Part I: An Early Explorer

My now husband and I were tucked between two lumberjack (err, gentlemen’s) clubs and an empanada food truck on SE 82nd Avenue when he realized without a doubt he wanted to marry me in 2012. We had found our way to a Vietnamese travel agency in East Portland thanks to our building handyman, Binh Nguyen’s recommendation to seek out “Tim” Nguyen who sold us tickets to Thailand. After completing the sale, my explorer gene burst and saturated my entire chest and neck in a rosy colored rash reserved for moments of extreme excitement. Yes, I was having that reaction to the mere thought of our first trip to SE Asia and this wasn’t the first time in my life this had happened.

It was 1989 when I first realized I may have the explorer gene. My parents took my sisters and I on a road trip in our family Truckster to our magnificent nation’s capital to absorb stats and statistics on our nation’s forefathers, peruse the rows of treasure at the blissfully air-conditioned Smithsonian, and step into the past in colonial Williamsburg. They were certainly doing their best to provide the three of us a knowledge-based cultural endeavor. But, it was June and the streets of DC could fry up some of my dad’s always-at-the-ready can of Spam. Alas, this eight-year-old was miserable. In fact, my dad’s three ton video camera captured evidence of my strained and panting tomato red face on the National Mall, complete with documentation of my sister Stephanie providing me with a piggy back ride up Capitol Hill. (Remind you, I was eight. A small eight, but albeit eight.)

After a street snack of a remarkably disgusting and sizable hot dog, an older (probably sixty) tired looking woman with a tattered gray scarf covering her head and a purple flowing dress approached us. She didn’t say a word, but simply smiled and held out her knobby hand to give me something. Having been raised by an overly cautious mother, of course, I darted a look at her to question if I should accept the gift. I had been given a stack of picture postcards from a place I’d never seen. Not especially striking or colorful postcards, but something completely foreign to my suburban upbringing drew me in to those pictures of snow, fields of berries, farmers, and rather plain looking houses.

Although my family quickly lost interest, I was mesmerized by those postcards and thrilled to now have something in my possession infinitely more interesting than a terrible hot dog. Yet, the real discovery for me came when I turned a postcard over to reveal something undecipherable scrawled on the back… stopping me in my tracks. “Dad!!” who had since sped ahead, “Is this another language?!” Everybody quickly debated on the origins of my discovery and settled on Russian. My postcards were from Russia!!

It was that day I decided to start my postcard collection. This collection was to become a stockpiled source of inexhaustible wonder, escape, and aspiration through my high school years. Over these years, I would receive postcards from friends and family members from far and wide including exotic locales like Milwaukee, Wisconsin; Peoria, Illinois; and Daytona Beach, Florida. On rare occasions my dad would bring me a postcard from his work travels bearing strange and sometimes unpronounceable names that truly captivated my attention like Amsterdam, Bangkok, Paris, and  Rio de Janiero. I put them all in a tiny blue Keds shoe box, categorized and alphabetized. That little blue box was my ‘go-to’ happy place whenever I wanted to fantasize about escaping the Midwest.

I always had a fear of being ordinary. When I was six, I amused myself with Wuzzles and Care Bears instead of the baby and Barbie dolls all my friends preferred. I ran a foster home, where I would help AIDS-stricken Care Bear Cousins (from Africa) find new American homes with Nintendos to help them heal. My best friend Jamie and I even played poor people (how politically incorrect were we?), by “living” in closets and under tables in my house and being provided with one trip to the food shelter a week where we were given “one apple and one strawberry fruit roll up as our rations. Clearly from a young age, part of me wanted to teach myself extreme budgeting and rationing skills, which little did I know would befit my future traveling endeavors, even though we were clearly far from destitute.

I remember lying in a field behind our neighborhood and looking up at a passing plane when I was about nine and saying to that same best friend, “Don’t you want to be in that plane? That plane could take you anywhere! When I wasn’t gazing longingly at airplanes, I would bury myself in books and fantasize of living on a magical street called Klickitat (located in a distant foreign place called Portland, Oregon) thanks to a Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books. Incidentally, I lived within 10 blocks of Klickitat Street when I actually did move to Portland.

