Zarnesti Libearty Bear Sanctuary

How do you describe life defining moments? Have you ever had to stop and try to process an event, a conversation, a meeting or a vision that made you feel like you needed to do something? Or that made you feel like it happened at exactly the right place and the right time for you to change something about your life or about your outlook on life? I can only think of those are life defining moments, and although I can't say that I have had plenty of those in my life, I can say that, for me, those have been shattering and shocking. But necessary.

I am not hard to please, and I am not hard to offend. I pride myself in being open minded and flexible with arguments and opinions. Some people define that as being weak and fickle - although I disagree, I have come to terms with the fact that to some, that is a reality. However, the following are some of the many facts that are true to me: 

* Animals feel

* Zoos are glorified cages

* Culture is not supposed to be studied like a specimen; it is supposed to be experienced. 

These are facts that I feel do not need an explanation or evidence. To me, to my own perspective, they are truth. If I am ever met with an opposition to these facts, I wouldn't care to contest it, because really nothing anyone could ever say or do would ever make me feel or think other wise.

Recently, we visited the Libearty Bear Sanctuary in Zarnesti, Romania. We were nervous about going, since we know very well that not all sanctuaries are what they claim to be. A lot of these places are nothing less than torturous prisons, which sole purpose is to amuse and entertain the tourists: Chained up elephants, caged bears and lions who have never felt grass under their feet; all of these animals are terrorized, tortured and tamed for fucking entertainment. And these places exist everywhere. 

Thankfully, the Libearty Bear Sanctuary was not one of these places. We were walked into a small cabin first, where they played a video of how and why this Sanctuary was made. Of course, the main purpose of this place was to rescue bears who were kept as touristic attractions; some were kept by private owners, others by circuses and others by zoos. The founder, Cristina Lapis, got the place started after a bear she was trying to rescue, Maya, mutilated herself out of stress for being caged. I immediately got emotional watching the video. They showed shots of cubs playfully nibbling at their keepers, who smiled and even pet the cubs on occasion; while Lapis' voice explained how these bears have never known the freedom of the mountains and the forest, and how they will never learn how to survive in the wild on their own.

"These animals do not need human selfish love" 

That shook me. It shook me for truth hurts. 

This Sanctuary actually exists to give back to the bears the opportunity of a life stolen from them; a life that belongs to them and that they have every right to enjoy as fellow beings of this planet. The sanctuary is made of 160 acres of oak and forest, and although it is fenced in - these bears truly do not have a better chance at their deserved life. They explain to you the story of most of these bears and how they came to the sanctuary; I learned about Max, a bear who was blinded and drugged in order to keep him tame and 'nice' so that people could take pictures with him; I learned about Mona, who is easily distinguishable for her arms which hang down in a semi-circle since she was born and raised to ride a bike in circus shows. As I heard about these stories, my heart kept aching and I felt shame, and pain as much as I felt absolute gratitude for this place to exist for them.

There have been so many times when I have caught myself thinking "This is just the way of the world, and there is nothing I can do to change it". When I am questioned by society and its expectations; when I see hatred towards humanity from humanity; when I read the news, when I hear the news. What can I do? When I hear of another shooting, another mass murder, another national threat, I ask myself, what I can I do? And I have never known what to do other than move on - move on because this is just the way the world works. And it's devastating, and heart breaking - to have been so used to violence and hate, to dehumanize, to literally accept it as a reality. And of course, if we are able to dehumanize one another, how could we possibly respect other species of this planet? One a smaller scale, visiting the sanctuary was one of those moments where I knew I needed to do something. Anything to help. I have always thought that there is nothing I can possibly do - helping in anything takes money, and money I do not always have for 'charity'. But I truly felt like this is exactly where my money needs to go; to help the people who are sacrificing so much in order to provide these animals with the life that was taken from them for absolute selfish and cruel reasons. It was strange really, because I am not often moved, and not often am I moved with such intensity. It is so easy to acknowledge, and just hope for the best - it is harder to do something. And sure - there is no guarantee that my money will not be pocketed or kept for other reasons, but I can vouch for the Libearty Sanctuary. Not only have they rescued bears, but they've also taken in baby does who have been neglected by their mothers, a goat, a horse, and a some wolves, plus the dogs - probably some cats too. As long as they're able to feed them and house them, they'll keep taking them.

I don't really know how, if ever, things could change. I would really hope so. I would like to be able to do something - not just for the bears, but for all of the beings who deserve a chance to life. Our own species included.

If anyone is interested in helping: www.ampbears.ro/en

Letters: To Granada

Years ago, while learning about Mexican history and the Mexican revolution, I remember also learning about them: los gachipines, los conquistadores, los Españoles. There is no denying it - there would be no Mexican history without the coming and the conquest of the Spaniards. Or at least, there would not be a me as there is now. However, I had no real concept of this as a child, and the idea of the Spanish simply scared me and upset me. 

Why did they do that to us? 

