I am not an Italian Woman!

Ah Italy, again. Teaching spoiled Italian children. Again. Pasta, Mozzarella, Prosciutto, again.

So I flew into Milan and a few days later I was thankfully out of Milan, in a car with a 7 year old, a 4 year old and their parents on our way to a villa next to Lake Garda, while they loudly belted out “Mamma Mia in that mumbling sort of way when you have no idea what the words really are. The "babies" hummed along and everyone danced in their seats. Ah yes, i thought, this is the life. Sunshine finally, food, champagne (no, not champagne, Prosecco, Champagne is specifically from the Provence of Champagne in France, I must not forget this or I will, yet again, upset some Italians) and at this fancy villa there was a huge swimming pool, the first outdoor swimming pool i have entered since November, NOVEMBER? Really? How long it has been that I have been cold, it is June now and i have been in countries and places in so many clothes layered upon clothes and now I am sweltering in the heat of Italy with a bag full of clothes that are now rendered useless.

There are 2 kinds of camps one can teach on in Italy. A City Camp or a Summer Camp. City camps are more common and it is sort of like a day camp where we teach children from 9am to 5pm and then go home to an Italian host family. Not all the families that one stays with are rich but at least almost always they live like they are rich, eat fancy things, drink fancy things and obviously, wear fancy things.

I remember 2 years ago sitting on a train in Italy on the way to some place or other and i remember seeing a woman walk onto the train. Her face was carefully drawn on with makeup, her mouth pointing down in some sort of contemptuous snarl, nails manicured to perfection, heels reaching skyward and i knew that morning and every morning there had been a precise process of outfit decision making. I sat there thinking, looking at my dirty feet, "I am so happy that i was not born an Italian woman".

ah yes, Italy again.

It's amazing how one changes in 2 years, here i am in the same place (more or less doing the same thing) and i feel as if i am a completely different person. 2 years ago, i was perhaps more adaptable to the Italian way of life. Two years ago if i was given chocolate biscuits, Nutella, espresso and milk for breakfast i would have a accepted it gratefully and been excited about the sugar injection I was giving myself. Then I would deal with hunger pains until lunch when we could eat something “real” such as a bowl of pasta, some white bread with olive oil and some sort of meat.

Well as much as I have an affection for white pasta and white bread I cannot deny how heavy and unhealthy it makes you feel, and now, being vegetarian the Italians think that I need a special substitute for the meat so they either create a whole other meal (like a second pasta) OR they give me a huge hunk of cheese. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE cheese, but a huge hunk of dried lunch cheese that they give us at camp cafettaria’s is not the Italian cheese that bounce around one’s dreams.

The fight to be healthy is almost a losing battle in Italy for they cannot comprehend why one would want fruity yoghurt and muesli for breakfast? And why would you not want to eat hot dry chips for lunch? Seeing the chips come toward me I hastily asked for half a portion, she gave me the same as the children, seeing a child’s portion as half an adults portion (which was NO child’s portion) and the other server, thinking i was being underfed, tipped the rest of her chips on my plate.

But no it isn’t just food that I feel like I am battling against. It is that wonderful useless thing called fashion. I began my journey in Milan and I am still near Milan in some little town or other and the obsession to look good is like a disease spread among all Italians. My first school was a Catholic school full of nuns and I thought my camp director was joking when she said we had to wear pants down to our shins, closed shoes and t shirts with sleeves. For the first time in 7 months I am in a hot country and they are telling me i have to cover up? So the camp director phoned my host parents saying i NEED longer shorts and so we went on a special family shopping trip to one of the biggest malls in Europe.

