Travel

Colorado road trip: Day 11

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I had forgotten how amazing it felt to sleep in a bed. I woke up huddled in blankets, my head gently rested on a pillow, my body cuddled by the mattress. For the first time in over a week, I felt well-rested, and I started my day without any aches and pains. 

Joseph and I both showered to take advantage of the luxury of indoor plumbing while we still had it. Then we packed up our belongings and returned to our road trip lifestyle as if the last 18 hours of lavish comfort had never happened. 

Our plan for today was to spend the entire day in the city we had been most excited to visit – Denver. Before we left, I searched for the best coffee shops in the area. We chose to go to Huckleberry Roasters (Huck), even though the reviews said it was pricey, because, with its two U.S. Roaster Championship awards, it is supposed to be one of the best places to get coffee in the country. The cafe, like last night’s restaurant, was somewhere we never would have found had we not been looking for it. It was outside of downtown Denver, just on the outskirts of a neighborhood. The storefront had a brightly painted mural that attracted the eye, but never would I have known by the appearance that it was supposedly the best coffee in the city. Joseph and I each ordered an iced latte and sat at a picnic table in front of the store. 

All our expectations were met. The coffee was a tad over-priced – six dollars for a latte is a bit much – but it was the best we had ever tasted. The milk was steamed to a silky perfection that blended smoothly with the richness of the espresso. Satisfied, we headed to City Park for a late morning walk while we sipped on our coffee. 

It was hotter than we expected. As we walked around the park, sweat poured down my forehead and pooled in the crease of my elbow that was bent to hold my drink. All we managed was a short stroll before deciding to head downtown, hoping the shops would at least provide some air conditioned relief. 

Our first mission in the city was to find a restroom, which was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. Denver began to lose its magic after thirty minutes of searching without any luck. We finally stumbled along some public restrooms in the downtown mall, but we needed a code to unlock the doors. To obtain this code, we had to purchase an item from a local shop; then the cashier would reveal the secret numbers to us. 

At this point, we were both losing patience. Luckily, someone exiting the men’s bathroom held the door open for Joseph, and just as I was about to give up, a friendly custodian, who must have seen the desperation in my eyes, unlocked the women’s bathroom door for me. 

By now, Joseph and I were hungry for lunch, so we sat on a bench in the mall and ate the picnic we had packed. Once our stomachs were full, we began to peruse the shops. 

Last night, driving through Denver, I had felt that magnetic energy I had experienced last summer. Gazing up at the lights, I was enamored once again by the dynamism of the city set against the beautiful backdrop of distant mountains. But today, amid the current climate of the pandemic and recent riots, Denver revealed itself to be a city like any other. We were approached by people desperate for money, and people far too high to remember why they approached us. Many of the shops were closed, some temporarily and others permanently, including the bookstore I had fallen in love with last summer, where two locals had written personalized poem just for me. Glass windows of shops had been boarded up and graffitied. The hashtag GEORGEFLOYD appeared everywhere, from spray-painted murals to electronic billboards flashing down at us. 

Despite how separated we have felt during this trip from the tragedies and challenges of the last few months, we have not escaped the troubling lives we left behind. In less than a week, we will be back in Maryland, and I am sure our lives will go back to the way they were before. Nothing will have changed. 

My only hope is that we will come back changed. I hope we return to our lives more compassionate, more worldly, more empathetic than when we left. I hope we will have more perspective about the current state of affairs in this country, and perhaps that will help us to know better how we can serve those around us. The reality is that the world around us has not changed, but that does not mean we cannot bring change to our personal realities. 

When we reached the end of the 16th street mall, we sat on the steps of a closed store to rest and figure out where we wanted to go next. To our immense disappointment, we discovered the fireworks scheduled for tonight were cancelled. Just in the last week, Denver decided not to encourage any more crowds than were already congregating. Our original plan was to see the fireworks tonight as a finale to our trip in Colorado, and then we would take our time driving back to Maryland. However, we decided it was more important for us to see the fireworks in this state than to spread out the driving time during our trip back. 

So, sitting on those steps in the heart of Denver, we decided to extend our time in Colorado by two more days, and we began to plan which attractions we wanted to add to the trip. We found a fireworks show in Salida (which is, ironically, where I saw the fireworks a year ago), so we based our itinerary on that. 

We headed back to the car, nervous but excited about our new plan. The first thing that needed to happen to make this extended trip work was we needed to buy more food. There was enough to fuel us for a few days of driving, but not for days of hiking and other, more strenuous activities. We stopped by a Walmart on our way to Colorado Springs to pick up food and finally reach a resolution to another important journey we have been on: the hunt for low-FODMAP ice cream.

I have been craving ice cream since this trip began, and I reached my breaking point last night after dinner. We had stopped at gas stations, supermarkets, and ice cream shops last night and earlier today, but we had not had any luck. However, in the frozen section of Walmart, we found one, small ice cream bar that I could eat. Bolstered by this, we drove to the same Bass Pro parking lot we had stayed at a few days ago, where we hurriedly made dinner. As another treat for ourselves, we had bought a small bag of shrimp to eat with the rice we had packed for the trip. It was a nice change from the canned tuna and chicken we have been eating for days. 

