I suck at relaxing. During my downtime, if I lounge outside or just read a book, my mind is saying, You should be working. You should be more productive. What about that essay you were working on? Should you apply for another job on Upwork? WHY ARE YOU WASTING VALUABLE TIME? Even when I think I’m calm, I’m not calm. My ex and I once played a relaxation game at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. To play the game you had to wear a crown that contained electrodes that read your brainwaves. Whoever had the calmest mind won. My ex and I sat at opposite ends of a long table that had a mini soccer field painted onto the surface. A ball in the middle of the table would roll towards whichever player had the most active brainwaves, and then the person with the calm mind would score a goal. My ex and I put on the crowns, turned on the game, and the ball bee-lined at me. I said I wasn’t ready and we should try again. Three times that bloody ball shot straight at me. Only once did it slightly falter, but then just careened right through the goal. My ex asked if I was super anxious. “I’m not!” I said. “I feel great. This is me calm.”
So when I came to Bali—practically Ground Zero for the Wellness and Relaxation movement––I told myself I should try to relax. Be on island time, right? And luckily my sister, Mary, a Bali local, has made it her personal mission to help me relax.
For our first stop on Georgia’s Road to Relaxation, Mary and I went to Lily’s Spa in Ubud. If Bali is the birthplace of wellness and mindfulness then Ubud is the epicenter. Thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, Ubud has exploded onto the scene as the place where everyone comes to find themselves, rejuvenate themselves, etc. etc. Yoga studios are more plentiful than Starbucks in the States and nearly every storefront has something to do with a spa, aromatherapy, reflexology, scalp massage, etc. with yoga studios, spas, and massage parlors. If you’re going to force relaxation upon yourself, Ubud is a good place to start.
Because Mary has lived in Bali for over a decade, I’ve been saying yes to anything she recommends. Following her lead, I chose the traditional Balinese Boreh treatment. The pamphlet described it as “a therapeutic blood circulation” massage for one hour followed by a boreh scrub and a flower bath. The spa was busy so the receptionist said we would have our massages together. I told Mary that the last time I got a couples massage was with my ex, and I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time. By the end of the hour long massage I was more tense than I had been at the beginning. My ex never offered to take me to another massage.
The massage room was in a bamboo lined structure behind the main spa building. The masseuse led me into a room with two massage tables and a large stone tub with a shower head. She gestured a sarong on the table and handed me small bag with rolled up cloth. She smiled and left, sliding the bamboo door shut.
The rolled up cloth was a pair of black, disposable knickers. I thought of a sexy, see-through diaper. I didn’t know if I was supposed to wear them or if they were optional. Did I need to keep my bra on? What about the shower? I was sweaty and grimy from walking around. At our first hotel in Ubud, I remembered hearing Mary say something about a shower and then a massage. Or was it the other way around?
I pulled back the bamboo door. The masseuse looked confused to see me again. “Am I showering and then putting these on?” I stretched the knickers in the air. The masseuse came inside the room. “Do I wear these and lay down?” I asked again. “Or shower first?”
“Yes to all three?”
“These,” she tugged at the knickers. “Wear and shower.”
Mary is fluent in Bahasa Indonesian so I’ve been relying on her to do a lot of the talking. I have a bad habit of responding in German (the only other language I know) whenever someone speaks to me in anything other than English. I’m also overly cautious about insulting someone because I can’t understand them. I smiled and nodded at the masseuse even though I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do. She left and I stripped down to my bra and knickers. I was just about to go full monty and jump in the stone tub when Mary walked in. I asked her about the shower. She looked at me like I was nuts, which I am because I am a person incapable of relaxing.
Finally unclothed and under our sarongs, Mary and I waited for the massages to begin. I pointed at a birthmark on my back. I asked my masseuse not too touch it because it’s incredibly painful with even the slightest amount of pressure.
One of my biggest fears during a massage is that I’ll start to smile from nervousness, but that the smile will be interpreted as being turned on and that’s just uncomfortable for everyone involved. Then, when trying not to smile so that I don’t look like a horndog, all I can think about is Monica Geller from Friends and how she moans sexually during massages. Then my mind turns to her whole “1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, a 2, 4, 6, 2, 4, 6, 4, 2, 2, 4, 7, 5, 7, 6, 7, 7, 7” bit. From that point on it’s all downhill and I’m bouncing off the table from laughter.