Malls make me uncomfortable, shopping for clothes makes me uncomfortable, well especially when I’m with someone else’s mother who is firstly Italian and secondly buying me clothes. SO we went to H&M, bypassed all the pretty clothes and they proceeded to buy me the ugliest pair of 3 quarter pants i had seen in my life for the sum total of about R250. When they saw that I did not have love in my eyes for these pants they told me they were “beautiful” and I could also wear them out with the family to restaurants etc. they were cargo pants, they were ugly but they were a gift, an expensive gift and feeling like a spoiled child I squashed my feelings of "I don’t want this" accepted it and wore it for the rest of the week.

but this kind of mentality with looking good begins to seep into you. The Italian women and men look so beautiful and elegant in their outfits and, well, I don’t always want to look like a dirty hippie, especially when I am going out with a very well to do Italian family. However, i have been living out of a bag mainly geared for winter for the past 7 months and this obviously makes such things a little difficult. One night I had conjured some sort of nice outfit out of my meager clothes and when my host father saw me he said ' Wow Mary you look-a nice" but when he saw me put on my green slipslops just before we left he was not impressed. "Mary, imagine a beautiful mountain. and at the mountain you see the mountain is-a not real, iz-a fake mountain" and I understood that somehow my green slip slops was devastatingly ruining the effect of what I was wearing.

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

So we had some sort of “discussion” about how looking good is a matter of perception and I happen to like my green slip slops and I think I look nice. Well he sort of humoured my ideas but his point was firm, one should not wear second rate shoes out in high society (Or in any society at that). And all I could think was and I wanted to say “I AM NOT AN ITALIAN WOMAN AND I NEVER WILL BE”. Furthermore, I never have been one to waste much time on appearance but I realized that this i almost a cultural identity. The Irish live to get drunk, the Italians live to look good. Terrible generalizations I know, but let me just leave them hanging there for now.

Ah yes Italy, you are funny creature. That was my first camp. I have moved to another small town now but I am now living with another camp tutor in a little flat where we eat breakfast and vegetables and fruit and nuts and honey, gearing up with some healthy non-white-pasta food before we go back to live with Italian families. And we have freedom to do whatever we wish at night, to sleep, to nap, and on Friday we took a trip to the old town of Bergamo, high on a hill, piazza’s of music, drinking wine in a box listening to a Spanish guitar watching little statues lighted by churches and reveling in the magic of a summer’s night in Italy.

And yesterday we went to Lake Garda, big pristine waters, full of tourists and sexy Italians. Oh they are all sexy, I look at girls here and their faces and I wonder how they choose who gets to be a top model and who doesn’t. Their bodies are perfect, their faces structured to perfection, it is both tiring and interesting. I mean how are they ALL good looking and WHERE are the Italians that do not make the cut? Are they crying at home? It is a strange phenomenon and a part of me looks upon their bodies with a mingle of jealousy and another part of me just thinks THANK GOD I AM NOT ITALIAN! I can eat their food, I can try to speak their language but I do not have to BE Italian, I do not have to make sure I do not mix 2 different types of pasta in one pot, I do not have to uphold the fashion of the day, I do not have to be chiseled to perfection. Thank you South Africa, that for all your foibles you allow me to be anything, really, that I want.

And I am still wearing my green slip slops and no one is asking me to do otherwise, except for the despairing, disparaging looks of the Italian women who pass me by.

and it's so green. so freaking green

Oh silly Ireland. what a funny country it is.

i never meant to be in Ireland. It was not a country i envisaged being in and when justifying the choice i suppose i came to that of "Ireland is supposed to be green . and well, i like green". So one day I found myself at the Dublin airport, thinking "Oh. So this is Ireland." I kept on hearing funny lilting accents around me, some nonsensical words that i could only conjecture was SUPPOSED to be maybe some version of English

Strange country, so cold. It's "Summer" now and i am still holding onto hoodies, jeans, shoes an socks. People talk about the weather all the time, if it's warm they say "Ah now, it's going to rain soon" and if it's rainy and cold they say, "ah yes, Summer was short this year, it wil be winter soon."
but. ok let me backtrack

