Homesickness Sets In

Flashback to...11 April 2010

I felt a tinge of homesickness today, as I was wandering the streets of Baltimore.  I found myself yearning for a familiar face and a warm embrace from someone, for whom I care.  I’m unsure if the same length of time has passed, as when I felt homesick in Seattle, or if it’s shorter this time.  Since I came to appreciate home more after the former trip, the longing for it and the people special to me is a bit stronger. 

Yet, I certainly don’t want to allow myself to settle.  I haven’t pushed myself far enough yet to remain at home.  I got a taste of what it is like without my comfort zone, without the familiar, without immediate support; and while it was exciting and refreshing to be so independent, I recognized the value and importance that the aspects of home have in my life.  I need to keep teaching myself how to appreciate and value the familiar, the new, and the unknown. 

One of the reasons I took my last trip by myself was because I wanted to get used to the idea of being alone, since there won’t always be a familiar face to accompany me on my journeys.  Yet, there is also value in sharing experiences, sights, and adventures with another individual, which creates a new level of meaning.  I know that I am capable of striking out on my own, and that I will not falter in making the right decision for myself.  I would simply prefer a companion with whom to enjoy life; discover, explore, and contribute positively to the world.

The Beginning of Current Occupation: Volunteer

When I first started filling out forms that ask for your current occupation, I never thought much about this word, “occupation”, as I quickly scribbled down “student”.  I was a student for about twenty-three years of my life, and following graduation, I hesitated at that “occupation” line.  I was quite reluctant to fill in “barista” as my occupation during the first year after I had earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Environmental Studies.  I felt occupation to be synonymous to career, something that one aspired and dedicated oneself to in life.  I was far from passionate about making people’s coffee, especially not for the rest of my life.

Yet, as unhappy and frustrated as I was with my “occupation” and the general path of my life, I felt powerless to do anything about it.  Often, I would hear of the travels and adventures of friends and acquaintances, which caused an upwelling of jealousy.  However, it was unfair of me to feel this way towards these individuals, who were making the most of life and really living it.  I wanted to travel.  I wanted to do something different, something meaningful.  I didn’t feel like I could accomplish that by staying around my hometown, my comfort zone, and following along the path of building a successful career, becoming financially stable, settling down, and starting a family.  It just didn’t feel right for me, and was the cause of some shuddering.  It took me, well, a lifetime really, to build up my courage and self-confidence, but one year was the most pivotal for me to take a risk and make a change.

In the spring of 2009, I took a chance and applied for a position doing trail work in Vermont for part of the summer, for which I was accepted.  Around this time, I also booked a one way ticket to Seattle, Washington, with a plan to visit friends and to travel the west coast for the very first time and on my own.  My adventure had begun.

Since then, I have held two internships abroad in the fields of marine biology and wildlife rehabilitation.  I find the work to be extremely rewarding and fulfilling.  I feel that, in some small way, I am making a difference, just as I had longed to do. 

In addition, this time has provided opportunities to reflect upon and learn from my travels and experiences.  Even returning home seems to offer new lessons.  And so, I hope that through my writing, I may also be able to make a difference, to inspire, to teach, or to entertain, at the very least.

West to East Coast Travel

I am grateful to have a home, a place to come back to when there is nowhere else to go, where I receive constant love and support, and have time to regroup.  I was better able to appreciate it upon this homecoming for at least two reasons that I have identified.  Firstly, the culture shock is significantly less, as Salt Spring Island was not nearly as isolated as Sherkin Island, complete with shops, traffic, and crowds of people, especially during the summer months and at the Saturday market.  Salt Spring seemed somewhat similar to Western Massachusetts, perhaps like the Hilltowns or a smaller version of Northampton, except surrounded by water. 