As the years went on, I was in a tug-of-war with the culture of ‘trying to fit in’ and a longing to experience diversity and just live differently. But something inside was pushing me, driving me to run for the borders of normalcy. I tested the waters subtly at first, I went with “Bonjour” over “Hola” in high school because everybody else took Spanish… a decision I still kick myself for as I cram DuoLingo in my day. I was Cleopatra, exotic Queen of the Nile, for Halloween while others opted to be a slutty fill-in-the-blank.

As co-editor of the high school yearbook, I fought for a theme based on roads, traveling, maps, and journeys. I enrolled in journalism as my major over education when I went to college, (even though deep down I really wanted to be a teacher, but everyone was going to be a teacher). And of course, there was no question when I opted to move away to college when most stayed home. I just knew deep inside me I wanted something more.

Next stop Paris! Urm… but only after a series of misguided life choice detours. Instead of fulfilling my dream of studying abroad in Paris (yes, despite my best efforts I was still a naive, rose-colored glasses Hoosier who thought this was the only option for studying French), I fell into an unfortunate pattern of serial monogamy in 1997. I pretty much based all my life decisions on boys from 1997 until 2006. I endured weekend upon weekend of college football games, working 60+ hours a week, and way too much binge drinking on Bud Light, which I’m ashamed of ingesting to this day. I had embarked on a road to Iamtrappedinnowheresville en route to killingmeslowlyland.

The years from 2005 to 2007 were the most confusing years of my life, a time I now jokingly call “my dark period.” I painted a lot, all too regularly found escape in alcohol and prescription pills, and generally just felt like a turd floating along aimlessly in some backwater slough.

Okay, so rock bottom for an untapped travel junkie… have a miserable soulless marketing job in Columbus, Ohio and then losing my job… floating (like you know what) through a dead end relationship… family life entering turmoil territory…

Part II: To Prague

It’s not everyday you decide to pack all your Forever (not-so) 21 and Charlotte Russe apparel in boxes, alongside your 10 seasons of Friends DVDs, and get on the plane to move to another country. Being a planner, one might think this was a long deliberated decision, in which I stewed upon for months, contemplating alternatives on when, where, how, and the like. However, it was quite the opposite.

I give credit to an acquaintance from work; a lady who clearly came into my life for a reason. Pauletta was one of those people I didn’t know well, other than the fact she had become a co-commiserator in a land in of no opportunity. After I got let go, (for “restructuring of the department”) we were chatting one night and she said, “Have you tried Craigslist?” This was 2007. Craiglist wasn’t the booming kingdom for free junk and stolen bicycles that it is today.

That night, in mid-June, after about a bottle of two bucks a Chuck, I decided to “try Craigslist.” Not even sure what my search terms entailed, or what the hell I was looking for, I scrolled upon an ad that read, “Teach English Abroad.”

Hmmm. Teaching……… Always wanted to do that. Abroad…….. Always wanted to do that too. (Because I did at least realize my 2004 all-inclusive trip to the Royale Cancun Resort and Señor Frogs hadn’t exactly amounted to the right voltage of culture shock. Nor did my impressive jaunt across the opposite border to Niagara Falls in 1987).

I read about the TEFL Certificate, the school for which the ad was promoting, and some delightful stories of people who had done it, and then fell into a drunken stupor on my Ashley Furniture four-poster bed. The room was spinning and the words, “Teach English Abroad” were dancing in the cartoon cloud above me.

The next morning, charged with bad coffee (I didn’t know it then), ibuprofen, and a shower, I picked up the phone to call the TEFL school in Chicago. The man on the phone explained the process to get certified, which included an 8-week online course, followed by two weeks of volunteer teaching at an English language school, and guess what? A class started next week! For a mere $1100! Then he asked me the grand-daddy question of them all……where was I interested in teaching?

Gulp. I had no idea. France was out. I had already read that it was difficult to get a teaching job in Western Europe.

“Well, where are teachers needed?” I asked, probably way more confidently than I was.

“South Korea is one of our most popular destinations. There are huge incentives with pay structure, as well as airfare and lodging reimbursements. Contracts typically one year…”

Asia? That sounded a bit too much. Plus, I had heard stories from my father…

He then went on to Costa Rica. Costa Rica offered less pay, but it was closer to home and contracts were typically only six months. I briefly toyed with this notion.

