Moravian Wine in Moravia! (Or, “How The Danube Saved Me, Part ONE”)

When I left Prague, I didn’t know where I was going. I had just spent one week existing in love, Nescafe, and thin-mattress passion, and my lover had left for Spain.  God knows where my guidebook was, and my map got rained on. (It’s these rare moments when traveling without hostel reservations and friends that I question my motives and overall intelligence).   I wanted to go to Cesky Krumlov, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same without Aleks, that I would be trying to recreate something from the past.  I would see ghosts of Us everywhere.  I packed up anyways, restless legs guiding me forward, and I hit the streets.  I somehow remembered my way to Praha Hlavni Nadrazi , the main train station, and felt more at ease when trickles of American English, French, Russian, German and Spanish began to flood the airwaves.

I stood in line for train tickets, still not knowing where to go.  I kept telling myself that my heart would guide me, that the destination would reveal itself.  The line kept getting shorter and the pressure to make a decision kept building, until…shit.  “Ahoj, Brno, today please.”

“OK, I guess I’m going to Brno” I said aloud.   This decision could not be more spontaneous.  I said it simply because it was the first city to come to mind, and the only train that would arrive at its destination before dark.

I adore train stations in big cities.  There are few better pastimes than nibbling yesterday’s baguette, finding a marble nook to cozy up in, and committing to watch anyone and everyone that goes by.   

When it was time to board, I plowed my way to the front of the line like everyone else was, and managed a window seat.  Huzzah, suckers!  I collapsed into the seat and smiled at the rain that was just beginning to fall.  Oh yeah, this was good. 4 hours became 5 minutes as I fell asleep.  I was in Brno before I knew it.

I heaved my pack back on and followed the crowd into the street. Everyone knew where they were going but me!  No other travelers seemed to be around, no one to ask at which hostel they were planning to stay.  No taxis.  No signs in English.   2 hours before dark.   Hm.  

But wait!  What’s that?!  A cart? Selling wine?  Sold in recycled plastic bottles?  From Moravia?  And everyone around me has a few!  Strapped to their bikes, stuffed into their sacks, sipping straight from the 2L bottle!  Oh my god.  And there’s live music too, somewhere in the distance!  I had found myself in the goddamned middle of a Moravian wine party. God is good.  

Ok, but I had to find somewhere to sleep.   I didn’t care where.   The first place, anyplace!  I had to try 4 different hotels, because apparently hostels were closed for the season.   One of those, I walked in on a “men only” sort of hotel…whoops.  But, a German gentleman who must have noticed how confused and desperate I was (it was now dark), called the 5th hotel attempt for me, and made my reservation over the phone.  Mine was literally the last room available — why, everyone had come for the wine party!  It was the first time in a while that I’d spent over $10 for a bed while traveling… $110 to be exact… but well worth it.  Besides, I was hardly spending money on anything on this trip, thanks to generous friends and years of solid networking skills.  I had a perfect shower, fresh Egyptian cotton sheets, a TV with BBC (this was when I first learned of the Occupy Wall Street movement), and a plush bathrobe.  The concierge told me all about the wine and how everyone was gathering in town to have the first sip of the last harvest.  “It is not even very good wine, tastes like sour grapes, but we are still excited about it!”     I was about to savor Moravian wine on the 13th century streets of Moravia, and I was at home.

Relieved with knowing I had a bed and shower, I wandered back to the street fair.  There were folk games, grape juice for the kids, and warm pastries and meats hugging the otherwise crisp air.  Everyone was Czech, and so I reveled in my aloneness.  I became a fly on the wall and just watched.  Thankful, laughing, grinning.  This is the life I have chosen.  This is the path that I am on.  Spinning in endless circles while staying still.    A moment where everything is simply okay. 

And it was that night that I fully dedicated myself to a career of food and drink, for they are the two things that bring everyone together.  Whatever problems we have, it all comes back to the table.  Occupy Wall Street was kicking off, and energy worldwide was narrowing focus to community and solidarity.  There is nothing that holds so much passion, grace, emotion, stability, or contagious peace, than a homemade meal and selectively chosen wine.  No matter how alone I have ever been, a piece of bread or a glass of wine can always break the ice and illicit feelings of comfort and home.  The way I see it, I have no choice but to work in restaurants, it’s what I’m supposed to do.  And still do.  And will continue to do for quite some time.

When I was handing payment for my second plastic glass of wine, the salesman gently grabbed my wrist.  His tree root fingers examined my train tattoos, smiled at me, and denied payment.  “Dekuji”.   I briefly joined in a circle of drunken dancing, and ended up dancing with the German man (that made my hotel reservation for me), and his Czech mistress.  They walked me to my hotel, and bid adieu.

The next morning was rainy and cold.   The streets were quiet, everyone sleeping in late from the night before.  I slowly emerged from my perfect bed and took a perfect hot shower.  I turned on the BBC for more news about Occupy Wall Street; my friends were on the TV, holding cardboard signs and getting threatened by police.  I questioned if I would ever get back to St. Louis, routed through JFK. I prayed for everyone’s safety and decided to clear my head with a walk.     As fog lifted off the streets, a beautiful cathedral emerged, and I decided to follow the line of people walking to service.   Legs restless, I opted out of a Czech church service and decided to wander the bell tower instead.  The old stairs creaked and squeaked, and I couldn’t help but imagine myself dressed in 14th century clothing, when the structure was built.  Everything was so mobile yet so still. And as I sat in the highest point in Brno and looked out across the terra cotta roofs and street markets starting to come alive, it hit me: Budapest.    I had to go to Budapest.   Only a few hours away. and 10 more days to spend in Europe!   Budapest called me.   And by early afternoon, I was packed up and seated on a train to Hungary.

This Flat is Bumpy (is monogamy really possible?)

A couple years ago, I saw the Czech Republic through the awkward-colored-glasses that I wear on Greenpeace trips.  I allowed activism to chew me up and allowed the Beauty of a large-scale forest occupation to swallow me down.  But, I saw it in this whirlwind of confusion and excitement and passion! I saw snippets of Prague that I adored, made a couple of truly great friends, and knew I’d visit again so that I could actually experience it on my own terms.

So, in October, I called my good friend Aleks to see when he’d be around Prague (his home).  I booked my ticket, told the cafe I was going away for a couple weeks, and off I went!  Don’t you love it when life actually happens like that??  And as I continue to grow up (if that’s what they call it these days), there’s pressure to seize these opportunities since they’re fewer and further between.   

I have a bajillion stories from this trip.  For three weeks, I explored every crevice of Prague, and got lost in a couple other Czech cities.  My heart was bear-hugged by Budapest and I cried when a violinist played on the Danube.  But, for now I’ll write about Aleks. 