With this massage, however, even when Monica Geller did pop into my head I was able to maintain my composure. For once I was calm and relax without even trying! Which, that means I was actually relaxed, right? Because I wasn’t trying to relax? I laughed a bit when the masseuse had me turn onto my back and she pulled the sarong down to my pelvis. I’ve never been so exposed during past massages. She massaged underneath and between my breasts and all I could think was, Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, this isn’t awkward, this is natural, don’t think about Friends––oh but isn’t that 7, 7, 7 part funny? STOP THINKING ABOUT FRIENDS.
The boreh scrub is a mixture of herbs and spices meant to increase blood circulation. It felt like the masseuse was rubbing wet sand all over me, but when she brushed it off it was like she was peeling off my old skin (not in a Game of Thrones kind of way, but more of a I’m a brand new snake! kind of way). I have no idea if the scrub increased my blood circulation or what that even means, but if you want to try your own boreh scrub at home I recommend it:
4 teaspoons of sandalwood powder
2 teaspoons of clove finely grounded
2 teaspoons of ginger powder
1 teaspoon of cinnamon powder
1 teaspoon of coriander powder
2 teaspoons of rice powder or flour
1 teaspoon of nutmeg powder
1 teaspoon of mineral water or your favorite flower water
Combine all the ingredients together and pour in a bowl or glass container.
Gently massage this exfoliating scrub all over your body before you shower with a gentle body wash and rinse.
Repeat once or twice a month.
At the end of the massage the masseuse led me to another massage room, where a stone bathtub had been filled with warm water, the surface covered with floating marigolds and carnations (it’s actually a flower called patcha, but I can’t find out what that means in English, but they looked like carnations). I climbed into the tub and narrated the entire process to the masseuse: “So I just climb in this totally naked, yeah? Like, I can’t take the towel in with me? Do I wait until you’re gone––oh screw it. And now I’m getting in the tub. Oh this rim is very high. And now I’m stretching. Man this is attractive––oh my goddddddd I’m climbing into the tub, trying not to slip.” Once I was finally in the tub the masseuse set a cup of tea on the flower. She pointed at the shower head. “Flower then shower,” she said. She left the room.
I am here to tell everyone that we have been doing baths wrong this entire time. A giant bathtub full of warm water and flowers is the ONLY way people should shower. For the first time since I was ten I felt so relaxed. I mean, so chilled out that the fact that I didn’t know when the masseuse was coming back or when Mary would be done (because my cloths were still in our original room) didn’t bother me at all! I just floated in the water (because the tub was too long and deep for me to rest on the edges) and swirled the flowers with my hands and feet. It was AMAZING.
At this point I was feeling pretty confident about my chilling out capabilities. I’m in Bali! I’m traveling, which I love to do. I’m on an adventure. And, not to suddenly take this down a depressing path, I’ve lost a lot over the past fourteen months and I feel like I’ve gotten better at letting go/trying to appreciate life more. With all of these factors combined, maybe now I’ll finally be able to layback and relax!
Flash forward to the next day when Mary and I decided to be extra indulgent and get another massage. We went to a spa in Seminyak, where you could get a variety of massages: scalp, hands, feet, full body, etc. Mary signed up for a foot massage. Since I write and text a lot (oh hey there, Millennial) I went for hands.
Two masseuses took Mary and me to a dimly lit back room. There were about fifteen plushy lounge chairs, half of which were full of people getting foot or scalp massages. Two people were either sleeping or they were just that relaxed.
Right away my nerves shot up. There are other people around? I started laughing as the masseuse led me to my chair. He kicked the footstool out and moved the headrest back so that I was laying almost vertical. I stared at the chandelier on the ceiling. Don’t laugh, don’t think about Monica Geller. Don’t laugh, don’t think about Monica Geller. As soon as the masseuse grabbed my arm I realized my mistake with choosing a hand massage: with a foot massage he would just be staring at my feet, with a hand massage he would see my face and my giant-ass grin.
While my left arm was massaged, I drummed the fingers of my right hand. At some point I realized I was so tense that my back was arched out of the chair. I laughed when the masseuse pulled at my skin; not because it tickled but because I thought about how normally I don’t want a guy noticing whether or not my arms are flabby and here’s this man just pulling at me like I’m Gumby. He asked if it tickled. I lied and said yes. Then I had to laugh every time he pulled at my skin or else (in my diluted mind) he would know I was lying. A lady in a neighboring chair started snoring and that just made me laugh even more until I had to bite my lip.
Before he started working on my right arm I tried a new tactic to relax: I pulled out my cellphone, turned on my music, and listened to the dulcet sounds of Jason Derulo’s “Talk Dirty To Me.” It was better than Enya!
