Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Month: October 2019

Travel Journal, 36

October 31, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Aedan and the Roots

Our bus pulled into the city of Ennis in County Clare, Ireland. The only other person to get off the bus was a talkative, late middle-aged lady holding her purse close to her chest. She was apparently the second cousin of the bus driver. After chatting with him for an hour during transit, she disembarked the bus and we made our way to the front. We exchanged pleasantries with the driver and soon found out that the purse lady was not the only talkative one on that bus.

Most of my conversations with Irish people had started the same way.

“Where are you from?” they would ask.

And every time, in all of my vast intelligence, I would respond, “the United States.” In case the point is in question, it is very apparent that I am from the United States, especially when I open my mouth. Further, the Irish have a deep affinity for the USA. And the feeling is mutual. During an extraordinarily dark time in Irish history, the American people welcomed Irish refugees and immigrants with open arms. Ireland had been devastated with a crop-killing blight, sending the island into the Great Hunger. Millions died, and help was nowhere to be found. The Irish flocked to the far reaches of the world, but mostly to the United States. But the relationship has been very reciprocal. Without the Irish population, the Civil War could have ended far differently. Our roots go deep into Irish culture, and millions of Irish in Ireland have family here. It’s nearly symbiotic.

Our conversation continues. Soon, we become friendly. Names are exchanged.

Aedan drives commuter bus all over the southern par of the island. He tells us of his family in the USA. He smiles with pride. And I can’t help but draw similarities between our two countries. All I can think of is how many people are doing the same thing right now in my own country—excitedly telling somebody of a long-lost family in Ireland.

Aedan tells of watching American TV in the 70s and how he had never had a milkshake until his first trip to America. He goes on and on and it’s refreshing. Aedan marvels at the beauty of the Grand Canyon. And I express my marvel at his Emerald Isle. Perhaps there’s a lesson there. But maybe not.

Our two countries have shared roots and connections that reach far deeper than this. But it is a beautiful thing when those roots occasionally spring to the surface.

 

anthony forrest 

Travel Journal, 35

October 24, 2019 / / 0 Comments

The Cliffs of Moher

There are times during our travel when we seek out the “unvisited.” This world is dotted with tourist attractions and traps that draw people from everywhere. And often, these places do not attract me. The last place I want to visit is a crowded beach, an overfilled museum, or a man-made tourist trap. I would much rather be the only American walking through a market in Tachileik, Myanmar; or maybe be invited into a local’s home for tea. But not every trip has to be hellbent on avoiding every popular location. Some spots you should just see, busy and iconic or not. In fact, some of the most amazing places on earth are indeed “touristy.”

The Pyramids in Cairo.

A sunset in the Caribbean.

Have you seen the stunning exhibits at the British Museum in London?

How about the leaning Tower of Pisa?

Or the Grand Canyon?

Try seeing any of these (and more) without the crowds or acres of fanny-pack wearing tourists. But missing out on the iconic places on earth is just that—missing out.

One such place is located in County Clare in the west of Ireland. Just south of the seaside city of Galway, runs a length of ocean-carved rock formations called the Cliffs of Moher. This location draws nearly a million visitors every year—and there’s a reason.

The raging sea hundreds of feet below slowly chip away at Ireland’s coast. At the top, strong cold winds create waves along the tall grass on rolling hills. The sheer majesty and the dramatic vertical plunging of cliffs evoke emotional overflow and speechless stillness.

 

Tall grass green

And short tufts too

Lay head

Sloping toward rough oceans

And not so blue

But grey and wild

A Wild Atlantic Way

Turning, curving

Rocky coast carving

Covered in ocean spray

 

Sudden stop

 

A drop

Without warning

Solid rock walls

Often trouble by storming

Stand as Garda

With enemies naught

Save wild waves

Who win (eventually)

All battles fought

 

anthony forrest

 

Pursuing Whimsy

October 21, 2019 / / 0 Comments
Random Concertina Player in Dublin

Sitting down in a classroom

I looked around at students hungry and young

Suddenly

All about us sat instruments

Of the musical tongue

 

There were oboes and flutes

And trumpets and violas

And every kind to suit

Every whimsy

 

With a stern look the teacher said, “Choose!”

“Which will be your musical muse?”

 

But all was silent

None said a word

Until the teacher eyed my smirk

And was clearly disturbed

“I choose,” said I,

“that lonely accordion there.

The one in the corner

Sitting without care.”