Secondly, I keep forgetting how much I dislike the traveling part of traveling.  The flight out of Redmond, Oregon was quite nice, during which I was able to gaze in awe upon the landscape, since the plane was at a low enough elevation.  It passed over some of the snow-capped mountains, most likely those a part of the Cascade Mountains’ chain, which gave me such a different perspective of them, seeing the topography from above, which looked as if the ridges and divots of the mountains had been chiseled into the rocky, nearly deserted landscape.  I had become so accustomed to looking out at the horizon, where these giant formations hold their ground, yet I still felt intimidated by these pronounced forms surrounding and looming over the town.  I am more familiar and at ease with the hill-like mountains of the east coast.  I am still unable to comprehend elevations at which snow exists on top of mountains and they seem like giants even from hundreds of miles away.

On the second flight, from Seattle to New York City, I was hoping to sleep through the majority of it, being overnight travel.  Unfortunately, it was quite uncomfortable seating for a cross-country flight, I was freezing even with three layers on, and I kept having this internal dilemma about whether or not to wake up my seat mates to use the bathroom.  As a result, I slept for less than two of the five and a half hour flight.

When the plane landed in New York, it was raining as the weather report had predicted, but fortunately not down-pouring, as I made my way to the airtrain pick up spot.  The airtrain ultimately went to a couple of stations outside of the airport grounds, but there were two or three stops before that at different sections of the airport.  From the location that I had gotten on at, anyone could ride the airtrain, and since people who are transferring between flights use the airtrain between terminals, I do not believe that there is any kind of established security check.  Who’s to say that any random person could walk into an airport terminal and avoid security?  Maybe there is something in the system to prevent such an incident that I do not know about, but it seemed pretty sketchy to me.  Other than that little detail, the airtran was pretty low key, since few people tend to be up before the sun.

I transferred to the subway at Jamaica Station, and as soon as I saw those Metro Card machines, I knew that I was going to have troubles.  I am not at all a big city girl.  The last time I took the subway into Boston for a Peace Corps interview, my greatest difficulty was trying to figure out how to get the entry machine to read the Metro Card.  I felt like I had tried it every which way, but then one of the workers, I think, got the thing to work.  I felt incredibly silly, just as I did now in New York, with my huge pack and too exhausted to fully understand the picture instructions for how to insert the Metro Card.  That’s what my excuse will be, exhaustion.  Anyways, somehow, I finally figured out the machine all by myself and escaped through the gate into the railroad terminal.

Descending from here to the subway terminal was quite a shock to my system, as it was deathly hot and incredibly stuffy.  Of course there were already no seats once the subway pulled up, so I got amazing workout trying to hold myself upright with my pack against the momentum of the train.  As more people entered the train at each stop, I think I became a bit claustrophobic.  It was crowded and breathing became more difficult; I felt light-headed and nauseous; I was sweating profusely.  I had to get off of this train, otherwise I was sure to black-out, as these were the tell-tale signs.  I tried to hold out through a couple more stops, but finally decided that it wasn’t worth the risk, and so, I burst out of the train doors at the Queens stop, dropped my pack, stripped off my layers, and plopped down on the floor.  I was in no state to care what the people around me thought or what disgusting things had been on that floor.

After watching the E train pass by four more times, I mustered up the courage to get back on and ride it again, even though, I still didn’t feel quite right, but this probably wouldn’t be remedied until I got away from the subway system completely.  It was now rush hour and the trains were packed so full that people literally spilled out of the opened doors onto the platform, but managed to stay on their feet.  I chose a subway car that seemed slightly less crowded and I was able to at least prop my pack up against the wall where I stood.  Eventually, a seat became available and sitting down helped me to keep my horrible physical state at bay.

