
And sometimes "change" is as simple as moving one seat over from my usual spot at the table. It's the same room, but it looks different. It ushers "wonder" back in.
This blog is about running away. It's about tasting the world instead of trying to "figure it out". The places I go, the people I encounter, and the experiences I have in those places change me.
On the airplane home from Los Angeles, I popped my headphones into the Delta radio station. And as I processed those four days in my journey a beautiful song started to play, it was called "Runaway".