It seemed like a bit too little.

“And where else?”

He went on to Prague and began rattling off some things I can’t remember. I was too busy rolling Prague around in my head. Prague? I think that’s in Eastern Europe. Poland? Czechslovakia? (Cringe…) Hungary? Maybe it’s actually Germany…..

What else to do but go to Google? Still on the phone, I typed in the word “Prague” and clicked images.

“Okay,” I told the man without skipping a beat as I took in the red-roof tiles and my first glance of Charles Bridge. “I’ll move to Prague.”

Prague, Czech Republic was just right.

Within six hours, I had called Mr. TEFL back, given him my credit card number and informed my parents and boyfriend, who all thought I would never do it. They thought this was some fleeting idea that had got in my head and I would simply change my mind the further I got into the decision. I find this interesting looking back because most things I’ve said I want to do in my life, I have done. I also heard multiple times that I was “running away.” But in fact, for the first time I was running to something. That something was me. The first true decision I’d made based on only that.

In the next months, while working on my certification, I picked up extra shifts at Moretti’s where I already had a part-time job, which was an authenic Italian joint with a real Italian yelling in the kitchen. I also picked up a second job where I got the privilege of wearing men’s style khaki Dockers and a stylish green polo shirt stating the name “Scrambler Marie’s.” I was an egg waitress. It was demeaning work for a college graduate from Carolina, but money was to be made. Even if it meant scraping gum off the bottom of tables and slinging poached concoctions for $2.40 an hour plus tips consisting of quarters, dimes and, don’t forget the pennies.

In the meantime, the boyfriend began referring to my little adventure to Czech Republic as Russia, and in turn, I began making friends with my new potential FLAT-mates: a Turkish girl named Sila and a French guy named Marc, whom I talked to regularly on Messenger.

On August 31, I paid $1000 to fly to Prague. I had eight interviews and eight offers at various types of international schools. And then I flew back to the States, a ludicrous decision that was made “in case I changed my mind.”

I didn’t.

In fact, I had never seen more clearly. There was even a moment on that first trip, when I took the funicular to the top of Petřín Hill, and climbed Petřín Tower. This tower is vaguely Eiffel Tower-like, but more comparable to the one at Kings Island. However, Kings Island it was not. The views did not consist of the Beast and Vortex roller coasters, but of a stunning fairy-tale, non-commericialized 12th Century dreamland. It was on Petřín Tower when I literally had the most intense déjà vu experience of my life. I was gazing down at the Vltava River where it bends, at all those red roof-tops and cathedrals in the distance, and I couldn’t shake it for what felt like five minutes. In reality, it was probably less than a minute. I had been there before. I was meant to be there.

Needless to say, I flew back to Columbus, moved everything I had into a nearby storage unit, and returned to Prague a week later on September 11, (an omen that my venture was inevitably doomed). Packing for this move was my first introduction to packing as a minimalist, a skill which I failed miserably at as I packed up my 3-story townhome. That storage unit was stuffed with everything I had accumulated in my 27 years, from my childhood Sweet Valley High books my parents had pawned off on me, to my really awesome big screen TV which had introduced me to the Bachelor (Prince Lorenzo’s season), to all my painting and scrapbooking supplies, to the furniture sets I had purchased from on the “no payment til 2008″ payment plan! I was saved in the nick of time from my trajectory of becoming an all-American hoarder.

Packing for Prague itself was a delightful challenge. I had two suitcases in which to pack for an entire year, from professional work clothes, to travel clothes, to coats, shoes, and everything in between. An extra box of stuff arrived nearly six weeks after my arrival with everything I couldn’t fit in those initial two suitcases. Despite all this, I was ill-prepared for a life on two feet and of public transportation as I adjusted to the incredible life without a car.

I had never felt so liberated in my life as I did on that second flight to Prague, drinking my complimentary (not two bucks a Chuck!) wine courtesy of Lufthansa. My life was suddenly full of options and opportunities, instead of monotony and closed doors. Before this, I had lived in a land of “deadlines for happiness.” (translation: “If I’m not happy with my relationship by this date, I’ll end it; or if my boss doesn’t appreciate me by this date, I’ll look for a new job.”) I didn’t want to end up unhappy or just living. From this point forward, I wanted a life.