I arrived and was escorted by my Irish friend, Olwyn to her home in Thomastown. i knew she had moved recently but what i came into was something i never expected. She lived in a mill, a big old stone mill, with hall-sized rooms converted into different living areas. for the equivalent of R2000 a month she had a humongous bedroom lounge area, a next door room of similar size, a hall-like play area, a kitchen, bathroom. this place is not a normal place to live, the mill is old, dusty and magical, with a bee hive in one of the window sills and old candles discarded on the floor and a bath that never really gets hot. if it was winter in Ireland this place would be perhaps a portion of hell to live in. the windows don't close properly and the stone restricts all heat. in fact a friend who used to live there said he built a huge tent around the little wood stove and a portion of the room to try keep the heat in and spent most of the winter shivering in bed. its cold alright but. it's magic. wooden secret stairways connects one living space to another and the "mill folk" are all artists, writers and musicians, they eat together, they play music together and they amble sleepily through their days.

this sleepy lifestyle suited me for a while, to wake up slowly, to play the guitar for a while and then embark upon my morning amble through fields of sheep and cows, through nettles and thistles and fording the river. so pretty, the sun was shining for the first two weeks, i was barefoot and cycling and alive.

but the peace couldn't and never does last forever. i had come to Ireland as a waiting period before i was to go to Italy. with a South African passport one needs a tourist visa to go to Italy, something i was aware of but supposed that i would procure in Ireland. not so, there are all sorts of mad obstacles which do not want to give a tourist visa to a South African that is not a resident in Ireland. furthermore, there are insurance issues where travel insurance is only given to a person if they are leaving and flying back to their own country. wow. madness. so many things seemed to be adamant in not helping me. it's a long story and it made me really angry and worried and frustrated and sleepless in the midst of Thomastown peace. after considering all options, even that of flying home and then back to Italy, I got my parents involved and a lot of tricky organisation later, i finally have a visa in my passport a week before i embark towards Italy. anyway all this aside what really struck me about the situation was that for the first time in my life i really felt the absolute ridiculous hell that is discrimination. i know it is perhaps on a superficial level, i want a visa to go to Italy as i am dedicating my life to having an excellent time all the time and i am privileged enough to make this happen BUT again and again through this process i wanted to ask "WHAT is wrong with ME that you will let the drunken Irish lad down the street into your country with no problem but because i was born somewhere else i am not granted permission to easily enter?"

i have learnt a lot about Ireland in being here of course and people keep on talking about the glory days of the "Celtic Tiger," when everyone had everything and could buy fancy cars and go on skiing trips and were the latest outfits and other such stuff. And, well, we all know how this story goes, recession hit and this is not how Ireland is anymore, people don't have money to do whatever they want, most people are steeped in debt with loans and mortgages and still further, it is more lucrative to be on the dol than to get a real job. so i have met many young capable people simply bumming around and collecting unemployment from the government. And it's not like it's a bad living, it's a very very good living. actually it works out, that if you had a job, at least a part time job you would earn a lot less than if you were purely on the dol doing nothing. which in two senses infuriates me, as i watch young Irish men drink the governments money away when i know people at home in South African cannot actually get a job or provide enough money for their children's care but furthermore i KNOW that with an Irish passport the entire world and jobs are open to you, you simply have to go online, fly to Europe, teach a bit of English or get a job on a ski resort or SOMETHING and it's possible to save money and and and ARG! so much opportunity and they. just. don't. want. to. and i feel like every time i go somewhere i have to struggle with my passport to prove that i am not going to come wreck havoc in a country and. well, it is humbling but. it is hurtful. it is frustrating. and ultimately, it is wrong.