When come on, child, which history isn't tainted by that same question? And without the Spanish conquest there would have been some other conquests, or some other revolutions or revolutionaries, or maybe not. Who knows? But that is not the point. The point is, I have never really been much of a fan of Spain. Not necessarily because they came and pillaged and plundered (trust me, I'm not bitter!), but simply because there was never a reason to be fascinated by it. 

And I am - if I were to follow my family tree and define myself through that - mostly Spaniard. But even that meant very little to me. Maybe it was because, culturally speaking, we are similar in many ways (I mean we speak the same language and all), that I was never really curious to learn more about them. I guess I never found them appealing or exotic. 

So why did we choose Spain to go and live there for a while?

Well, mostly to get out of Asia and to be in Europe. There were plenty of options but Spain offered the cheapest and arguably the most comfortable lifestyle (siestas? tapas anyone? sangria!?). I did not go to Spain expecting to fall in love with the country, or to be challenged really or to be surprised in any way. I went to Spain expecting to relax, to be comfortable and to save some money. So, we that in mind, we set ourselves up in the Moorish city of Granada, in South Spain. 


Now, for those who know me personally, already know how things ended up in Spain. But this is not about that - I do not want to write about why we left sooner than planned. I want to write about the things I've taken from our stay there. And I want to remind myself, once again about those little things that I am finding myself missing as I look back. 

Granada: 

We chose you because of the mountains, because of the mountains, because of the mountains. I didn't need any other reason to choose you - the mountains that was all. I saw you and I saw your mountains and read some of your history. And as it turns out - we chose you for so much more. We chose you because you did not seem Spanish at all at first sight: your streets are filled with bazaar style shops, North African restaurants and Moorish architecture. You seemed so exotic without trying too hard. And you are not a city that tries hard to do... well, much of anything. You simply are, and that is enough for anyone to fall in love at first sight. 

You are not the type to demand attention, but you're not the type to go unnoticed. With something like the Alhambra at your core and the Sierra Nevada at your back - how could you not inspire? 

You are the city of stray cats and gypsies. The city where the homeless are always accompanied by tail-wagging dogs, and where the hippies beg for wine and pot money. You lure the expats, the pensioners, the students and the dreamers. You take them all without judgement. You are the city of dancers, of guitar players, of flamenco, of street performers and street artists. 

The whole tapas thing - I never really got it. I mean, everyone raved about them constantly. "OMG, I love the tapas". And even when I would ask what the big deal about these tapas were and people would explain, I still couldn't comprehend how a side dish could be considered one of the Spain's lures. We tried some tapas in Barcelona, and as the waiter came and set the plate down, I had to ask myself "Is this it?" 

But you did them differently. It was a completely different thing, the whole tapas experience in Granada. It was an adventure really - all throughout the city, upon the hill of Albaicin and scattered along Elvira street, and even further out from the city; the search for the best tapas in Granada. From meat stew dishes, to pumpkin soups, from small paella plates, fried aubergine, burgers, kebabs, to endless surprising possibilities. How could anyone get tired of free food? The amount of weekends that we spent in search for new tapas and new restaurants never left us wanting or unsatisfied (well... except for the Raz Cafe... but when you had nothing else to compare it to, it really wasn't that bad). 

There were countless of evenings spent tunneling through the streets of Albaicin, hunting for cats, tapas, sunsets and stories. There at the top of the hill there is a park, and from there there's the view you are most famed for - the one that made us choose you. Stoners park, we appropriately named it. There were dogs there, and children playing badminton; there were groups of musicians and jugglers; on a warm day you could see some people bathing in the main fountain; there were poets and singers, plenty of guitars, and once we heard a trumpet; there were painters and writers. And before us all, the Alhambra embraced by the snowy Sierra Nevada. It was almost like a movie, so incredibly unreal. This was the place where everyone came to just be, to just enjoy the afternoon, the evening, or just life. Where no one cared about how they smelled or what they smelled of; where people felt free to do as they pleased. I had never really seen anything like that so shamelessly public. But why would happiness need to be shamed? 

You were not easy to love. But that was not because of you, I just couldn't understand; I was so used to being stressed and to expect stress. Mellow unnerved me and it made me feel like I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing. If there is something that years in the States and working in Asia has given to me, is the ingrained notion that life is supposed to be work; that unless there is progress of some sort, be it monetary or professional or what have you, then you are not living appropriately. Unaware, I thought a successful life meant stress. But that's not the way the Spaniards work. And that, in itself was stressful at first. 

But now I can say, wholeheartedly, that some of my most fulfilling experiences are thanks to Granada, and thanks to the Spaniards (I never in my life would have ever admitted to that, because viva la revolucion and all). And they were not necessarily the most exciting, no. They were simply those moments where I learned that I can find happiness in a park, and where I learned to rid myself completely and entirely of every single care in the world, if only for a little bit. Where I learned the value of a good siesta. Where I learned that life is not about successes or profits. 