By the time Mary and I finished, she was blissed out and I was as rigged as a tree. Maybe Lily’s Spa was a fluke or maybe I have finally mastered the art of not laughing during a massage where the masseuse and I aren’t staring each other in the face. Personally, I’ve always thought I should be allowed to choose my own soothing massage music, and next time I will default to Mr. Derulo once again.
Next on the Road to (forced) Relaxation: scalp massage and foot massage. My god I hope I don’t accidentally kick some poor masseuse in the face.
*Recipe and directions from http://www.organic-beauty-recipes.com/balinese-boreh-scrub-recipe/
I’m just about to board my flight from Atlanta to Seoul and then Seoul to Bali. I don’t love flying even though I do it all the time, so the prospect of nearly 20 hours in the air is a bit daunting, but I don’t let it stop me. My plan is to be in Bali for a few weeks and then head to Bangkok, where I hope to find a teaching job. I’m a planner, and not having a definite plan has caused me one or two night terrors over the past week. I was supposed to be embarking upon this journey with my boyfriend, but the prospect of adventure scared him too much and he bailed. I’m nervous and excited to be doing this on my own (and I don’t know which emotion is stronger). All I know is that I can’t let nerves stop me, and I have to keep pushing myself to experience as much life as possible (given I survive these two flights…which I will! Right? Right.).
Thus far my resolve for this trip has already been tested. I left my debit card at O’Hare after I felt pressured to vacate my restaurant table for incoming patrons and I was creeped out by a guy sitting across from me, who wouldn’t stop staring at me. At a Bank of America in Atlanta I learned I cannot be issued a temporary card if I’m leaving the country and the best they could do was give me some cash, which was a longer than necessary process. At the airport I was tossed between Delta and Korean Airways (queueing at both counters) because neither airline thought I was flying with them. A minor rainstorm also soaked my luggage and I used some of my waiting time to dry out my clothing.
You know how they say the more mishaps a wedding has, the better the marriage? If the same is true for traveling then I’m about to have the time of my life!
So here we go, dear readers. Off to Asia and hopefully yet another place to call home! Let’s hope this blog is soon filled with some grand adventures.
I first traveled to Santa Fe in the summer of 2015. At that time, I thought everything in my life was perfect in a sappy Disney movie sort of way: I was dating my longterm boyfriend, Ross, I’d just been offered a full-ride assistantship at my graduate school, I had my friends, family, and I had hit some sort of magical writing groove where I was writing or revising daily. I had just spent part of the summer working for a hotel in Estes Park, CO. I left that seasonal position in July, picked up Ross at the Denver airport, and started on a week-long road trip from Estes Park to the coast of Georgia. During the seven-state journey Ross and I made a quick pitstop in Santa Fe. We walked around the plaza, went to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum (my namesake), and ate frito pie from a convenience store that Anthony Bourdain had raved about.
Flash forward two years and two months, and I arrived in Santa Fe again to attend a Travel Memoir workshop with the Santa Fe Photographic Workshops’s Writers Lab. My mum had told me about the workshop. She thought I’d find it useful. While I agreed I’d probably find the class interesting, my primary reason for this second trip to New Mexico’s capital wasn’t education, it was escape. In the time between my Santa Fe visits my father had died unexpectedly. Ten months later Ross dumped me equally as unexpectedly and his timing––the eve of my grad school graduation––had eradicated both the sense of accomplishment I felt in my MFA degree and my love for writing in general. Then, four days before flying to Santa Fe, Hurricane Irma blew over my hometown, and destroyed my car and nearly all of my possessions (furniture, books, clothing, etc.). When I landed at Santa Fe’s tiny airport, I felt like a facade of what I had been two years and two months previous. I didn’t care about writing anymore. I didn’t really care about anything anymore. I just wanted to go somewhere where I wouldn’t constantly be reminded of all the loss.
Obviously, traveling to a city I had visited with Ross wasn’t ideal for forgetting about him (and my dad and my car), but I planned to stay as busy and preoccupied as possible. On my first night I explored the historic downtown. I went from shop to shop and watched a mariachi band in the center square. I went to a funky boutique, The Dancing Sun, and talked with the shop owner about hurricanes Harvey and Irma, and the approaching Maria. As I rifled through a basket of colorful scarves I told her about losing my car and furnishings. When she insisted that I take a scarf for free I nearly teared up. I searched Yelp! for somewhere to have dinner and found El Callejon Taqueria and Grill. Although I’m an extrovert and I’ve traveled by myself, I’m not great at striking up conversations with strangers. Since El Callejon was the No. 1 recommendation in Santa Fe, I assumed it would be crowded enough that I could blend in with the crowd and not talk to anyone.