But anyway, after sleeping, eating, playing music, listening to music, reading, drinking and all that fabulous holiday stuff i was done! And two and a half weeks later i moved to the farm. The farmer is an Irish lady called Sinead who besides growing and handling a farm all on her own with the help of the current "wwoofer" or volunteer is interested in all sorts of things from herbalism to Shamanism to tag rugby. We get on well, working daily in the fields, hoeing, planting, watering, collecting eggs, driving the tractor (one of my favourite activities) and harvesting the food. It is mainly a vegetable farm with fabulous amazing seasonal vegetables. I have always been a "eat what is cheapest and most available" sort of girl but now i am allowed the chance to eat the finest quality freshly grown from our farm everyday i fear i may think twice about the rubbishy vegetables i will buy at a supermarket. What a change from America! the eggs are REAL, things taste, coriander, dill, onions, SPRING onions. Every week or so a new vegetable is ready to be harvested and eaten. Yesterday we started picking courgettes! and the garlic and carrots have just begun to be ready. I have never really grown things before, the absolute joy and amazement that comes from things that simply grow from water and sunlight and glorious air. that is life. that is magic.

I had been feeling guilty being in Ireland for so long and not seeing any of the country besides little Thomastown and Kilkenny (which are 20 minutes away from each other). So a friend of mine showed up for a visit and all of a sudden i had that travel buddy i needed to do lots of exciting things. So we hooked a ride to Doolin to go visit the famed Cliffs of Moher with Sinead my farmer. Honestly i was somewhat determined to not really be impressed. And when we got there i was further not impressed, i mean WHAT are the point of cliffs when they are fenced off and you can't really feel like you are on a cliff? but presently we walked past the tourist centre and the swarming tourists themselves to the "no trespassing" sign, climbed over it and the real beauty began. After walking a kilometre or 2 or 3 the tourists trickled away and it was just us and the cliffs, the wind, the crashing sea. glorious. We continued our walk another couple k around the cliffs into some unpronounceable town and tried to hitchhike back to Doolin then make our way to Galway to visit a friend.

So let me say another thing about Ireland. So many people have told me "Oh i went to Ireland once a few years back, hitchhiked all around it, Irish people are the nicest people on earth." They were right in a sense, Irish people are really really really nice, in fact they are really chatty, you can fall into a chat with the road worker on the street as you go by or the old lady in the supermarket discussing different types of yoghurts. But they don't pick up hitchhikers anymore. Back to the Celtic Tiger,, no one needed to hitch coz now they had cars and with this everyone became suspicious of hitchhikers. We waited for a long time for a few lifts but, in saying this, it is true that the person who DOES break the mold and picks you up is going to well, either kill you OR be that stellar awesomeness that i suppose i want anyway. In general the latter was true and we were picked up by a Finish girl on her way from Finland to Portugal visiting friends on the way, camping and playing golf. And then a Swiss couple in a lovely green hippie van. A Slovakian who took us to his wife's bakery and bought us coffee, an 87 year old Hotel Owner who had 8 children ("that i know of," he said) and a drummer/ Organic farmer. One of my favourite lifts was from a man with an horse empty cart. From looking into his car it was clear he didn't have space for us, full of hammers and saws and mess of every size and shape. I thought he wanted us to get into the horse cart but no he told us to sit on top of all the rubbish in the back so cross legged on a plastic drum we held onto whatever we could as he roared us closer to Galway. We walked, we sang songs, we got to Galway, and we got back to Kilkenny from Galway, seeing little Irish towns , meeting lovely people in their cars and arriving home very tired after a fabulous weekend.

Ah yes, it's been good, i consistently find it amazing how lovely people are and how well things work out. this country isn't warm, but it is definitely warm in the hearts of people, as drunk and useless as some of them can be. but before i came here i knew Ireland was green. Oh and it's green so green.

Hot water, Humongous Trees & San Fantastic-isco

It took me a while to write this…it seems holidays are harder to report as one is far too busy being on holiday than one would be in a working, “serious” environment. I have begun several attempts but then I have fallen asleep in the Irish sun or been called to other frivolities or been summoned by the presence of a still guitar, beckoning me to play it. “You can do this later, Mary, later, later.” It is getting onto almost a month of “laters” as doing nothing slowly seems to breed doing nothing even slower and for now I am trying to revel in it. We all exist in many modes, I am very good at existing in that of presto and now I am floating in adagio and yes, it is working.