Arriving in Prague’s Ruzyně Airport, I hauled my two roller suitcases from the bus, to the green Metro line, up three flights of curved stairs, and into my nearly empty flat on Bělehradská, located in Prague 2’s Vinohrady neighborhood. (Prague is laid out in number districts from 1-22. In expat eyes, 1-3 is the most desirable and of course, I wanted to be near the metro, as I was still intimidated by trams.)

My roommate, Laurie from Baltimore (this had changed from the earlier Sila from Turkey plan), had already arrived and would be meeting up with me later that night, and the other roommate, Marc of Marseilles was scheduled to arrive in two weeks. The flat was oddly set-up. It had a front door, and off to the side was the bathroom with a tub and a shower wand, but no proper shower curtain or head. But, hey! It had an extra “toilet” for cleansing one’s bits and pieces, so that was a bonus. As you walked into the apartment it had three rooms, all separated by a door. It was designed to be a bedroom, living room, and dining room, which led into the kitchen, but the three of us managed to turn each of these rooms into bedrooms. I was fortunate to get first pick, and the most value for my $300 per month, and score the bedroom off to the side with a closed door where no one would walk through. Being an introvert in extrovert drag, this worked well for me.

Of course, there wasn’t much to speak of in this giant room. Just a small nightstand, a dresser, lots of light, and the ting of the tram as it ambled down the street. No closets anywhere. I later found out this was normal.

Next stop, Ikea. As a packaged furniture shopper, I had not been exposed to this Swedish giant before. Laurie (my only source for knowledge as I didn’t have the Internet yet) had just told me this is where I needed to go. So, I rode the Metro to the outskirts of this massive city, encountering the stark panelák buildings, which are a highly bleak and visible reminder of the Communist era. I finally landed at Ikea, and then had to navigate that system, in a foreign language, which would be a bear even if you knew what the hell was going on. I somehow managed to purchase a mattress, comforter, futon, pillows and lamps, in addition to some odds and ends, fortunately all of which were delivered the next morning and not coming on the metro with me.

After the Ikea episode, I decided to follow the instructions of my Culture Shock: Czech Republic book and register myself at the American Embassy. Unfortunately, I would never get there. Using my (paper) map, I plotted out my course to get there, and packed my backpack with everything I would need to make this happen, which was pretty much all important documents I had in my possession. I also snagged my laptop, in hopes of scoring some free Wi-fi to write a few emails along the way.

It wouldn’t be a quality first day story without some drama.

As I stepped into the the sunshine, two blocks from my new home on the way to the IP Pavlova Metro, some crazy drugged out woman must have been lurking in the bushes in search for American prey. Before I knew it, she grabbed me by the ponytail from behind and twisted me to the ground in an effort to steal my backpack loaded with my entire livelihood. Fortunately, I kicked and flailed at her enough to cause some attention and two guys came and threw the psycho bitch off of me, yelling at her in Czech. I was naturally pretty shaken and realizing quickly I didn’t speak Czech, the guys switched to English asking if I was okay and helping me to my feet. The even crazier thing? The psycho raced up to the intersection and attacked another young girl! (I later found out this girl was Czech though, so I don’t think it was a, let’s get the stupid American motive). Needless to say, I didn’t make it to the embassy that day and my hair was falling out in clumps for days from the impact. Despite this ironic one-off incident, there was no way I was turning back. And I was a lot more cautious of my surroundings from that point forward.

The first few weeks went by eventfully as I settled into my new job at Channel Crossings Language School, encountered some of the most interesting people I had met in my life, and found myself with social and travel plans I could not have even fathomed months before. In those weeks, I tried the notorious Green Devil (Absinthe), explored medieval castles in the countryside, and chatted with my students about Czech and American politics (while teaching them about Third Conditional of course).

I also met Kristin who would become one of my best friends years later in Portland, and went on dates with foreigners, from Turks, to Georgians to even my French roommate. Although I was delighted to check these “fantasies” off my list (just the French one; Georgia boys were from the US south as far as my former self knew, and not listed in that category), I was surprised to fall much harder for an intriguing American guy who had been living (past perfect continuous) in Prague for the previous seven years. My fellow Explorer Gene, who would open my eyes to the world in a way I never dreamed possible and become my husband years later….