Aleks and I met at the Greenpeace occupation a couple years ago, getting to know each other under the careful watch of Czech military police and electrifying campfires.  With a touch of his hand or kiss on my cheek,  he’d instantly make my knobby bruised knees so weak!  On our non-Greenpeace-occupied days, he took me to corners of his country I would have never found on my own. He has a featherlike gentleness about him that is especially endearing.  Thanks to the photo vortexes of Facebook and international texting price packages, we kept up on each other’s lives and continued to long for each other’s presence for two solid years.

So naturally, when I arrived in Prague in October, it was completely surreal falling into Aleks’ arms at the airport!  Two years became two minutes as we picked up right where we left off.   He whisked me away to his apartment (he deemed it a “flat”, since he learned English from a Londoner).   Aleks’ simple apartment was the perfect reflection of his essence that I so love.  High ceilings and cold floors, one big window that looks out onto one big tree.  Nothing on the walls but an empty bulletin board, and small carved initials of his current Czech girlfriend.  She knew I was coming into town.  I knew they were madly in Forever Love.  Everyone knew that Aleks and I needed to be with each other for a while, and that it didn’t matter since I would be hopping on a plane back to Missouri.

This story isn’t about the city we toured, the espresso-fueled conversations, or the wine-drenched sex.  But it’s about the connection I had with him during all of those things.  It’s the fact that even through a language barrier, we can still easily communicate — beyond words. It’s the fact that when I woke up one morning, I opened my eyes to Aleks looking straight into them, making my pupils smile from the inside out! And I realized at that moment, that it was that feeling that caused me to get on an 8-hour plane ride. When we travel, we search for something real, something we want to see to truly believe, we want to touch the untouched and climb higher.  We want proof that certain emotions and human sensations can exist — more so, we  want proof that we’re human.  For me, I travel when I feel my daily life is lacking something, whether it be adventure, adrenaline, romance, or crazy people.     This time, I had plenty of crazies and plenty of adrenaline, but my life in Missouri was otherwise romance-less, and my manipulative alcoholic partner couldn’t care less.  Just like the last time I was there, I didn’t go to Prague to see Prague; this time, I went to Prague to get lost in those abyssal looks from Aleks, and it was a damned good excuse to go somewhere far away as soon as possible.  

Now, after a couple days, Alexs had a film shoot to go work on in Spain, and invited me along.  Sure, I have always wanted to eat tapas in Barcelona and go see a bullfight, but I didn’t want those damned featherlight touches from Aleks to distract me from the glory of Spain.  He offered his apartment to me while he was away and I immediately accepted!  Now that I had my Aleks dose, I felt like a new woman!  So please! Go to Spain and have fun!  It’s time for Chelsea to be Chelsea!  Time to embrace Prague and go hunt down strange foods and old synagogues and delightful espressos.  I was so conflicted!  So thankful for every second spent with him, yet so thankful that he had to go to Spain!  I had the keys to a free private apartment in the center of Prague for an entire week.   SWEET.

So if things are really that good with someone in St. Louis — Aleks good — when does one of us run off and  bid sudden adieu? I keep waiting for the goodbye and it hasn’t happened yet.   My guard is so high because I’m meeting people I can go traveling with and come home to.  And when all we’re hunting for is human experience, my wanderlust lifestyle makes monogamy incredibly hard to believe in.      And it made me think , “if I lived in Prague, would I be as close with Aleks?” Maybe not.  Last night I got ridiculously drunk on whiskey and vodka, in search of that excitement my life is temporarily lacking, and I certainly found it… but it wasn’t without its repercussions.  I intruded on someone else’s otherwise devoted relationship, because I forget that monogamy matters.    The beauty of traveling is that we can justify running away from people and circumstances and mistakes.  I.E. “oops, train leaves in 6 hours, gotta go!” And for the first time in my life, I’m about to be very stationary with a new job and the lifestyle it dictates.  Weird.  And it frightens me.

So when can I pack my bags for Prague again?

Leather Jacket Love

In 2007, my involvement with Greenpeace took me to Amsterdam, where its international headquarters are located.  I had a “free day” on that trip, with no plans, no meetings, no office tours, so I hopped a train to Leiden.

I had no idea why I went to Leiden.  I knew nothing about Leiden, except that my university in St. Louis had a sister campus there, and I had just enough spare Euro for the ticket.  I asked a darling old woman sitting next to me on the train where I should go, and her knobby snakeskin hands directed me to the botanical gardens on a map.  So, off I went to the Leiden Botanical Garden.

I wandered down paths, I sniffed the flowers that seemed worthy of sniffing, I watched as artists created their renditions of yet another floral still life.  Somewhat bored, I began to wish I was in Amsterdam getting stoned with my friends and trying to stay alive on the death-streets of bicycle doom. On my way out, I popped my head into a tiny aviary.  While I was looking for the descriptive label of the tiny bird I was studying, a voice surprised me over my shoulder, “what is this bird?”

“Um… I don’t know… I was actually wondering the same thing”
“It is a wonder?”
“No, I was wondering…nevermind, do you speak English?”
“Yes!  English I a-speak! And you? You are from America, Yes!”
I grinned.  He was adorable. “Yes, I am.  Are you Italian?”
“Nonono, I am a-Greek!  My mother is from Italy, so many say I appear to be Italy, no?”

He was much too charming to ignore!   His name was Spiros, from Athens.  Spiros donned a meticulously- styled Fonzie hair-do (complete with aviator shades on top), that complemented his worn-in leather jacket (complete with popped collar) . After a few polite exchanges, he invited me for a coffee, and we walked to a canal, discussing the differences between Italians and Greeks–something he was apparently passionate about.

Spiros and I enjoyed the lingering remainder of the afternoon together.  I skipped the train back to Amsterdam and hopped on the back of his motorbike instead.   For a couple hours, I grabbed on tight, as we sped past street markets and historic bridges and windmills.  There is no sensation comparable to the plethora of smells that flood one’s nose on a motorcycle.  And I don’t normally enjoy cigarette smoke, but the scent of Spiros’ leather jacket saturated with smoke wrapped my face in its comfort as we sped through fruit orchards and alongside canals. I felt outright giddy, life was so good.

Once we arrived back in Amsterdam, we said goodbye, exchanged numbers and e-mails, and departed our separate ways.  I promised I’d call him if I were ever in Greece.

—-Flash forward 18 months later!—-

I’m in Greece.   I’ve just decided to officially retire from the world of professional costume designing, and have glorious plans to spend my savings account (and then some) on a 3-week retreat in the land of theatre’s origin;  if anything was going to cosmically force me to return to costume design, I figured Greece would be it.   Ever since that day in Leiden, Spiros and I have remained adamant pen-pals, and we have arrangements for him to pick me up at the airport.

And there he was.  Pack on my back, giddy grin slapped on my face, and Spiros’ leather jacket wrapping my face in musky cigarette smoke all over again. We toured Athens a bit, caught up, and consistently emphasized the fact that I was actually on his motorbike in his hometown.   I met his friends atop the Parthenon, smoked the only two cigarettes I’ve ever smoked in my entire life, and had my first introduction to ouzo.  Greece was so good.