The subway finally reached Penn Station, where throngs of people were milling about in every direction, making it difficult to navigate around them or at least to avoid getting in anyone’s way.  I ducked into the nearest restaurant/café that offered seating, where I ordered a light breakfast and tried to calm my stomach and my nerves.  I decided that I was in no shape to go wandering around the city, and instead, I would simply remain at the station for the hours until my bus departed.  I learned that the seating at the center of the station was only for Amtrak and New Jersey transit customers and the unfriendly woman at the information desk seemed to believe that I was crazy for thinking that there could be a waiting area for bus patrons, since the busses didn’t stop at Penn Station.  Neither she nor anyone else could tell me about the location of the Megabus stop and all I had to go on was that somewhere between 31^st and 33^rd streets on 9^th Street, there it was, but that would be quite a distance to cover.  I decided to not worry too much about it until the time came closer to noon. Instead, I sat on the floor, propped up against a wall with one arm through the shoulder strap of my pack and my hat pulled far enough over my eyes, so that I could nod off occasionally without anyone suspecting that I was actually asleep.  This is how I spent about four hours waiting for the bus.

Finally, the time came and I suited up in my rain gear, while still sporting my crocs, and hiked over a block to 9^th Street, which seemed a lot longer than the distance in the station between 7^th and 8^th streets.  I was quite relieved, as I approached the next intersection, to see the obvious Megabus logo on a parked bus and signs around a fenced in area with tarp tents inside, just across the street.  I was even happier once I actually boarded the bus, knowing that I was on my way home, and cuddled up with my daypack and fell asleep.

Unfortunately, the combination of exhaustion, hunger, dehydration, and residual subway effects were taking their toll on me with a painful headache that lasted the entire ride home.  I felt horrible that I wasn’t able to express much gratitude for or excitement at seeing my parents when they picked me up at the terminal in Holyoke.  I shared with them some of what I had done in Oregon and they updated me on the happenings here, and soon after arriving at the house, I ate a banana, guzzled some water, took and ibuprofen, and fell asleep for a few hours to remedy my current health issues.  Amazingly, the headache was gone when I awoke, so I was better able to appreciate the comfort of home, after that long and uncomfortable trip.

Now, I find myself trying to regroup.  I had left my room in chaos when I left in May with half of my things packed into boxes, partly from moving back home last spring and partly anticipating my next move out, and the other half of my things set in random places, as an attempt at organization.  I don’t think I would have remembered exactly where I had left everything, even if my roommate hadn’t reorganized the room. It looks much tidier now, but the set up will make it difficult to live out of the boxes, as they are all now stacked upon each other.  I am also having difficultly remembering what little projects I had started or where I had paused with them.  I know that I was trying to get rid of unnecessary possessions, condense my life, but how far I got or what still needed to be sorted, I couldn’t tell.

Yet, even though I have this disoriented feeling, it also feels like I never left home.  For the most part, everything and everyone is the same as when I left.  All of the things that I’ve done and seen and the people who I’ve met seem like part of a dream, like some kind of time warp.  Maybe I fell asleep one night and entered into this alternate universe, also known as Canada, where five months is the equivalent to a matter of hours in my reality.  In spite of the strange feeling, I think that it’s pretty cool to have really lived a dream.

Arriving on Salt Spring Island

Just getting here was an experience.  I utilized nearly every form of motorized transportation to get to Salt Spring Island.  I took a bus out of Springfield to Logan Airport.  I could feel my body quivering in anticipation, a combination of nervousness and excitement.  Yet, I felt confident, even moreso than during my travels to Sherkin Island last year.  I may not know where I’m going or what to expect, but I’m fairly certain that I can handle it.  Though, I did get a bit nervous at the transfer point when the bus didn’t show for ten minutes.  I couldn’t have missed it and I wasn’t sure if there were other terminals for pick-up.  I asked around, but I wasn’t about to start feeling okay with this until the bus showed.  There was plenty of time before I needed to be at the airport, but I don’t seem to do well when there are glitches in my plans, especially when there’s something significant depending on it, like the non-refundable plane ticket.  I don’t recall what time the bus finally arrived but apparently its route begins in Providence and there was lots of traffic on the way to the airport, causing delays.

