I don’t speak German, I can’t even fake it as I (probably inaccurately) believe that I can with Spanish, French, Italian, and Portuguese. I can’t mimic the accent or say anything beyond “thank you.” My dear friend Philip might laugh at any attempt I made to speak his first language but luckily, I’ve never had to attempt to do so in his presence. But I find some languages have words that we don’t in English, that sum up feelings perfectly. Wanderlust for example, or in this case Fernweh. This German word sums up the joy, heartache, longing, and wistfulness of the last year.
Fernweh means an ache to get away and travel to a distant place, a feeling even stronger than wanderlust. It literally translates to “distance-sickness.” Those who fear travel or enjoy the predictability of going to the same place year-after-year will never feel this word in their bones. There is nothing wrong with that; but for those who long to travel, see, experience, and do; you get it. For three years, I did not travel, and I am making up for the abundance or back log of fernweh. I knew I missed travel; I just didn’t know how much until, with each trip this year, I found a bit of me.
This year I traveled again, both foreign and domestic, and had truly unique and special experiences with each destination and group of people I was with or met along the way. I recently returned and couldn’t shake the sensation of planning and control versus adventure and spontaneity. I wanted wonder back. I think I got it.
St. Martin in the Caribbean
I cried as the plane took off from Cleveland Hopkins airport. While in the hospital and acute rehab facility my mother asked if we should cancel the celebration trip to St. Martin’s she had so expertly planned. I unequivocally said, “no.”
So as the plane raced towards takeoff, I cried. I was so overwhelmed with the fact that I was on a plane again, going somewhere new, somewhere unknown, somewhere not a hospital, not within driving distance, and not my living room.
I was simultaneously consumed by the past, the present, and the future. I was living a moment I couldn’t fathom weeks prior, paralyzed and in pain in a hospital bed. Tears streaked my glasses and ran into my mask, and I was scared and excited and feeling faint tinglings of “me-ness”. A whisper of my truest self, telling me to pay attention. Conquering my fear of COVID, of disability, and traveling in a different way was imperative to my mental health. I had to get to the place of being “ok” with my otherness, the assistance needed to get around (really really hard for a solo traveler who has traipsed around the globe) and come face-to-face with my limitations.
I learned that the airport is pretty darn easy and wheelchair assistance makes it possible. I learned that the ocean and water remain integral to my health, happiness and healing. And most of all, I learned that I can do hard things. The trip was not without its trials, but we adjusted and made memories.
Cancun
I traveled by myself for the first time in three years and the first time claiming my disability and limitations. The trip to St. Martin with family and friends gave me the courage and the will to figure out how to do it on my own and to believe I could.
Only insane people go to Cancun, Mexico in July, especially when you have a chronic illness exacerbated by heat, but my dear friend whom I had not seen in over a decade was crossing the international date line from Australia to be there; the least I could do was cross one time zone.
Jen and I met working at FEMA. To this day, Jen remains the most incredible co-worker, friend, and confidante. Despite living across the globe, we use all methods available to stay in touch and I think do a pretty darn good job at it. The all-inclusive selected was a hot mess to say the least, but we laughed at the Dirty Dancing-esque programing, Americanized Mexican food, and stifling heat. Jen, and their friend Danger, who goes by “Dange” (I am not making this up) made a dream come true. Dange carried me and my broken, wobbly, less-than-reliable legs, into and out of the ocean. I was safe, cared for, and was able to swim in the ocean. A previously easy and relished experience turned insurmountable task rife with danger and uncertainty.
I sent a photo of Dange carrying me into the ocean to my family on our What’s App chain stating, “A lovely Australian man named Danger carried me into and out of the ocean.” The beauty of my family, or the odd circumstances I seem to frequently encounter, is that no one was phased. There were zero follow up questions from anyone in my family. Someone else might inquire “Who is Danger?” or “How did you meet Danger?” or “Is he single?” My family collectively thought, “That tracks. No follow up questions.”
I sobbed into Dange’s shoulder as he carried my less-than-cooperative body into and out of the ocean. I gulped in air as I sobbed into my new friend’s neck stating, “I’m sorry. I’m overwhelmed.” I was crying for the body that used to work, for the effort it took to be back in the ocean, and for the joyful release of tasting salt water again whilst being pummeled by waves. Jen videotaped the entire process. We emerged from the water; me still crying. The three of us promptly went to the bar.
I learned the profound kindness of strangers. I relearned and reinforced my love and friendship for the extraordinary person that Jen is. I learned I could rent scooters, advocate for myself, hire car service transfers, and travel to and from Mexico alone.
The island of Guernsey
Well obviously, this is the most magical place on earth, and you can read about my feelings in detail in my previous post. The thing is, months later, I still can’t get this small island out of my head, my heart, or my soul. I tell everyone, in tedium, that they should go now if not sooner. My mother and I have already discussed going back. I can’t think of many places that have that power over me.
London
London is always a good idea. I went to school in London, and I’ve been back countless times over the years, booked last-minute trips on a whim, and visited friends from around the world, meeting in this iconic and mesmerizing city. I love London. I’ve walked every street, seen theatre, gone to clubs, drank pints, and danced in the streets. It’s perfect to me and always will be.
When my mother and I were planning our sojourn to Guernsey, we both agreed we had to go into Central London for a few days to see theatre. I researched boutique hotels, and we booked tickets to two amazing shows. It was interesting being in a walking city that I have without exaggeration, walked every street of and now experiencing it from my limited mobility.