I stayed with Spiros in Athens for three days, until I moved on to other parts of the country.  The first couple days, I took comfort in his friendship.  His excitement to finally show me his coveted record collection was delightful.  He bought me a beautiful necklace of fossilized shells and beads.  His mother insisted on cooking an enormous meal for us every night, and so I lethargically climbed  into bed drunk on heavy food.

But when three days had quickly come and gone, Spiros got upset with me.  He insisted on showing me Kythnos and Crete over the next three weeks.   He insisted with the tone of a deliberate foot stomp that I should let him show me everything and that I shouldn’t follow crowds of tourists.  He told me that I didn’t know anything about Greece and that it was stupid to try and “explore”.  He adamantly ordered me to stay in Athens! I was shocked.  Spiros?   Really?  My good friend, reunited overseas? Maybe we didn’t know each other so well, after all.

It was getting late.  Instead of taking the train out of Athens to my next destination, I canceled my hostel reservation and agreed to stay until the next morning.  We went to a club, but didn’t really speak to each other.  For whatever reason, we were holding a grudge, and I didn’t even really know why.  Bored by the incessant techno thump of dancing drunk women in miniskirts, my sober self took a bus to Spiros’ house and promptly fell asleep on his couch.  When I woke up to my alarm at 7am, his cigarette-drenched leather jacket was acting as my blanket, carefully tucked around me. He was nowhere to be seen.  I left a drawing for him on the couch.  I must have tried calling him 15 times before leaving on my train, but no answer.   I was left dumbfounded for two more days, until I received a text from him, “Dear Chelsea, I am sorry we fighted.  I do not want to leave you bad feelings.  My best friend moved to Rome the day before your arrival, I feel all my friends are leave me.   I hope you have a wonderful stay in Greece.”

And that’s it.  No more Spiros.  Never another word from him, nor to him.  I left it at that.  Maybe I should have texted back, or perhaps called or written, but for an unexplainable reason, I felt it was best to remember Spiros in a positive light of motorbikes and homemade food than a negative one of trying to counsel his personal life. Maybe that makes me a bad friend.  Or maybe it proves that relationships manifested within the realms of travel are held to superior standards of perfection and fantasy, as opposed to relationships formed in “the real world”. I wish I understood.

Perhaps I’ll meet up with Spiros again someday.  I know I would like to return to Greece; Is it so crazy to believe that we will run into each other again, without any planning?  Is it so crazy to believe that the universe isn’t done with us yet?  I like to think so. Faith is a funny thing.   
I like to think that my Athenian experience with Spiros is a perfect metaphor for all relationships; sometimes it is better to walk away and trust your instinct’s decision to move your feet, than to try and make amends to something that obviously won’t last. The end result of those three days with Spiros was, for me,  a lesson in grace. Sometimes Fate takes us as far away from home as possible to teach us lessons applicable to our daily life.  Sometimes there is no better perspective than from thousands of miles away.

Just Another Moment in Time

I want to remember this moment.

Today was the first day of absolutely perfect 78-degree weather in St. Louis, MO, with occasional gentle breezes and bountiful sun.  After a miserably sticky summer, where residents claim they can “swim through the air” or “drink the humidity with a straw”, today is a blessing. And as the saturday of Labor Day weekend, it marks the official end of summer and the welcoming of autumn.  Students have started classes again, jenky window a/c units have been laid to rest, and a few leafs have begun to gently kiss the ground as they fall.

I suppose I’ve experienced many Labor Day weekends (twenty-two to be exact) but never one like this.  This 3-day weekend marks not only the beginning of autumn, but the beginning of an entirely new path in my life!  I’ve recently moved out of my partner’s spacious house in the suburbs into a humble 1-bedroom city apartment.  After a somewhat rocky transition and a tumultuous summer, I finally feel at complete peace. I feel at peace with my Self,  my employment, with family and friends, plans for the future, and with my environment.

The environment is what’s defining this currently magical moment.  See, my apartment is adjacent to two huge parks, right in the middle of the city: Tower Grove Park and the Missouri Botanical Garden.  Because of this, my neighborhood is simply drenched in green!  Beautifully oxygenated, branchy, and squirrel-y trees shelter every sidewalk,  alley, and building.  I have a pocket-sized 4’ x 5’ wooden deck which hangs off the back of the kitchen.  Because I’m two stories up, it’s easy to imagine I’m actually sitting in the surrounding trees and not the patio chair. That’s what I’m doing now.

There is a gorgeous orange glow that highlights everything I can see from this wee little perch, and it’s quickly surrendering to the sounds of Japanese drums and country music.  Huh?  Oh, right, I should mention there’s a Japanese festival happening in the Botanical Garden down the road; tonight there’s a drumming performance.  Though I’d like to lie to you, Japanese drums are not a regular thing around here.  Anyways, that’s what’s helping with this moment: the random drums!  My two kitties are perched in the kitchen window attentively watching the squirrels, and I’m thankful for their company.  I’m drinking a cup of 9-hour-old coffee out of a favorite mug, improved with plentiful ice cubes and a rainbow-colored straw. There’s a cookout happening a couple doors down, thus the recently mentioned country music.  And I don’t care that I’m vegan; there is an outrageously salivating and undeniable effect that the smell of grilled hot dogs and Heinz ketchup creates within any American’s veins!

I’m wearing my favorite worn-thin hoodie, and Nag Champa incense surprisingly blends well with the scent of hot dogs.  Laughter ensues from a kid’s birthday party in the opposite direction of the cookout.  As I type, the sun is brushing its teeth for bed, and crickets are starting to remind the world of just how powerful their orchestra is.  The drums seem to be getting louder, but maybe that’s because the streets are getting quieter. I’ve had my last slurp of coffee and the country music’s been turned off.

I guess it’s time for me to go inside. But I’m glad I wrote this down, because truly, I never want to forget this moment.

Playing Backgammon in Handcuffs

“Hey, wanna go to the Czech Republic?”
“Um…sure!”
“Ok cool, let’s go ahead and book your flights, and you’ll get more details once you arrive in DC.”

So there I went.  Off to Washington DC, and then on a flight to Prague with a mission to save the world, all in a matter of days. Why?  Because I’m an activist with Greenpeace, where we climb trees and rappel down buildings with the undying quest to non-violently defend Mother Earth and demand what is right for Her survival.  🙂

I was going to spend the next two weeks camping in an established activist occupation in the middle of the Czech forest.  Greenpeace had organized and facilitated the camp for the past month, and I couldn’t wait to get out there and help.  The purpose was to stop the United States from constructing a dangerous and destructive missile radar site, in the middle of a beautiful rural area and vibrant villages older than Shakespeare. Greenpeace Europe desired a couple American activists present at the camp, to further enforce their message that American citizens opposed the missile radar as well as Europeans.   By maintaining and occupying the potential construction zone — and absolutely refusing to leave under any circumstance — we were demanding that the radar site plans be abolished. It was gaining international media attention, and the issues at stake were a heated debate topic throughout Europe.