By the time we ate the ice cream, it had melted to the consistency of a milkshake, but it was still just as tasty as it would have been frozen. 

Joseph set up his hammock while I prepared the back of the car for me to sleep. The night spent in a bed seemed like a distant memory. But, as I laid down to rest, I couldn’t help but think of how privileged I am. I, too, have struggled during this pandemic because of my compromised immune system and a lack of work, but I have been blessed with an incredible support system that has helped make sure I have been taken care of. I am not wanting for anything. And while some people are worrying about food, illness, and riots, I am on a road trip in one of the most beautiful states in America with my fiancé. While some people are facing challenges simply because of the color of their skin, I am on the adventure of a lifetime with a beautiful ring and a future full of opportunity waiting for me when I return home. 

The world has not changed. I realize that this road trip is a blessing, that all of the inconveniences, difficulties, and challenges we have faced during it are nothing in comparison to what many people face in their daily lives. I know that the challenges I have always faced in my life, from being a woman, from struggling with chronic illness since the age of 10, from simply being human, cannot compare to what other people have experienced.

But I have changed on this trip. Even in these short 11 days, I have grown and matured, and I have gained new perspectives of this world around me. I have learned more about myself and others, and I have grown stronger. I am ready to return home and find where I belong to do good in this world. There is so much in me that I am ready to share; this blog is just a start. 

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Lifestyle, Stories

A day at the zoo

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Photo creds: Geran de Klerk (Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/@gerandeklerk)

It was easy for me to slip into the routine of living my life at home. My parents had never been very adventurous. In all of my childhood, I can probably count on two hands the amount of times I saw their friends, and on one hand the amount of times they actually left the house to go out with someone. I normally found them on their own at home, doing something quiet that brought them pleasure. My brother was a tad more adventurous, but even he found enjoyment in locking himself in his room for days to play video games.

I grew up more extroverted, but when chronic illness hit, I began to spend more time at home. Many of my young friends could not understand what it meant to be unable to go out, even though I looked fine. My symptoms were not visible. It became easier to entertain myself at home rather than deal with the judgment and expectations of others. But I missed going out. I missed seeing the world. There is an entire year that I don’t remember the seasons ever changing because I never took a step out of my house. I regret that year of my life most.

One summer evening, while looking online for something to do to take away the boredom, I came across an interesting national holiday: July 1 is American Zoo Day. I looked to my mother, who was absorbed in her own laptop, and asked her if we could go to the zoo that week.

Her face clouded with confusion. She looked up at me, her eyebrows knit.

“Why do you want to go to the zoo,” she asked. I shrugged.

“I just thought it would be fun.” She watched me for a moment longer, and then she looked back down at her laptop.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Okay?” I could not believe she had agreed.

“Yes, okay.”

It may sound weird for a nineteen-year-old girl to be so excited about visiting the zoo, but I was more thrilled about this than I had been about graduating high school the year before, when so many thought I would have dropped out. I eagerly began searching online to find the nearest zoo and to plan the event. That week, my mother and I made chicken salad and packed snacks to bring, and early on a Wednesday morning, we left for a day in Washington, D.C. with my friends, Erin and Kristina.

There is something odd about being the most excited person on a trip. While my mother and Erin obliged me and let me lead the way as I skipped down the cobblestone streets of the zoo, Kristina could only look upon me with distaste. I admit, I must have looked childish. My eyes were filled with wonder as I gazed down into the pit where the lions roared at one another. I laughed as I watched the strange squirrel-like creatures tussle. And I cowered in fear when my mother dragged me into the monkey house to see the animals she found most interesting, which happen to be animals that most terrify me. Meanwhile, Kristina sat at the edge of the room, her face engrossed in her cell phone, probably complaining about the lame trip she had been forced to go on.

But when we entered the elephant house, I forgot all about my less-than-enthusiastic companions. Face-to-face with an Asian elephant, her large amber eyes staring into mine, all the other voices around me fell silent. In that moment, I felt more seen than I had in years.

Photo creds: Hu Chen (Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/@huchenme)

I had all but wasted away; my body had grown so thin from disease I was surprised I had not completely disappeared. Friends had forgotten to call for my birthday, and then forgotten to call at all. I had slunk away from the world, holed into myself, trapped myself in a house because it felt warm and protected me from the rest of the world. But this lonely elephant saw me when no one else had, and in that moment, I saw what it truly meant to be caged from the rest of the world.