At the airport, I made it to my gate in plenty of time to sit and wait for a couple of hours, after which I flew to Chicago to wait some more.  I made the mistake of getting a hamburger and fries from McDonald’s, which I later regretted with a queasy stomach, as I can only recall three times that I’ve had chain fast food stuff in the past year, and it's been years since I consumed McDonald's food.  My body was definitely protesting that decision.  It got a bit better once I got to Seattle, but I was also incredibly jet lagged.  I seem to do well enough when I lose time transferring between time zones, but not so much going forward in time, which is quite strange.  I also started to realize exactly how heavy my pack was, while trekking to the Link Light Rail, wondering when I would ever get there, as one sign after another passed by overhead.  By the time I got to the train, I could have fallen asleep propped up against my pack, but I refrained from this, as I didn’t fancy missing my stop and riding around on the train for the remainder of the evening. 

I hefted up my pack once again to walk the few blocks to the Green Tortoise Hostel, which I found to be quite busy.  Everyone was friendly and welcoming, and I was fortunate enough to show up on free dinner night.  I was certainly thankful for some real food after the fast food episode.  The hostel is going for a hip, new age kind of look, really geared towards the 20-somethings, though everyone is welcome.  After dinner I set out to map my route to the Clipper ferry the next morning, deliberating with myself if I could manage the distance carrying my pack.  Being cheap and not trusting public transportation, I decided to just get up extra early, so that I’d have plenty of time for breaks on my walk over. 

Sleep seemed to elude me that night, as I woke up at least once every hour, even after my roommates stopped coming in from their night out on the town.  So I just got up even earlier, helped myself to free breakfast and headed out, but not before checking where my ferry would land in respect to the ferry to the island.  I had foolishly thought that the ferries would make berth in the same harbor.  Of course, they were an hour bus ride away from each other.  I figured I’d deal with that when I came to it. 

It took me about double the time to walk to the ferry with my pack, but I still had time to check-in, which I completely neglected to factor into the equation.  It was a full house and as I was scoping out the available seats, I started to remember that I haven’t always done well on boats, as I usually get nauseous.  But then I recalled the successful experiences with ferries and RIBs on Sherkin and the dizziness/nausea tolerance that I built up over the past six months of contra dancing and figured that I’d be fine.  I tried to get into the motion of the boat as it bobbed in the calm water.  As we got going, I just focused on my music and tried as best I could to watch the passing scenery from an aisle seat.  It was breathtaking to see snow-capped mountains again.  Since winter wasn’t very long before, the snow extended much further down the mountain slopes than when I visited two Septembers ago.  It was invigorating to stand on the deck outside with the wind whipping past and the sea spraying up behind the boat, leaving a white, foamy trail and a ripple of waves that gradually died away with the increasing distance. 

After three hours on the ferry, we arrived in Victoria and everyone rushed out to wait in line to claim luggage and go through customs.  I had no problems, as there were no computer system failures to deal with this time.  The next bus to Schwartz Bay was forty-five minutes from the ferry’s arrival time, so I was cutting it close after the time spent waiting in line.  I had studied the map on the ferry and the bus depot seemed to be in an easy to find location, so I hustled over there to inquire about the bus, and then, hiked further up the street until I found a bus stop with signs indicating that the correct bus stopped there with only minutes to spare.  The bus arrived on time and I enjoyed my quick, yet amazing tour of Victoria.  I’ve seen plenty of trees, hills, fields, and such at home, but it’s so much more thrilling seeing these in a completely new environment.  I appreciate the little things so much more and everything feels like a new adventure. 

I had e-mailed the rehabilitation center with my anticipated arrival time, but thought it would be a good idea still to call and confirm with actually being at the ferry terminal.  I tried dialing the number a multitude of ways on the pay phone, and finally gave up to try Skype, because of course there would be wi-fi, but the program was having issues.  The ferry was huge!  It accommodated three lanes of eight to ten cars plus passengers, and that was the small ferry, as I later learned!  I opted to withstand the chilly breeze, so that I could fully enjoy the ride and the view. 