After gathering our necessary equipment and rations, the newest batch of enthusiastic activists from all over the world briefly exchanged greetings, and ventured deep into the forest.

And by “deep into the forest”, I also mean “into the middle of foreign military training grounds”. Yep.  Exactly.

So there we were.   My American partner-in-crime was a young guy about my age, Simran, with similar levels of activism experience.  We essentially met on the plane from DC to Prague, and two days later, were setting up a tent (among many other tents) in the middle of Czech military grounds.  We were given scenario briefings, and taught several methods of emergency protocols–most of which included some sort of military raid.

… Really?

But somehow, the entire situation seemed completely safe and welcoming!  The occupation camp had built a kitchen, composting toilets, fire rings, hammock and sitting areas, and well-established trails throughout the surrounding forest.  There were well-constructed platforms high in the trees, which served as active occupation and Eagles Nest watch-posts, about 40 feet from the ground.  The camp even had a system for running water and chore schedules.  Everyone was generally in a consistent good mood!  Everyone was from different countries around the world, with endless stories and infinite discussion.  Residents of surrounding areas would donate an abundance of Czech soul food throughout the day, and almost every night was ended with a good campfire surrounded by laughter and smiles, crackling under  a most brilliant starry sky.  What could go wrong?

Maybe a week went by after Sim and I arrived, until we were truly reminded of where we were and what exactly we were doing.  Over a few days’ time, threats of a military raid escalated, and more Czech soldiers were visiting the camp every day.  A couple activists were arrested for silly things, such as not carrying their government ID with them.  The soldiers found our running water hookup and immediately ceased its operation, and we were forced to crawl across the forest–in camouflage and hiding behind every tree–in teams to fetch water, and slog it back to camp in terribly heavy containers.  Activists were leaving one by one to return home, away from the increasingly threatening occupation.  At this point, I was always sleeping with one eye open, with shoes readily tied onto my feet.

One morning, everyone was doing their chores, brushing their teeth, finishing their breakfast, when all of a sudden, Sim and I hear the screaming cry of our new Czech friends.   “GO UP THE TREEEEEEEE!!!! CHELSEA!!!! SIMRAN!!!!! GO UP THE TREEEE!!!! NOWWWW!!!!!!”

We switched into overdrive.  This was it.  No time to look back and see what was going on.   Emergency protocol was in action.  The camp was being raided once and for all by Czech soldiers, and the only way to continue claiming our sacred space — our home — was to climb a tree, settle into a platform, and lock our arms with handcuffs around its middle. After all, we didn’t travel all the way from Washington, DC just to surrender and be dragged off the property.  We had a plan.

A couple activists sprinted like hell and were able to avoid being arrested.  The others willingly surrendered, for ease of process and avoidance of violent confrontations.  While all of this was going on, Sim and I were throwing on our climbing gear and heading for the tree platforms.  We ran up our pre-fixed ropes, lowered the tarp around us, locked my left arm to his right arm around the tree, and waited quietly for the soldiers’ arrivals.

We waited.   And then we waited some more.  After waiting even a little more, Sim and I were getting rather bored.  It seemed the soldiers had driven off, everyone at base camp had been arrested, and we (the only two Americans there) were the only activists left.  We had a couple snacks, some water, and a radio to keep in contact with Greenpeace offices in Prague.  We were told to sit tight, and to not come down from the tree until soldiers demanded it.  So, there we waited and sat, handcuffed to a tree, in the middle of a forest, with the closest humans seemingly being foreign soldiers. Ever have one of those, “How the SHIT did I get myself into this situation?” moments?  Yeah, I was definitely experiencing one of those moments.

Thankfully, Sim and I had some spare time a few days before, and created a makeshift Backgammon board, drawn onto a cardboard scrap, and complete with carved twig playing pieces.   When we hustled up that tree running for our lives, we remembered the essentials: necessary climbing gear, food, water, and our Backgammon game. Well, thank God.   So while we waited for these soldiers to show up and escort us out of the forest with everyone else, we unlocked ourselves from the tree, and enjoyed a quite pleasant round of Backgammon.  That is, until the sirens came and surprised the hell out of us!

We immediately locked ourselves back up, and I stuffed a Backgammon piece into my pocket.  There were a couple military vehicles directly below us, and probably ten soldiers.  These soldiers were quite more intimidating than the first batch we saw.  The soldiers below us were wearing black balaclavas and camouflage from head-to-toe, and equipped with weapons I’d never seen outside of a movie screen.  One of them started yelling at us continually in Czech, and we continually told him we couldn’t understand him. None of the soldiers spoke fluent English and they were forced to hunt down a translator, which meant that Sim and I had to keep waiting in suspense and utter confusion.  We had no idea what approach they would use to get us down: cut the tree, cut our ropes, or just keep yelling a lot in a ridiculous-sounding language until we are so annoyed we surrender?  It didn’t help that we couldn’t see their faces under those intimidating balaclavas.

Eventually, the head soldier dude returned with his translator friend, and we effectively communicated who we were, why we were there, and that our intentions were to refuse coming down until the Star Wars plans were scrapped and Brdy was protected.  So, the scary masked men had to toss a rope up to our platform, muscle up its length, and untie and cut all of our gear and ropes.  They lowered us down one-by-one and loaded us into a van.  We didn’t know where we were going, how long it could take, or know if phones even existed in Czech jails. No media was around to document the process, and the only camera we had was a small and worthless point-and-shoot (which was hard to operate when harnessed and handcuffed).  The utilitarian military vehicle had four soldiers watching us attentively, and the one sitting next to me was doing a poor job at stifling his innate drive to bop his head to the pop music on the radio.

When we arrived to the jail, we saw a couple other fellow activists, and were able to laugh about some of our recent experiences.  Sim and I were absolutely convinced we would be deported, and Greenpeace offices back in DC were preparing accordingly. There was a translator at the jail, but we were unsure if we could trust his interpretations of the paper work, and found a second translator to support everything the first one was saying.  Signing foreign documents after being arrested by military is never a settling task, to say the least.

After hours of interrogations and paperwork followed by hours of boredom in the waiting room, Sim and I were shocked to hear the final orders.  We absolutely could not believe our ears.  The police let us entirely off the hook!  No jokes, no gimmicks, no punishment in the least.  Apparently, dealing with our foreign passports and arranging a deportation was too complicated a task and deemed unnecessary!  We were driven off site, and dropped into the middle of a street, unwashed, covered in mud and dirt and grass stains,  with nowhere to go but the nearest pub.