I have read that elephant mothers are one of the few that stay with their children, in particular, their daughters. While the sons grow up and leave, their daughters join the herd and stay with their mothers for life. It is said the bond between these females is one of the strongest in the animal kingdom. In my life, I have only felt love this strong from one person. I looked back at my companions and found two of them engrossed in their own lives. My mother, however, was gazing at me with pure joy. I knew then why she had agreed to this trip when she normally would never venture beyond the confines of our local county, much less would brave the stressful, crowded streets of Washington, D.C.  My mother loved me with a fierceness that I could never match nor comprehend, and the only way to repay this was to live my life in a way that would make her proud – to never take another day for granted, to never let myself miss out on life, and to never let another day pass in which I felt unloved or invisible.

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Lifestyle, My Life

Hello world! This is my story

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I’m so glad you decided to drop by.

My name is Tyler, and this is my first blog post. For most of my posts, I plan on writing about things actually happening in my life, or about topics that I find interesting (and I think you will, too!). But, I thought I would use this opportunity to tell you a little bit about myself.

I grew up in southern Maryland, and I have been a writer for as long as I can remember. I wrote my first short story when I was four years old about the ants that had trespassed into my house, and I have been writing stories ever since. 

For most of my life, fiction was my main form of writing. I loved using my imagination and escaping into the worlds I created. My characters were almost as important to me as the real people I knew in my life. 

When I started college, everyone expected me to be an English major. But I went for communications instead. It was the “smart” choice, because it gave me to opportunity to fall back on a degree that offered plenty of career opportunities should the “writing thing” not pan out. 

I still wanted to focus my elective choices on my true passion. Creative fiction writing was no longer an option, but journalism seemed like a good idea. It was still telling stories, but now my subjects were real people. 

Induction ceremony into Alpha Chi my junior year of college

I fell in love with journalism. I loved the opportunity to give someone the spotlight and make them feel special. 

The thing about journalism, though, is it’s normally pretty cut and dry. The inverted pyramid style taught by my professors always felt so confining and suffocating. They wanted to know what happened, and when and how it occurred. I just wanted to describe my real living character and tell their story. 

So, I took the skills I learned in my journalism classes, and I moved on to creative nonfiction. In these classes, with magazine writing style format, I was given the opportunity to expand my typical 400-word news stories to 2,000-word expositions. For the girl who once couldn’t keep her middle school assignments under 10 pages, this increased word count was surprisingly freeing. I had learned from journalism how to strip a story down to its bare bones; now I had the opportunity to expand on only the most important details (and the knowledge to know what those details were). 

During all this time, however, I don’t think I ever truly found my voice. In all the stories I had ever told, I had neglected one very important one: my own. 

When my professor said we had to write memoirs for our class, I was distraught. I didn’t believe that I had a story to tell. Which is funny because I had anything but the conventional childhood. 

I have suffered from chronic illness since the age of 10, when I was diagnosed with Lyme disease. Twelve diagnoses and over a decade later, I am no stranger to pain, to overcoming challenges, to perseverance, three things that can make a great story. 

Induction ceremony into Delta Alpha Pi (academic honor society for high-achieving students with disabilities) with my good friend Caitlin

The trouble is, what really makes a good story is being able to connect with the reader. While my story was one full of plot possibilities, I didn’t believe it was one anyone would want to read. 

My professor told us to choose any topic, and that she would be the only one to read it. Even with that information, I did not want to tell any story that was painful to write. However, after weeks of brainstorming, I couldn’t get one particular story out of my mind. It wasn’t one I wanted to share, but after years of denying this particular moment, it was time to face it.

When I handed in the memoir about my hospitalization for anorexia to my professor, I was visibly shaking. I felt raw and exposed. I was convinced it wasn’t the story anyone wanted. 

I had always gotten high marks on my papers. But when my professor handed my memoir back, it was the first time anyone had asked me for more. She asked me to let my peers read it. Nervously, I handed it to one of my classmates. Once again, I waited with bated breath, hating myself for sharing something so personal. But when she returned to me, tears brimming in her eyes, she thanked me for telling the story she had been too scared to share herself. 

It was then that I learned that not only do I have a story to share, but it’s one that actually touches people. It’s one that can comfort and encourage, one that can facilitate connection and possibly inspire others’ creativity.

Since a young age, I have always wanted to help other people. But it took me nearly two decades to discover that my way of doing that was the thing I have always been most passionate about: writing. 

So, this is my blog, and on it, I plan to share my story, and also some other things that I have grown passionate about over the years. I am going to talk about the travels I have taken, and the adventures I am still going on, because I have found that the best way to learn more is to go places you have never been. I am going to share about ways I have found to find balance in my life, mentally, physically and spiritually, because dealing with chronic health has taught me that self-care is one of the most important ways to care for yourself and others. And most importantly, I am going to talk about the people in my life: those who have inspired me, those who have made me who I am, and those who I am growing with. 

I hope this is a place where you can find inspiration, illumination and comfort. I hope it’s a place where you can read something authentic, and then know that it’s okay for you to be yourself, too. And most importantly, I hope it inspires you to tell your story, in whatever way feels most natural to you. Create art, write poetry, talk to people, volunteer…whatever makes you feel most alive. And when you do, please leave a comment and tell me about it – I would love to hear your story, too. 

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