Thirty-five minutes later, the ferry crawled into Fulford Harbor and I attempted the pay phone game again.  Of course, it wouldn’t work, which seems to be pretty typical, as the same thing happened last year.  I even talked to 411, but they confirmed that I had the right number and couldn’t do much else.  I was skeptical of the pay phones, so I inquired at a little cafe at the port about the wildlife center and I was able to use the phone, which actually connected to the facility.  I was told the manager, who I had been in contact with was on her way, so I stood out on the corner with my pack, waiting and watching for her vehicle.

The manager is a pleasant, friendly woman and quite chatty.  There was too much information to retain on the drive over, particularly as exhaustion and hunger were overtaking my body.  I heard tidbits about the island and got a tour of town, including the places that would be visited most frequently and the best coffee shops and restaurants.  I was blown away by how populated and bustling the island was, since after my time on Sherkin, I expected islands to generally be rather remote.  It is about a fifteen minute drive from town to the wildlife center, where it’s more removed, tucked away in the woods with cages hiding amongst the towering conifers.  All of the buildings are wooden and rather quaint looking, but the interiors are pretty modern. 

There’s not much happening yet, since the rehabilitation season seems to hit this area later than those nearby, but there should be more patients to care for within the next two weeks.  For now, it’s just prepping and cleaning, learning the ropes and where to find things, and getting settled.  I certainly appreciate the down time after all of that traveling.  I’ll write more as things start happening and I get myself out to explore this island life.

Salt Water

As soon as you step over the threshold from the cabin to the upper deck, the wind hits you with a strength and intensity that could whisk you overboard.  As long as you can hold your ground, it’s quite invigorating to feel such power.  The wind’s force presses me up against the deck railing and below I see two steady streams of sea spray flying up from underneath the vessel as it cuts effortlessly through the calm water.  Bits of spray spike upwards into my face, as the rest trails behind in a seemingly endless stream of white foam.  I’m reminded of the RIB (rigid-hulled inflatable boat) rides back on Sherkin with that feeling of exhilaration, while speeding across open water, crashing over crests, spraying a salty mist in my face, and I can’t help but smile.

Individual Exploration

Early Wednesday morning, before the sun even rose, the love of my life boarded a bus to New York City, en route to the suburbs of Washington, D.C.  He’s off to get a fresh start, get back on his feet, explore a world outside of his comfort zone, and develop a relationship with his biological father, with whom he will be living.  I knew he was going to leave and I witnessed it with my own eyes.  Yet, after spending the past six months with him and being only an hour’s drive away, it’s hard to believe that he could be anywhere else.  We both have things that we want to do, individual lives to lead, and goals and dreams to pursue, so the time is not right for us to be together; at least not in convenient proximity to each other.  We just need to believe that our love is strong enough to withstand the test of time, and that one day, our paths may cross once again.

As for me, I finally get to begin a new adventure, and will be hopping on a plane bound for Seattle on May 12.  From there, I will be ferrying up to Salt Spring Island, which is located north of Victoria and southwest of Vancouver, British Colombia.  I have been accepted for an internship position at a wildlife rehabilitation center there, where I will delve deeper into this field.  I am hoping that a full-time position will provide me with adequate exposure to all aspects of the work, so that I can determine if it is something that I would like to pursue as a career.  I decided several months ago that instead of jumping about between a variety of different types of internships, as interesting as that would be, I should focus on a particular area of interest, so that I can get a better sense of the field and develop and refine skills to make myself a more appealing job candidate.

I have kept coming back to animal care positions over the course of my life, and I actually could see myself doing wildlife rehabilitation for the long-term, having spent a portion of the past two years volunteering for such work; at least this is the feeling for now.  It still aggravates me how everything is so incredibly subject to change.  I do worry about going over to Canada and discovering, as I go through the internship, that I could not make this my life’s work, forcing me to go back to the drawing board, and potentially spending another long break at home.  I am trying not to think too much about that and just enjoy the internship for what it is and deal with this issue if it even arises.  I hope to keep traveling for awhile, and I need to get myself in gear for that, after spending the past six months hanging about at home in my comfort zone.