Na Zdravi!  Cheers!  Needless to say, I drank my first entire pint of beer that night.  🙂

The rest of our stay was quite pleasant in that country.  Granted, I wandered around Prague for three days in a mini-skirt and hiking boots, since the rest of our clothing was temporarily confiscated for inspection, but I dealt.  I felt a little GI Jane, a little renegade funk, I deserved to wear a mini-skirt and hiking boots!  Our new friends from the Greenpeace Czech offices offered to take us around , and we always had a safe place to stay at night.  And upon boarding our flight back to the USofA, a familiar thought entered my mind.  It’s the same thought that always floods my brain-space when returning from an overseas expedition for Greenpeace, the same question that never goes away. The question, “Did that really just happen?  Am I dreaming?  When the hell do I wake up?”

I have one thing that keeps this experience alive and true, reminding me it was not “just a dream”.    I still have that handmade backgammon piece.

Why I’m Nearly BALD!

***perfect for humid St. Louis summers***

NO HAIR PRODUCTS

When my hair grows out, it is huge, frizzy, curly, tangled and bouncy mess.  There are days I absolutely adore my natural curls, but there are other days where they drive me insane!  In the midst of midwestern summers, I must condition heavily and shampoo vigorously, only to spritz, spray, and scrunch just perfectly once it’s dry.  When I have a shaved head, life becomes much easier! I enter the shower, give my body and head a quick lather, leave the shower, and towel off.  My morning routine is impossibly simple. Once a week, I have to give my head a quick ten-minute buzz with the electric razor, but that’s it.   Why would I ever want to return to my hot, heavy, sweaty, frizzy, mop atop my beautiful head?

GIRLY FUN

I love curly hair, but I really love fun earrings.  And unless those poofy curls are pulled back completely, it’s fairly difficult to show off my jewelry collection.  So, without hair, I can show the world whatever earrings I wish!  Plus, my neck appears elongated and more elegant, which in turn corrects my posture all day.  The bigger the earring, the better.

Having no hair truly draws dramatic attention to my eyes.  So, I take advantage of this, and play with eye make-up just a little more than before I shaved my head.  Especially when I go out or dress-up, I add glitter and color and vivacious mascara that I would have never applied before!

Once in a blue moon, I wear a ridiculous wig.  Just for fun.  Why not, right? It’s just awkward when it falls off in the parking lot…not that it’s happened before… I swear…

SCALP MASSAGES

For whatever reason, everyone wants to touch a shaved head.  It’s something I’ll never understand.  Pregnant women must endure a similar paradox, of everyone wanting to press their grubby palm atop their bellies. I strongly dislike when strangers assume they have the right to rub my head, and say something stupid like, “ohhhhh cooooooool!!!!”  Ugh.  But, if anyone asks politely, I’ll almost always grant permission, and of course, you may rub my head and give me a mini scalp massage.  It feels fantastic. Sometimes I miss my long hair, and the creative ways I could decorate it for special occasions, but it feels even better when he rubs his hand vigorously across my scalp!  Weird, but true.

Additionally, you know those wire-y finger-like head massager thingies from Sharper Image and Sky Mall?  Well, I keep one where I practice yoga in the house, and often use it to give myself a little head rub while meditating.  It is especially effective when activating my Kundalini.

NO MORE EXPENSIVE HAIRCUTS

With a shaved head, I never have to visit a hair salon again! I cut my hair myself, in my own home.   If, per chance, I’m traveling and have forgotten my electric razor, the quick trim is no more than $10.  One day I want to walk into a traditional barber shop and ask for a “good, close shave”, just to witness their reaction…hm.

EXERCISE IS MORE ENJOYABLE

No, really.  Please listen to me.  Ladies, if you want an easier, simpler, more aerodynamic workout, shave your head! Lumpy ponytails will no longer get in the way of headstands during yoga.  A long run in the heat of summer will literally be a breeze, and your sweat will immediately evaporate off the top of your head.  Bangs will no longer fall in your face every five minutes.  Last but not least, your lap swim is much more comfortable without a clingy plastic cap (that usually fails to keep your hair dry anyways).

THE INEVITABLE TOPIC OF CANCER

When I shaved my head this time around, I did so not only for myself, but with a family member in mind.  She was about to endure chemotherapy for breast cancer and somewhat tentative of losing her hair.  After laughing about the entire situation at a bar one night, I declared to her, “If you do, I do!”  And so I did, as did she.  She has currently  kicked cancer’s ass, and is living her life vibrantly and enthusiastically.

While I did this as part of a solidarity act with chemo patients everywhere, I also want to enforce the fact that I also did this for vanity and ego, like any woman does with any hairstyle!  I have had strangers ask me “did you donate your hair to Locks of Love?”  and “is your hairstyle for someone who has cancer?”  First of all, no.  Second of all, maybe, but why is it acceptable to inquire of something so personal?  Why does our society automatically assume that a woman shaving her head is somehow linked to cancer?!?!  Yet if a man shaves his head, we think nothing of it. This double-standard drives me absolutely insane.  But what slays me is the fact that on two separate occasions within the first week of shaving my head (coincidentally at the same grocery store), a total stranger has asked me about my battle with cancer.  The first one asked me while I was collecting blueberries in my basket,
“I hear blueberries are full of antioxidants, that’s good for your healing”
To which I replied, confused, “Umm… Healing?”
“Yes, I’m assuming you’re going through chemo…”
“Because of my haircut?”
“yes…”
“well, I’m not.  I just really love blueberries.  I shave my head because I think I look good with no hair, and it feels great in this heat.  I hope you go home and feel embarassed, and know that I’ll tell this story to tons of people.  But it’s cool, no worries.” I grinned a ridiculously toothy smile inches from his face, as he scoffed and turned away.  Was I bitchy and rude?  Yes.  Will he ever make this mistake again?  Probably not.

The other incident occurred in the check-out line.  The young lady behind me asked “if I was okay”.  I said yes, and asked why.  She looked at my hair, then my stunned face, then my hair, then my stunned face, and finally replied, “oh… I thought you might have had cancer…” I only said “nope!  Just freakin’ love having short hair.  You should try it!”  By this point, we had shuffled along in line long enough to be in front of the cashier, who complemented me on how nice my hair looked.  I smiled, said thank you, and turned towards the lady behind me and smiled.  Sometimes I’m just so surprised at what strangers have the audacity to ask!

ACTIVISM

Shaving my head is a continuous form of feminist activism.  For as long as we can remember, women have been defined by their up-dos, down-dos, curls, crimps, color, part, and length of their stylish hair.  Yet for some reason, I feel extraordinarily feminine without any hair at all.  Maybe it’s because I feel that “the real me” has more of a chance to shine without my curly-cues covering half my face.  Perhaps it’s because my neck has a chance to brag about its length and slenderness, and the intimate space behind my ears is now exposed.  Or maybe, because I don an “alternative” hairstyle than many women abhor, I am paying homage to the flapper days of the 1920s; women became liberated as they chopped their hair shorter than ever before and threw off their suffocating corsets for the first time in history.   I feel sexy, feminine and beautiful because I feel exposed, real, and true.