El Callejon Taqueria and Grill had a grand total of four patrons: a young, entwined couple, a girl eating chips and salsa in a back corner, and a drunk man at the bar. The bartender waved me over to the bar. I wanted to eat chips and salsa in a dark corner like the other girl, but how could I ignore the bartender? I took a seat two stools away from the drunk man and four stools away from the PDA couple.
“You would like something to drink?” the bartender asked. I nodded. He asked to see my ID. When he saw my age (29) he gasped. “This is your age?” he asked.
“I know,” I joked. “I look so young and youthful.” (I joked because most people assume I’m in my mid-thirties. I’m told it’s because I dress up a lot, but I think it’s because I’ve look like a librarian since I was 18.)
“Si,” he said. “You do look young. I would have said 21.”
I ordered a mango margarita and chile rellenos. I’m not a foodie or a food writer so I can’t do a just description of the meal, but, if states had a State Taste like they do with state birds, flowers, fruit, etc, then New Mexico’s taste would be a chile relleno from El Callejon. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen in my lungs, but the chile tasted like they had a full vine out back. It was the perfect amount of spice. I didn’t know Monterrey Jack cheese could taste fresh, and don’t even get me started on the flaky batter or the tomato sauce. While the bartender talked to me about how the restaurant was based off of his mother’s central Mexico cooking, I tried to not throw my face into the pepper.
The next day I still had a few hours to kill before checking into the workshop so I went to Meow Wolf, an interactive art installation. When my AirBnB host described it she said, “If you see a fridge, go in it. If you see a toilet, stick your head in it.” She didn’t say anything else.
If you listen to the podcast Welcome to Nightvale then Meow Wolf is sort of like Nightvale come to life. You start by walking into this seemingly normal Victorian home and you search for clues around the house as to why the family is no longer there. Your search takes you through all sorts of wild and crazy rooms (one of which you find by walking into the fridge). For some reason I was under the impression that the place was a haunted house and, since I’m a very jumpy person, I was on the lookout for something to jump out at me. I stepped through a porthole onto a couch that had melted into the floor a child jumped out at me. I screamed and flailed my arms. Then I learned that Meow Wolf is not a haunted house and that that was just a normal child. The whole place is like a mixture of Rivendale, Ferngully, a dream sequence from Rocko’s Modern Life, and an acid trip. Meow Wolfs will soon open up in other cities throughout the U.S., but each one will be different because it’ll be designed by local artists.
Images of Meow Wolf.
After Meow Wolf I checked into the Writers Lab workshop. I stayed on the Writers Lab campus, which is just south of the historic area. The campus is in the traditional adobe style that you see throughout Santa Fe and the building that I stayed in was originally built as a tuberculosis ward. (My overactive imagination was just a tad creeped out by this. When I turned on the shower one morning red water came out. My immediate thought was, Blood! I’m pretty sure it was rust though.) The TB ward was pretty unusual in that the doctors believed the cure for the disease was fresh, clean air, a beautiful, relaxed setting, and intellectual stimulation. The campus now shares its space with cloistered Carmelite nuns.
I won’t go into too much detail about the workshop except to say that it massively exceeded my expectations. The instructor, Rolf Potts (author of Vagabonding), was fantastic and my classmates were keen to write and work together, which gave the workshop a nice vibe. We chatted, we wrote, we went “flâneur-ing” (the act of idling solo through an area and taking everything in), and we buckled down and wrote our hearts out for a few days.
During the workshop I continued to explore Santa Fe. I walked into town with various classmates on the one to two mile stretch of road that is clearly not meant for pedestrians (side note: do people walk in Santa Fe outside of the plaza? I passed very few pedestrians whenever I was more than half a mile from the city center). We explored Canyon Road, the third largest concentration of art galleries outside of New York and Los Angeles (or Chicago depending on who you talked to). Two of my classmates––women who I thought were in their early forties, but were both pushing sixty––also commented that I looked twenty. Maybe the high altitude (7,500+ ft) adds a youthful glow?
By the end of the week, as I entered Santa Fe’s small airport again, (it’s so small that the airport cafe serves coffee out of a French press––a FRENCH PRESS) I felt like I had changed again. This is really cliche, but I felt renewed. My interest in writing had returned. I was still bummed about my car and my possessions, but I already wasn’t going to have all of that stuff while in Asia so was it really that awful? As I walked around Santa Fe, I thought of my dad a lot and wanted to call him to tell him about my trip, but that’s a desire that will never go away. I thought of Ross, too, but on my last night in the former TB ward I had the thought that had I still been with Ross I never would have gone to the Santa Fe workshop. Was it a life altering/career defining workshop? Probably not, but I enjoyed it, I learned a lot, and it furthered my dedication to an art form I hope to turn into a career. With Ross I wouldn’t have felt such a need for escape. Without him, I needed a break from my normal life and Santa Fe was the first opportunity to crop up. I’m not saying that I’m over the moon that Ross dumped me, but I am finally starting to see how my life will be more fulfilling without him.