 

Laughter abounded

But still

I smiled

And thought of the organ-like tones

 

I lifted the box full of notes and air

And placed my hands on its side

The shiny red buttons (when pressed)

Would bare

All the music my soul could no longer hide

 

I squeezed my squeezebox

My dusty old bellows

And out came a beautiful sound

Music rose and rose

From that shaky old bellows

Music rose all around

 

Every student and even the teacher

Stood and began to dance

At the sound of my squeezebox

And shiny red buttons

No other instrument stood a chance

 

So my bellows sang out

And the classroom was a street

In the Old Country markets

And merchants sold silk and trinkets and meats

 

So I played my accordion in another time

Coins fell into my cup

A monkey sits on my shoulder

He dances too

So do all

Young and even older

 

As a parade goes by

My music plays on

And my bellows sing tunes

Low and high

 

Off hops the monkey

But now the monkey is a child

And he begs, “oh, just one more song.

Play another bellows song slow and mild.”

 

I play for the children at my feet

In my old age the accordion plays on

But the scene is fading and shrinks away

I can no longer remember the songs

 

The classroom is empty of the markets and children

And the teacher rambles on

Students make notes on boring subjects

I raise my hand only to cover a yawn

 

No one says a word

So I sit quietly without my bellows

Forever my accordion music

Will go

Unheard

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 34

October 17, 2019 / / 0 Comments
Train to Munich Airport

Can You Picture It?

A member of Minnesota royalty sang a very popular song in the 80s. The first line asks you to imagine a scenario. So, I’ll ask your permission to imagine something with me. If you, the reader, weren’t reading this, I would ask you to close your eyes. But in the meantime:

 “Dig, if you will, a picture…”

People begin to filter into the gate area. It’s an hour before the flight, and passengers are getting comfortable. A voice from overhead squawks instruction that I won’t be following since I don’t understand German at all. I settle in and begin with my routine people-watching. Throughout the world, and in every airport, it’s all the same. Travelers are pretty hard up to find anything uncommon in any airport, whether your flying out of Germany or Jakarta.

Small families wrangle upset children and fend them off with juice and stern looks. Couples snuggle and glance at boarding passes. Business men wander around talking to themselves or other (invisible) business men. The flight crew walks down the hall and up to the gate area. The pilot laughs with attendants and drops his leather jacket. And nearby, an abandoned passenger sleeps on the floor awaiting an unknown departure time.

Suddenly, an extraordinarily frail and presumably old woman shuffles into sight. She carries one small bag. She is a nun in a light blue habit. I’ve never seen such a quaint sight. And I’ve never seen a German nun in an airport. I turn away for a moment, but then am nudged by my wife.

“Look at that,” she whispers.

I look and see the nun reaching into her bag.

Can you picture it? An old German nun in an airport? What does she retrieve from her bag?

The Bible.

A rosary.

Her knitting.

A book.

Or, perhaps a handkerchief.

The uncommon is just that, uncommon. And rarely does anything actually surprise me about commercial airline travel. But it definitely made us chuckle when the old, frail nun reached into her bag and retrieved a bottle of beer. She cracked it and shakily lifted it to her lips.

I don’t think there could have been anything more uncommon for us to see that day than a frail, old nun enjoying a bottle of beer before a flight.

anthony forrest

Quality Time

October 14, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Surely, I would empty my purse for one more Morning like this! A sunrise with my Lord heals the soul in distress.

 

Again to sit on this porch my Father beside- I would muse, I would think, but mostly pray: “You are my loving Father, Lord and Friend- and I know you are here to stay”

 

Yet I know that this moment may only last a short while. So, “enjoy it I must”, to myself I demand. So together we sit, my Father and I cup of coffee in hand.

 

anthony forrest 

Travel Journal, 33

October 10, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Foreign Bathroom Series, Chapter 5: Dutch Hostel

Names have been modified to protect the innocent (also, embarrassed).

 

The restroom situation at a hostel is always a gamble. One friend of mine told me of a trip to Singapore involving a hostel with a mixed gender toilet and shower room. He was mortified. Then again, other countries and places offer great privacy and comfort. Think of it as toilet roulette.