So I left Hood River. Willing and unwillingly I was driven away to the promise of more beautiful things but my heart felt as if it was slowly breaking, leaving a place before I was ready, while my heart was still firmly rooted in the people I had met and come to love in this beautiful American town.

And I was tired. I was tired for living the life I had lived for 5 months, rushing, waking up early, meeting, greeting, making money, trying to make more money, making plans, snowboarding and hiding from the cold. So I slept. On a road trip to some delicious hot springs I was allowed to sleep while my companion drove me to paradise. There we found a forest, some mountains and some hot springs. Magic pools, filled with magnificently bright coloured water, we found a little place to camp and eat and spent two days soaking in this magnificent paradise. I am not very good at soaking being my only activity but for then, that was good, good for me to soak and to digest the last part of my life. We made some glorious food, and for the first time we felt spring, I was barefoot and I had shorts on my glowing white legs. And the following day I lay in the hot springs enjoying the sun on my body while I suddenly realized that snow was falling. The term “monkey’s wedding” seems foreign to Americans (when it is sunny and rainy at the same time) and I have continually asked whose wedding it is when it snows and is sunny at the same time? I have decided it is the wedding of the elk, the snow falling with the sun streaming on it is a regal scene, some great powerful animal is getting married for powerful thing is happening.

We continued on our journey down the coast into California and the redwoods. I love trees, I have always loved trees. But to be in the presence and to love a tree when you are standing next to something great as the Redwoods is something else. It was as if all my strength or stature I have ever felt was diminished, I had become tiny and these majestic trees let me feel my sweet insignificance. I felt like a pixie, playing on the trees, walking along them, on them, touching them, feeling the power of age, of life.

I met up with another friend in Coos Bay named Sonja and we headed down to the fabulous city of San Francisco. I had booked a flight out of San Francisco for the express purpose of forcing myself to go there as I had heard it was comparable to my dear city of Cape Town. My intention was clear, I wanted to go there and say, “Sure it’s cool but you should see Cape Town.” But well. I was more than astounded at the magnificent beauty and freedom this city offers. It is a bicycling city, bikes are taken on the train, there are nice bike routes and bike lanes and cars take care to stop for bikes and you cycle along like the king of the road, king of the city (Ok, one of many, many kings).

We stayed in the old Spanish district called the Mission which is littered with fabulous Hispanic murals and “trendy” people. It’s a city of course so everyone chooses their subculture and sticks in it but it’s also a place where everything goes. The gay district (Castro) is very fun to watch all the outfits there and one feels that in San Francisco life is easy forever. We were taken through the city, over the golden gate bridge to, ah, some other place by the water, over bicycle routes all the way, forests and ocean, water and trees, prettiness, and more prettiness, like Cape Town, you are in a city but there is enough beauty around for you to breath, to be, to feel on top of the world and within and without it all. We took the ferry back to the Mission(yes you can take your bicycle on the ferry) and tired out, we passed out, a little tanned and joyful with the day.

Maciek (our fabulous host) told us that sunny Sundays was the day for Dolores Park and so, armed with cheese, bread and wine we went to the Sunday hub of the city. People were protesting on one side of the park against the war (although everyone in San Francisco agrees so everyone just got riled up together) and the other side of the park there were people simply picnicking it up. People dressed in funny costumes for birthday parties, people practicing poi (fire spinning) and a whole bunch of people had set up a slack line. So I made friends with the slack line guys and I tried to learn how to walk across it with some success. Some of them did this every week and were learning to dance across it, juggle and spin balls. An Australian who was very good at juggling on the slack line invited me to go climbing with him that evening and so, very sunburnt and tired, I scaled some walls then went home to another fabulous supper and a comfy couch.