Many people ask me why I shave my head, to which I normally respond “because I want to!”, and I realize that this is a form of activism in itself.  I am regularly promoting the idea and lifestyle of decorating oneself however they deem fit, and however they feel best expresses their individuality.  Pretty cool, no?

I work at a popular restaurant, as both a hostess and waitress.  Realizing that shaving my head might be unacceptable, I asked permission of a manager, and she saw no reason why it wouldn’t be alright. The next day, when I walked in without hair, the restaurant owner told me I could no longer be a hostess.   He essentially told me that our restaurant was located in a “conservative part of town” and that my look was not one he desired to be greeting his guests.  When I pointed out that several male employees donned the same haircut, we began to negotiate.  I tried wearing headbands, but that looked even more ridiculous!  I looked like an infant wearing a crown of ruffles!  However immediately, during both my hosting and serving shifts, customers began complementing me left and right on my haircut.  Many women customers tell me I have done something they “could never do”, with a few exceptions that have literally gone home inspired and returned the next week with ..uh…significantly shorter hair!!!  Since shaving my head, I’ve had several date requests by handsome men, and endless complements on my “look” –more than I ever had with hair.  By defying the status quo and being continually outspoken about our intentions and beliefs, the result can be truly mesmerizing and positive.  We can literally change the minds of others, and make them look at certain aspects of society with new light.  I realize that in larger coastal cities, populations are somewhat immune to anything deemed “strange” or “different” like a shaved head, but here in middle America, we have a lot of work to do, and are normally about 1-2 years behind the major culinary, music, and fashion trends of pop culture.

The more women that shave their head in the name of vanity and ego, the better!  I firmly believe that a revolution of women shaving their heads is the next level of feminist liberation.  Last century, we stripped ourselves of corsets, burned our bras, chopped off our hair into bobs and crew cuts, and shortened our hemlines from the floor to barely covering our butt cheeks.  We won voting rights, abortion rights, athletic rights, and divorce rights.  Yet in this century, we still have a lot of work to do; we must win lesbian marriage rights, win back our confidence in body image and steal it back from mainstream media, and more women must shave their heads more often.

Duhhh…I Can’t Remember Your Name…

Never trust a man.  Never ever trust a foreign attractive man that lives in a tourist town, and pretends to know less English than he actually does.  Never ever ever ever trust a Greek man who fulfills all of the above descriptions, and owns a motorbike with an extra helmet in tow. Why?  Because he might give you one of the most beautiful and unforgettable days of your life.

There are many things I’ve done overseas that are stupid.  In fact, I’m lucky that I haven’t since been held hostage, raped, or anonymously imprisoned for life.   I am also one who plays it fairly safe, at least compared to others I know.  For instance,  I hardly ever drink with people I don’t know, and will never go anywhere without telling two people where I’m headed, and roughly when to expect me again.  I’m a blue-eyed, bouncy-haired, toothy-smiled twenty-something American girl, and I know that I’m never truly “safe” if I’m alone. There are several reasons why I pushed three bunk-beds in front of an unlocking door in a twelve-person guesthouse that I had the pleasure of enjoying entirely alone.  There are also reasons why I frequently carry mace and a knife, and I should probably learn how to shoot a gun sometime soon.   However, there are also handfuls of situations in my past where I should’ve would’ve and could’ve, but simply chose to follow my heart over potential dangers.

I arrived on Crete on a cloudy day.   Storms were rolling in from the sea and not one storefront, restaurant, or cigarette stand was open for business.  I found a hostel, dropped my bags, and threw on a raincoat to witness the growing waves along the beach.  Winds came and winds went, only accompanied by a few tolerable drizzles, and   I shrugged my shoulders wondering what the hell to do with myself.  Halfway back to the hostel, a beautiful Greek man approached me and asked me (in Greek) where I lived.  I told him I didn’t speak Greek, and he apologized, and then asked me in English why I was wandering down by the beach in such bad weather.  I responded with “I dunno, it’s nice, I love a good storm I guess”.

From then on, this man (who epitomized every woman’s dream of a foreign love affair) and I toured the entire island of Crete over a handful of breathtaking days. He was a math and English teacher at the local school, his students were on Easter break, and he had a few days to spare.  I insisted on staying at my hostel three nights out of four, which I was fairly proud of, but other than that, we spent every minute together!

The first day, Man and I completed a walking tour of his town, saw the school where he taught, a couple gardens, a couple nice sitting spots for espressos.  He kept using my name in conversation, but I had forgotten his, and it was too late to ask again–woops! Oh well, I snuggled into my bottom bunk that night giddy for tomorrow.

The second day, he greeted me at sunrise with flowers and a picnic breakfast.  After we had finished eating on the beach, I allowed him to whisk me away on a motorbike ride through the island.  No, really!  We stopped at an old church and accidentally got locked inside, which just forced me to fall into his juicy Greek arms for a few minutes.  An old janitor eventually came and unlocked the door, and gasped at my messy hair and his unbuttoned shirt, only to mutter something in Greek I’ll never understand.  Then, ravished with excitement, Man and I hopped aboard his motorbike and traveled through olive orchards and vineyards that I would have never seen otherwise. He knew almost every farmer, and each of them offered tastes of the freshest picks!

We continued to buzz along the roads, some along cliffs that I never want to experience by motorbike again!  I would have rather been dangling on those ridges by a rope than whizzing along them at 45 MPH.   Anyways, he deemed the next stop be my choice.  I waited until we arrived at a narrow country road, that seemed to wind into infinitely vibrant green hills and rocky limestone mountains.  We pulled over, and wandered up and down the hillsides until we met some goats, and fed them some grass and breadcrumbs.

As we meandered back to the motorbike, I realized something:  I was in the middle of the most beautiful coastal valley, on a beautiful sunny afternoon, with a most beautiful man.  What to do?  Well, I found the perfect beautiful shady spot and we had a beautifully wild session in the grass.  And afterwards, as we lay naked and glowing in the sun, he asked me a terrible question,
“I love that you pick up on  Greek language very quickly, Chelsea.  You even said my name just like the Greeks do.  Say it again?”
“Um… “ I hoped this pause was one that seemed much longer than it really was.
“Oh a-my god, my-a beautiful Chelsea, do you not remember your lover’s name?”
“UM!!! Kiss me!”
“No no no!  You cannot remember my name!  We have spent almost three entire days together!  At least try!” He was laughing, but in a sort of unsettling manner.