I was traveling with a dear friend. Let’s call him JJ. We met up at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam to do a rapid-fire, two-day, whirlwind, nonstop, café to café, coffee tour of the area. In under 18 hours, we drank cappuccino after cappuccino in western Europe, covering 45 miles of the Netherlands. Our coffee excursion included the best cafes in the Netherlands, culminating in our seventh coffee bar in the hip college town of Utrecht. We drank and talked for hours, bouncing from hip spot to cobblestone street and onto the next slinger of the black juice of life. Until finally, our hearts could no longer handle anymore caffeine and our bladders howled with the strain of frequent emptying.

We had decided on a hostel for the night. And after some clumsy navigational errors, we stepped into a tight townhome with a classic youth hostel vibe. Guitars hung on the walls, collegiate hipsters lounged with oversized headphones, and the whole placed smelled of marijuana. We arranged to stay the night in one of the many bunk beds on the top floor. We climbed and climbed. With six (!) sets of spiral stairs now underneath us, I poked around and found our room. It was a sprawling empty area with no less than twenty bunks. Each bunk was the classic metal-frame bed with thin plastic mattresses, half of them permanently stained. It would have to do—although JJ was on the fence. With no bag lockers, we would have to take our bags with us to dinner—unless we wanted to graciously donate our belongings to a patchouli-smelling backpacker.

On our way out, we saw the bathroom. It was a single door labeled toilets and showers. Setting his bag on the floor, JJ said, “I’m just going to use the restroom quick.”

He pushed the door open.

“Oh,” he balked with a start, “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay! No worries,” said a clearly female voice from within the bathroom.

JJ closed the door, turned his beet-red face to me and said, “there’s a girl in there. And she’s not dressed.”

Group restroom. Group toilets. Group shower. Zero privacy. This is not uncommon in Europe.

That was the proverbial straw on the proverbial camel’s back. We collected a refund on our night and took the train back to Amsterdam. Hotels have nicer bathrooms anyway.

anthony forrest

Autumn Home

October 7, 2019 / / 0 Comments

My foot fell hushed upon a wood-ward path

Through tilting trees

Losing leaves

In the same manner as every year past

 

Blushing pale, Aspen yellow

Also maple red

From overhead

Fall into place on the wooded ground below

 

“What an uncommon sight,” I whisper

To no one but me

Or perhaps to the tree

Readying herself for winter

 

Such a peculiar fabric sewn

On a patchwork arbor

Full of color

In my woodland autumn home

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 32

October 3, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Borders

My first memory crossing an international border eludes me. As I understand the tale, my mother and father carried my baby self aboard a plane and into Canada. They tell me that during the plane ride I became, shall we say, violently explosive. I apparently went through most of my clothing during that one trip. Since then, I have crossed international borders dozens of times. The experience continues to be adventurous. However, I am proud to say that I have not had a similar gastrointestinal event—not yet anyway.

Crossing an international border is almost a religious rite. Whenever I step onto foreign soil, I stop for a moment and mentally mark the event.

I am here.

I am no longer where I was.

Right now, my life is different.

For the traveling visitor, differences in culture, time, food, and simple daily life clearly reveal themselves. In some lands, stores don’t open until almost noon. Some places don’t eat dinner until 10:00 p.m. Some people talk constantly, others never so. One group prays five times a day like clockwork. Another group goes to mass every morning. Some gestures are rude. Other gestures seem rude to us, but not to the people around us.

My wife and I walked into the small, sunlit cement room. Two border guards accompanied us to the desk of their superior. We were crossing from Myanmar into Thailand. (Some minor issue occurred during the crossing, but was easily resolve with our visit to the border guard. But this story is not about the problems, it’s about cultural differences.) Our guard escort handed his boss our passports and he began perusing them. He sat at a low desk with a low chair. He suddenly looked up and made a muffled comment. I leaned in to try and understand him. I eventually squatted down on my haunches, to his level. Immediately, everybody in the room rushed to me and earnestly implored me to stand up. Everybody was saying no, no, no and shaking their heads. One of the guards hurriedly presented us with chairs. We eventually cleared up the issue and were on our way.

I found out later that squatting down in that manner was offensive and eluded to a certain, shall we say, toileting motion. I’ve squatted down so often that it’s mindless and second nature.

Around a campfire.

Looking at books on the lowest shelf.

Talking to a toddler.

Every difference is clear. But the cultural differences that I rarely ever pick up on are my own. It is easy to think that everyone else is different. But thinking that I may be the different one catches me off guard. But we all have differences. Simply recognizing those differences and respecting the culture is the first step to softening those borders. For in finding our differences, we better know our similarities.  

 

anthony forrest

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