The next day I ambled alone as people had things like work to attend to and I went to visit the mother of a couchsurfer I once met in Cape Town. He promised me fabulous things about his mother and I wasn’t disappointed. Immediately she made me a heavenly sandwich for lunch with some tea and took me on a bike ride around the Berkley Marina. She must be in her 70s but she doesn’t own a car and cycling is her only mode of transport, to shop, to visit people and go to her ballet lessons. Fabulous, I enjoyed her spirit greatly and then returned to dear San Francisco to have dinner with my new Australian friend. The next day passed with lots of admin-y stuff, a lovely sunset walk and view of the magnificent city, some Mexican food (cheap cheap yum Mexican food) and I flew off, away from San Francisco, the Redwoods, Mexican Food, Hood River, Snowboarding to the green green green fields full of cows and sheep that is this ridiculous country of Ireland.

Straddling Seattle, baddest Bachelor and faring well

The last couple of days was a weird sort of torture, i had lost all zest for being a liftie and i tried some final doubles to push through the end of work and subsequently my 3 months holiday. Looking back at it, 2 weeks later, it was the doubles that were making me crazy and I could do it again now but then it was only a strange sort of delirious mood that pushed me through right to the end. So

It was time to explore.

On my last day of work, myself and 4 friends jumped into two cars and made our way to Seattle. (So close to Canada, i wanted to just hop into canada at a whim -oh terrible visas, why do you keep me from crossing joined land?)

Ah Crystal mountain. steep steep mountain. Only when i got there did i realize how gentle dear Mount Hood was. The powder was deep, the back bowl was exquisite, we hiked further up and got new lines. Magic.

The next day we found our way to that of Stephen's Pass (ski exchange again is heavenly- we saved a good $63 and $79 - there are definite perks to our minimum wage). While Crystal had been misty and overcast, Stephen's pass rolled up clear and sunny. How can i really describe what some days are on a mountain with a sliding vehicle under your feet? We were exstatic, riding in a hoody we hiked further up the mountain in the sunlight, At the top we threw off our top gear and relished in the sunlight. A ski patroller walked up at that point to see 5 topless people on top of the mountain revelling in the magic around them, he smiled and said "well now i've seen everything" as he conceded to take our photo and then take his own personal photo to show off to other people during his day. It was St Patrick's day, i called a St Patrick's day greeting to some lift attendents having a Braai on a balcony and I think they thought I was Irish with all the crazy hand gestures I saw behind me as i descended off the lift.

So yes, St Patrick's day was upon us and i got excited about dancing in green and soaking in general revelry in Seattle. I wore my green jeans and pigtails, wrapped some green ribbon around a friend's beard and we headed to some promising looking street. Well the first place (Named the Dubliner like my dear Cape Town Irish bar) asked us for 6 dollars to enter which we pronounced as ludicrous and continued to another bar who requested an unholy 8 dollars and on our third strike they laid down a whopping request of 12 dollars. Somewhat totally dissatisfied we decided to find the gasworks park of seattle which overlooked the water, buy a box of wine and dance to some Irish music which my green ribbon bearded friend had on his phone.

so we bought the wine, tried some unsuccesful dumpster diving outside a bakery and sang merrily alng the way to the gasworks park, looking at the space needle, Seattle's symbol which i recognised from Frasier and on the left across the water my friend pointed out the house where the guy in "Sleepless in Seattle" "lived" and we were actually in the park where the "10 things I hate about you" paintball fight was. This is all irrelevant information to anyone who has not watched these shows but honestly (and i suppose this is somewhat embarassing) when i thougth about Seattle i knew it was rainy and that Frasier lived here and i was pleased to find out that one of my favourite movies "Ten things I hate about you" was filmed there. Also i saw the famous troll which the characters climbed on on some date that they had had. I am supposed to care about the troll for the troll's sake, and it is cool, but when i went back to Hood River and watched the movie again I was more exicted that the troll was in the movie than merely that it exists. It is strange how movies really do skewer our perceptions of things.