He began to gather my clothes for me.  Oh shit, I thought.  I fucked up.  Big time. He’s going to leave me here at the base of this valley, and I’m going to have to hitchhike four hours west back to my backpack at the hostel.  I silently prayed oh god, I know this isn’t what people normally pray about, but please help me remember this man’s name. And I swear that at that very moment, it came to me!  I remembered his name.  Well, almost,

“Spelios….?…”
“Ah, you gave me a fright!  So close, but more of a tuh sound than a puh sound.  Stelios.  Stelios.  Stelios!”  He laughed and kissed me on the cheek, and walked me over to the motorbike.  That was scarier than zipping along those rocky cliffs above the ocean!  More embarassing than being discovered half-naked by an old man in a foreign church!  More mortifying than getting my period in white shorts during 6th grade gym class— a situation awkward for everyone involved…um, never mind.

We continued our road-trip along the coast until we came to a sort of canyon, surrounded by sandstone formations and grandiose mangrove plants I’d never seen before.  Of course we had to reward ourselves with beach lovin’ once we successfully arrived at the bottom.  He pulled some wine from his bag, and we fell asleep there that night, drunk on each other.

At sunrise, we slowly dragged ourselves to the motorbike and chugged along the coast, back to where we started our little journey.  We spent a couple more days just sipping espresso and wandering Crete, and on our final day together, he even brought me over to his family Easter dinner.  He was shocked that I had nowhere to go on Easter, and his  family was more than welcoming!  It was not only an evening with new friends, but insight into Greek culture that I could have never imagined.   As they left for (yet another) church service, I felt it was my time to leave, for I have no place in any Catholic church.   They understood, and Stelios’ mother walked me to my hostel, just down the road.  And in the peaceful silence of Easter night, the old woman (classically Mediterranean in every appearance) sat with me and told me that she’d never seen her son so happy to have a guest over to dinner!  She then told me she wished I was Greek and Catholic so that I could marry him!  We giggled, said goodnight, and I gave her my eternal thanks.

The next morning, as I was leaving my hostel to go to the next island destination, I saw Stelios sitting there with his motorbike, with another flower for me in hand.  He offered one more trip, for another three days, to another side of Crete I’d never seen.  To his surprise, I politely declined.  I had to remember that I was traveling through Greece for me, and not for anyone else; I knew that if I spent any more time with him, I’d be doomed to stay in Greece the entire summer!  My instincts told me that enough was enough, and it was time to keep going.

I learned a lot from spending time with Stelios and his family.  I learned the beauty of sharing moments with a new friends, what to feed wild goats, and how to ask for olives from a Greek farmer.   But mostly, I’m just glad I remembered his name.

God Bless the Avocado!

This past December, my good friend Lindsay and I traveled to Florida, where we experienced freshly-picked citrus and the largest avocados I’ve ever enjoyed!  After enjoying a solid week of avocado-based breakfasts, I became fascinated and intrigued with the sensory-inducing fruit.  Actually, I’ve become a little obsessed, not gonna lie… Below are some fast facts about the gloriously luscious fatty testicle.  No, really.  Read on.

*An avocado is actually a member of the berry family.

*In the past, the avocado had a well-entrenched reputation for inducing sexual prowess and wasn’t purchased or consumed by any person wishing to protect their image from slanderous assault. Growers had to sponsor a public relations campaign to dispel the ill-founded reputation before avocados became popular.

*Avocados got their name from the Spanish explorers. They couldn’t pronounce the Aztec word for the fruit, know as ahuacatl, “testicle,” because of its shape and its tendency to grow in pairs. The Spanish called the aguacate, leading to the guacamole we know today.

*Avocados must reach full maturity before they are picked, however, they do not soften on the tree. The tree can actually be used as a storage unit by keeping the fruit on the tree for many months after maturing. A tree refrigerator!!!

*For women who struggle with irregular periods, avocados can be used to induce menstruation, and if eaten regularly, can significantly increase fertility and regular menstruation.  Additionally, their omega-rich fats and creamy texture are a well-known aphrodisiac.

*One avocado contains over twice the amount of potassium than one banana,  contains more protein than any other fruit, is full of healthy monounsaturated fat, and contains more lutein and carotene than carrots!

*In ancient Mexico, avocados were mashed up and spread onto a woman’s vagina to ease the pain of childbirth and uh…lubricate.  This is still often practiced in rural areas.

*Each pair of fruit takes exactly 8-9 months to blossom, grow leaves, and grow until ripe.  So basically the seed is a wee little avocado fetus.  In turn, avocados are the richest natural source of folic acid, essential for any pregnant woman.  If I ever have a baby, I’ll probably name it Avocado…unless that’s like naming it Testicle…maybe not so good…

*The Hass avocado tree is the only type of avocado, of 500 varieties, that produces fruit all year!  And that’s without GMOs and nasty human interventions!  What other fruit does THAT?  In 1935, Rudolph Hass, a postman, brought a seed with him to California after delivering something to Mexico; he planted it in 1935, and it is STILL producing fruit all freaking year.  If that’s not something to admire, I don’t know what is!

freshly-picked avocados + grapefruit=YUM

So what did we learn today?  That we should all eat more avocados, and appreciate their creamy testicle-ridden, orgasm-inducing, baby-growing, eternally-gifting year-round goodness!  Now go eat one!  …or five.  This morning I had an amazing fruit salad of kiwi, blueberries, strawberries, and avocado–try it out!

Why I Am Vegan (Part 1)

About nine years ago, after witnessing the skinning of a lamb at a farmer’s market in Ohio, I decided to never eat any sort of meat again.  Over seven years ago, I committed to being vegan, meaning to abstain from the eating or wearing of any animal products.  No meat. No milk.  No milk by-products. No eggs. No refined sugar.  No beauty products containing animal derivatives and/or involved in cruel animal testing practices.  No fur. No leather. None of it. I volunteered for a lifetime of daily outspoken activism, detailed investigations of everything I purchase,  and even public ridicule and direct insults of these personal choices.  Overnight, I gave up some of my favorite meals, such as macaroni and cheese, pepperoni pizza, and sunday morning pancakes with sizzling sausage links on the side.   I forever sacrificed many known pleasures and comfortable habits, a situation that purely boggled the minds of many friends and family members.   That is, until they saw how truly happy I became!

All of a sudden, I was absolutely obsessed with the deliciously beautiful possibilities that a vegan lifestyle can inspire! I found that sweetbreads made with bananas instead of eggs made them much tastier and gooier.  I discovered that almond milk made a fluffier and more flavorful pancake.  Who knew that olive oil tasted far superior to butter on infinite vegetables, pastas, and grains?  And wow, chili without meat tastes extraordinarily better!!!

In the shower, I found that vegan beauty products left no residue on my hair.  In the bedroom, I found that non-latex condoms (made from cows and sheep, folks!) worked just as well as Trojans.  I have no need for deodorant anymore; meat and dairy create foul body odor.