Two years and two months ago my image of Santa Fe was a unique looking town with a lot of artists and yummy meals served in chip bags. My Santa Fe today is a magical city, where people give you free scarves to replace all the ones you lost, the desert mountain air makes sheds nearly a decade from your face, there are chile rellenos so delicious they’re worth marrying, and you return home feeling rejuvenated (or maybe that’s just because I can breathe at sea level again).
Just as a general note, I am awkward at introductions so please forgive this initial post. Stick around for future posts in which you can accurately judge whether my words are entertaining (which is all that I aspire to) or if you’d still rather play Candy Crush on your phone. Don’t worry, I won’t be too crushed (see what I did there?).
Hello and welcome to The Wandering Writer! I have been freelance writing for over ten years, writing for pleasure for twenty, and traveling since I was born (not hyperbole: I’m a military brat). I’m starting this blog because I am soon setting off for Southeast Asia and do not have any plans to head back to the States or settle down anytime soon. This blog will be full of my travel adventures, travel musings, and general tips and advice.
A little about this Southeast Asia trip/move:
I’m calling it a “trip/move” because, ideally, I would like to land a teaching job somewhere, but I do not currently have anything lined up. I’m also not 100% which Asian country I want to end up in. Perhaps I’ll just bop around for a bit and see what happens. I started planning this move three years ago, just before beginning graduate school. From the moment I was accepted into the graduate writing program I planned to get my degree and then move abroad.
My father passed away unexpectedly a week before I started my final year of graduate school. This loss is still something I am learning to live with (and I think you never stop learning). That first semester is kind of a blur to me, but somewhere in the fall months my boyfriend (of nearly seven years), Ross, and I decided to move to Vietnam. The plan was I would graduate in May, Ross and I would spend the summer on the coast of Georgia, where both of our families lived. I would help my mum put her house in order and Ross would finish his engineering job. We would move to Vietnam at the end of October.
Then: the eve before my graduation, completely out of the blue and over the phone, Ross dumped me. (He started by saying, “I’ve got some bad news,” but I think “devastating” or “rip-your-heart-out-and-light-it-on-fire-while-you’re-already-grieving” would have been better descriptors.) I could spend months and years wondering why he chose the night before my graduation (he called at 11:30 p.m.), but c’est la vie he never enjoyed traveling anyways so I think it’s safe to say I am better off without him. (He said he doesn’t care if he never steps foot in Africa or Asia. Why live such a boring life?)
Reeling from both of these losses—Ross and my dad—I decided to stick with my “moving to Asia” plans even if I was now going it solo. I spent the summer helping my mother get her house in order and stayed with her as she recovered from surgery. Then Hurricane Irma passed through and, like a kleptomaniac on speed, she took my car and nearly all of my possessions (furniture, clothing, books, kitchenware, etc.).
This is all to say that in the Fall of 2016 I planned to move to Vietnam for a year with my boyfriend. Now, in the Fall of 2017, balancing so much loss that it’s bordering on a tragicomedy, I’m going solo to who-knows-where, have only a general outline of a plan (flying to Bali in late October and then…), and I am pretty excited about it. I’d say “I couldn’t be happier,” but with the abruptness of a death and a break-up still weighing on me then mixed with losing everything to Irma…well check back with me in a month about where I fall on the Happiness Scale.
Why Asia? you might ask. Is it because it’s become the cliche travel destination of the millennial generation and, as a twentysomething, I am bound by my age to follow in the 50+ footsteps of my friends and acquaintances?
I was born in England and then lived in Cuba and Germany. I have been very fortunate to travel to multiple times to Europe, the Caribbean, and Central America. I want to go to Asia because I want to go somewhere completely different from where I’ve been before. It’s been a rough thirteen months. I’m ready for a drastic change.
So there you have it: the makings of The Wandering Writer. If you’ve read this far: thank you! I promise future posts will be more thought out, story-esque, and just all around better.
Let’s get ready to wander!
**Pictured above is the car that Irma destroyed: Odysseus (aka Odie, my love of ten years). He is pictured here on Georgia O’Keeffe’s Ghost Ranch in New Mexico—just one of his many adventures! RIP dear Odysseus.**