So Jay (my green bearded friend but not green bearded anymore) bought a monkey (not a real one alas) and we took the monkey around Seattle the next day and took pictures of it with various items which amused us all greatly. Later when we arrived at this rad farmers market with the name of Pike Place market centre in the city and we met Miss Teen Washington and Miss Washington herself we were further pleased to hand the monkey to both of them and take photos with ourselves, the monkey and the beauty queens. They were pelased with my accent and I was pleased they held the monkey and quite simply, it was a pleasure all round. Another interesting thing that was happening at this market at the time (the real reason why both Miss Washington's presence was there) is that this market was welcoming their famed Rachel the metallic piggy bank back from her absence. Rachel had been brutally injured in a road accident and now she was fixed and was being restored to her orginal station at the market. It was all very exciting and Rachel the giant piggy bank made alot of money as people scurried to put money in her money slot so that they could be in full view of all the media and the important people (like the Miss Washington's and ourselves) who were around. I enjoyed the hullabaloo and for a second indulged in the possibility of making a mettalic piggy bank suite so i could reap the benefits of Rachel's return but i suppose the Mary fund may not be as important as the fund that Rachel's benvolence goes to (though it should be).

SO the party continued ... I returned to Hood River, thanked my friends for their merriness all round and a day later was off, back to Bend for another heavenly trip to Bend, and Bachelor mountain. Now the first time I got to ride Bachelor i was so excited and amazed by the amount of snow inbetween the trees and all the frolicking to be had. But the second time in Bachelor, was literally the one of the most beauitful experiences of my snowbaording lifetime so far. We rode for 2 days, with the first day being vaguely dismal. Visibility was near none, at the top of every chair the first few minutes was a somewhat blind experience where i simply hoped i was not going to fall down some sort of steep cliff because there was no way from telling bettween cliff, flat snow or tree. We did not ride for long and when we went home (well, to the place we were staying) we were pleased to be there.

But the next day, 9and i am sorry to harp on about snowboarding so much but i mean it this time) was probably the maddest baddest truly, raddest riding day of my life. Bachelor (as said previously) is a mountain that is known for a somewhat snobby management and somewhat snobby clientale. Thus, many lifts are closed on days when they don't need to be closed as the mountain does not care to keep lifts running when there are not enough people riding the mountain to make it worth their while. Furthermore, they have this chairlift called the Summit. As one can imagine this chairlift takes you to literally the top of this awesome mountain and if you have further energy one can hike to the very very summit of the summit (about 10 minute walk from the top of the chairlift) and ski over the backside to the lowest part of the mountain. I have never seen or indulged in such beauty, simply, all to myself. It was sunny, it was clear, the summit chairlift for once was open and the mountain was free to those who cared to hike a little and find the fresh lines and gorgeous trees on the other side. I cannot even begin to describe the feeling i had riding in this place, with barely anyone around, the trees, the snow, the far off mountains, the colours of pure madness. but i know it's moments like this which attach themselves to my mind, where i will always come back to these adventures under my feet, in my dreams, in my reality- the peace of real flight.

We left Bend, and i navigated my final week in Hood River. Goodbyes and goodbyes and "Oh i thought you were gone" and "Oh i heard you were leaving" and "What. aren't you working tomorrow?" and lots of confusion and some people being sad and other people who i just didn't want to be sad around and oh. goodbyes. And i snowboarded and finally got my 180 jump down, rode it out YES (yes i should have done this ages ago but i can be very ungutsy when i know the fall can bring grave injury). Went on a rafting trip (cold, early Spring water) jumped in the Hood River itself (FINALLY), had a vaguely raucous farewell party and started smelling and seeing the unfolding of Spring all around me.

"Ah," they told me, "the Winter may be great but you have not seen anything if you have not seen Hood River in summer, why can't you stay? What? What does Visa mean? you mean you can't stay here forever?" They didn't understand and i didn't either, it is hard to leave a place before you are truly ready

Some somewhat sad and maybe a touch tearful goodbyes later i jumped in a car away from Hood River to continue another pretty trip of more beautiful things, my heart gently breaking and simultaneoulsy excited for what is more to come.