Admittedly, I did go through a fairly rapid period of detox in 2004.  After maintaining a 100% vegan lifestyle for a short while, all of a sudden my body was tired. I was spending the majority of a week on the toilet, and my skin was breaking out like crazy.  But I knew I wasn’t sick, and that my body was simply trying to get rid of the final bits of animal residues in my intestines, blood, skin and hair.  After a week of lemon juice, water, and peppermint tea, I remember waking up one morning at about 4am.  I literally hopped out of bed and could not contain these explosions of energy occurring throughout my entire body!  I went for an eleven-mile run with a ridiculous grin slapped on my face the whole time!  My body was CLEAN.  If being vegan feels this good, why would I ever return to my old ways?

When I say my body was “clean”, I’m referring to a physical, mental, and spiritual plane of existence that I had never known before being vegan.

Physically, my skin was clear, my hair was glossier, thicker, and curlier, and I swear that my blue eyes became even bluer.  My fingernails were no longer brittle, my previously apparent battles with indigestion vanished, and without trying, I was gaining muscle and losing excess fat. My resting heart rate went down, and I was able to live perfectly fine on 4-6 hours of sleep per night (versus my required 8 before I was vegan).  Otherwise drastic PMS symptoms decreased to just a bit of fatigue, and my menses decreased from 6 days to 2 or 3 (meaning my body did not have to regularly detox as much).  While working out, my endurance was regularly increasing without really changing my routines, and a general feeling of lightness inspired higher doses of energy.  There is an immediate reaction between food and energy output that I hardly experienced before being vegan, and my caloric needs have decreased because I am obtaining such high amounts of pure nutrition from each meal!

Mentally, becoming vegan is indeed a challenge. There is always more to learn about agricultural methods and standards, animal cruelty, factory farming, animal-derivatives and by-products, statistics, etc.  I am constantly being asked the same broad questions, such as “what do you eat” and “why don’t you eat cheese?” , but can rarely answer them in the same way, for my answer always depends on with whom I am speaking.  I am often challenged for my beliefs by the know-it-all personalities, and must be ready to debate at all times.  Once in a while, the absurd masses of advertisements fueling the very industries I despise can rub me the wrong way; once in a while, the thousands of pounds of meat and dairy present in a grocery store can send me into a panic-stricken vortex of blood and guts and milky pus that just plain pisses me off.

Like any religion in the world, a vegan lifestyle is dictated by a certain code of ethics and spiritual beliefs.  I have become closer with the natural world ever since becoming vegan.  I feel I am more united with the earth.  When I pass slaughterhouses, I pray.  At the beginning of each meal, I give thanks.  When I make eye contact with cows, goats, chickens, and deer, my entire being smiles.  The longer I remain vegan, the more my spirituality intensifies.  Believe me, sometimes I wish there were a church of vegans!

In my opinion, there is something that occurs on a spiritual plane that derives from the abstaining of consuming animal products.  The process through which milk goes from cow to morning cereal is disdainful; the mother is pumped with chemicals and hormones, stripped of her babies for whom the milk is naturally made, hooked up to an 8-pronged machine on her most sensitive areas in a dark space (whilst likely ankle-deep in feces or old spoilt milk) squeezed between hundreds of other cows in an identical situation.  Likely, that cow will never see the light of day or even step foot in grass.  After being sucked dry and denied her children, the cow’s milk is bottled into plastic bottles and pasteurized and sterilized, shipped many miles, and sold for $3.50, only to be eventually poured into a bowl of Lucky Charms or oatmeal.  Now, is that really worth it?   Is that really the best option, when I have the choice to use nut milk, soy milk, or coconut milk? REALLY?  Aside from the financial, ethical, and compassionate reasons for choosing not to consume dairy, there is a spiritual reasoning within my soul and mind that I cannot ignore. I do not want the cries of helpless animals and mental torture of factory farm workers to greet me at breakfast. I can not consciously consume the product of so much suffering, when I can live healthfully and happily without it.  Period.

 

Would you do this in Nature?

 

 

The Gas Station Vice

I have a vice.   I know, it’s hard to believe that I have any imperfections, but I am openly admitting to you that it is true. I suffer from an addiction that a vast majority of the United States shares.  I drink gas station coffee. I eat gas station snacks. When the time is right, I indulge in pre-packaged slave-labored brightly-labeled goodness.  I love it.   But I assure you, there is a reason for my madness.

The coffee shop I work at prides itself on being one of the best.  We toot the horns of direct trade and organic farming, and value the effort that it takes to pick each individual bean and roast it to perfection–only to grind it and then cascade hot water through the grounds with precision and grace.  At Pilot Travel Center, I don’t have to think about any of that.  I become one with the masses and pour into my 16-ounce styrofoam cup without any reservations. I take sheer pleasure in putting aside my esteemed coffee expertise and submitting myself to the burnt watery acids that trickle down my throat. If I had frat brothers, they would raise me on their shoulders and cheer as I drank a coffee keg.  I’m confident and proud of my gas station coffee.

I remember my first cup of gas station coffee.  I was driving all the way from northern Wisconsin to Columbus, Ohio, it was very late, and I was very tired.  My eyes were straining from the continuous oncoming headlights and the thought of staying in any motel by myself gave me the creeps. I had no more oranges to eat, and my CD’s were getting boring.  Then it dawned on me, “caffeine!” I had only ever drank a few cups of coffee in my life, and the drug was still dreadfully foreign to my body; a 20-ouncer from BP would surely do the trick!  Ah, the beginning of a beautiful love affair.

Now, I have been following a vegan lifestyle for nearly eight years.  I may break down for gas station coffee, but I completely refuse to touch any of the so-called “food” that lurches inside the walls of convenience centers; donuts and hot dogs just freak me out no matter where they are.  But I always go for pretzels.  Snyder’s–not Rold Gold.  It’s the closest I get to junk food, and it absolutely must happen with my coffee. Don’t ask why, because I have no idea.  Besides their slightly salty, extra crunchy, extremely satisfying ability to fulfill my caffeine munchies and dissolve the taste of bad black coffee lingering in my mouth.

All this being said, I’m nervous about giving the impression of constantly counting down the minutes until I can hop in my car and race to the nearest BP, Mobile, or Pilot, beads of sweat forming all over until I take a sip. Nor am I physically addicted to caffeine.  No way!  Gas station coffee is an indulgence, a genuine guilty pleasure, that I treat myself to while driving hundreds of miles on highways. Some people turn to donuts, some to a McFish Fillet sandwich, and others to an entire package of Oreos.  When I’m tired, perhaps stressed, and about to face 10 hours of open roads and intimidating life-reflection, I turn to shitty coffee and pre-packaged pretzels.  In a life of striving for perfection, there is something very grounding about enjoying the most absolute low-grade version of a certain product.  There is humility in agreeing to join the populations of average people.  There is perfection in the most imperfect things.

So there.  I said it.  I’m just like the rest of America.