London, put simply, does disability services better. Our theatre tickets were cheaper (unlike in America where you are charged more), the websites have better information (like number of steps and specified contacts for assistance), and the staff was trained to assist and make sure I was cared for and respected. We enjoyed a delicious pub lunch, a wonderful West End dinner, two phenomenal shows, and one run-in with a gallant Game of Thrones actor who walked me to the theatre. It was perfection.
I learned there is joy in experiencing a city in a different way. As much as I wish I could walk freely, unaided, I can’t. And that absolutely, unequivocally, did not detract from our time there.
Hilton Head, South Carolina
To say I love the two women in this photo is the understatement of the century. Months ago, my friend Melissa called and said, “I want you to come to my 40th birthday celebration.” When you’re struggling with who you are and feeling like a burden; to be asked and included is the greatest gift. To these women, I was no different, I am no different. I’m just me. What a precious gift.
Hell yes, I would be there.
Once decided my friend Natalie called and said, “I will come to you, we will do this together. Whatever you need.”
How do you thank someone for inclusion and safety? I’ve talked about traveling with “safe” people and I still don’t have a better adjective. The six of us together were a fabulous group coming together to celebrate Melissa on her milestone birthday. We went to dinners, road boats, had the largest rental car I’ve ever seen that I 100% needed a boost to get into, laughed, cried, and explored.
Alone in the Hilton Head airport, my suitcase was mistakenly taken by another passenger upon arrival. Much to the dismay of the Delta employee providing wheelchair assistance, I called the owner of the switched bag, sorted it out personally and promptly, and waited for them to return. My new acquaintance apologized for the suitcase mistake, offered me a ride to my hotel, and a new friendship was made. The unexpected things that can happen while traveling, specifically when traveling alone, will never cease to amaze me and make me smile.
Who would have thought having my suitcase accidentally taken would make me feel alive, and more like me?
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
In 2009, I moved from Los Angeles to Chicago and had acquired tickets to the symphony. I invited three friends from disparate walks of life to come together. We had so much fun, we wanted to host a dinner party, take turns, cook together. Natalie coined it “Chicks & Chow,” and a tradition was born. Over the next 14 years, we’ve seen members come and go, tried recipes, failed miserably, changed jobs, got married, divorced, had children, and moved away from our beloved Chicago lives. Through it all these three women have been cornerstones of my life, born witness to my triumphs and my struggles. Through it all, we reconnect around and over food. We eat, drink, talk, and laugh. Their friendship is a balm for my frazzled nerves.
Twelve years ago, Natalie hosted the first Chicks & Chow Thanksgiving. Last year, following transplant, all three women flew to me, took over my kitchen and made the meal. We resumed our tradition in Wisconsin this year and celebrated with an iconic photoshoot at JC Penney.
I learned that Natalie has the longest staircase to her second floor, and I was able to do it. I learned that my friends adjust and know how to help me without asking. I reinforced that there is no greater healing modality than laughter and being known and seen by those around me.
Also, female friendships are as necessary to me as breathing.
Connecticut
I keep people, plain and simple. More than 20 years ago at college as I pursued my undergraduate theatre degree, I met two professional actors who changed my life and became lifelong friends — Andy and Carolyn.
They both quickly became friends, confidantes, and mentors. I marveled at their acting prowess and formed a real and special attachment despite our nearly 30-year age difference. Over the last two decades, we kept in touch with the occasional email or text message. A little less than 15 years ago I was in New York city and ventured to meet up with them in New Jersey. This year, I received a well-timed text from Andy asking how I was recovering from the transplant and inquiring if I would like to visit them in Connecticut. I didn’t pause or hesitate and texted, “Yes.” More than 15 years had passed but I knew it would be a seamless and wonderful reunion.
Theatre people are my people. Both now retired, still we share a language, a movement, a lifestyle. We can reminisce about the crazy parties, questionable professional actor housing, mutual acquaintances, and the ups and downs of life. We emote on sound, laugh loudly, sigh heavily, and venture into and out of various accents without rhyme or reason. We effortlessly spout plays, musicals, lines, and Shakespeare sonnets the way some recite Taylor Swift lyrics.
I am unsure if we properly took a breath all weekend long. We never ran out of stories to share, memories to relive, and life updates to give. The love, safety, and encouragement I received was priceless. Carolyn, watching me walk through her home said, “Do you know how beautiful your walk is?” Never had I imagined my walk would bear that adjective — perpetually thinking of all I lost and highlighting and fixating on my deficiencies. With one comment, she reframed how I saw myself. Andy remarked on my perseverance and tenacity. Words others had said to me, but from him, they landed. Damn it, I got there. I did it. I can do hard things. And every damn hard thing I do is worth the struggle. Because the struggle will always pale in comparison to the life I get to live.
They helped me see how little had changed in 20 years. Their love, fuel for my healing.
I stared into the fire in the kitchen of their 1820s farmhouse, sitting in an antique rocker, with my Kindle and a cup of tea, and marveled at the past year. I consider myself a creative person and yet how small, insignificant, and unimaginative I was at the beginning of this year, drowning in despair.
The joy and happiness of this year is immeasurable.
Each bout of fernweh led me back to me. Each place, disparate and diverse, reinforced a resolve and sense of adventure.
Travel will always make me feel at home.
My Chronic Library 