It's about the mountains, and about the tapas, and about good people, and about good talks, and about moments of now, and nothing other than now. 

I do love you, Granada. Dearly. And all the cats.

Back to the Homeland

I never thought I would ever find myself immersed in blogs and travel sites researching things to do in Mexico City. I never thought that I'd have to look for the best ways to get to certain destinations, or look for itineraries on hikes or day trips to the Pueblos Magicos on the outskirts of the city. I never thought that I would ever approach Mexico City like every other country I have gone to and explored in the last four years.

For this was home. These are the types of things that you just know. The hardcore Mexican in me wanted very badly to scream out and say "Just go home and do what you do at home and don't make it like another one of your destinations - because it's home!"

The concept and the meaning of home has been progressively and methodically changing. First it was meaningless, really, it was just a place where I lived - nothing more, nothing less. It wasn't until the first time I left that it started to hold any significant value. Most of my memories of that first year in Texas are of how badly I wanted to go back home.

"I don't belong here. I don't want to belong here. I want to go back to Mexico."  

It truly is pathetic, and cliche - but I really didn't even realize how much I loved Mexico until after I had left. Suddenly I was proud of everything that I was never aware of before, everything that just was. I was of a culture filled with good people, good food, good football and everything else you could think of was good, or better. Of course, Mexico was only as good as Katy, Texas was bad - and I hated Katy for the at least the first six or seven years that I lived there.

That was almost ten years ago. I have been away from Mexico for the last 12 years, maybe a bit more. I have gone back as a temporary guest, always, and I have been learning to accept that for what it is. This does not mean that I no longer see Mexico as my home, but that my perception of home has simply changed. For you see, I no longer feel like I belong in Mexico, not really. I am, however, Mexican, and I will always represent myself as such, proudly. 

So what is Mexico to me now?

Mexico is my foundation. It is my teacher and my nurturer. A strong sense of culture and tradition that I could never take for granted.  I fell in love with mountains first in Mexico; with the volcanoes and their story. Mexico is my family, my predetermined and chosen one. Mexico has always, and will always be, the place for mercados with the best quesadillas, pambazos, aguas frescas, spices and fresh fruit; it will always be the place of chaos and traffic; the valley within the mountains; where everyone is a 'blondie'. Where I have never, nor will I ever know Montezuma's revenge, I only know flavors, the colors and the textures of a culture that is still, in my eyes, fascinating and absolutely magnificent. In my own, very much biased opinion, Mexico is the best country in the world. 

To me, of course. 

And with the passing of time (away from it) I am learning to see it as so much more than that. I am learning to see it for both it's touristic selling points; it's exotic destinations and for it's flaws as well. 

It is a home that is becoming more and more exotic the more I am away. Through the eyes of someone who obsesses over researching the most magical and beautiful places a country has to offer, Mexico becomes a paradise. A paradise that I had never known before; A place of high mountains and challenging hikes; a diverse paradise where all kinds of ecosystems exist from the bluest of the beaches in Oaxaca to the tropical forests and reserves of Chihuahua. And that's not even close to making it justice. That's not even worthy of an introductory passage or a status update. 

I have always known Mexico to be beautiful. But I really didn't understand just how magnificent it is. I never really appreciated what home is.

See home the way you'd approach a weekend away destination. Every other weekend. Surprise yourself. 

The Big Four; Mountains

Planning a trip or an adventure is incredibly intoxicating. I love the process of pricing flights and accommodation, always trying to get the cheapest option at the best times; I love looking at the map of the city and figuring out where to go, what to see; I love researching a city or an adventure by searching online for tips and ideas of how to make the most out my time there. The process before the actual trip is different for everyone, and it changes sporadically and continuously before it even takes full shape. But I don't love the process for the outcome. No, I've never successfully planned out an itinerary and actually pulled through with it.

Planning a trip - or anything really, even methodically and obsessively, does not always turn out the way we expect it to be. In fact, I've learned that the more I try to lay out a plan step by step, the more likely that plan is to fail. And that's totally cool. That's part of the adventure isn't it?

But when traveling, there are a couple of things that we do look for and try our hardest to make happen. One of the biggest factors in deciding our way back to West from South Korea were mountains. Which mountains could we potentially get to? Which ones could we get to see or to hike?
After deciding on the countries that we would pass through on the exit trip from Korea, we dove into researching what mountains would be accessible for us.

1. Pik Lyubvi (Love Peak) - Arsha, Buryat Republic, Russia
Elevation: 6889 ft (1242m elevation gain)

Originally, we were hoping to get to the Altai Mountains on the Russian side when we were first researching Russian mountains. The Altai region was incredibly fascinating and alluring, but also challenging to get to within our time frame. I had taken the time to reach out in forums and spoke to tour guides who assured me that there was very little chance to see the Altai Mountains in the beginning of April because of snow and road accessibility, unless we were willing to spend a hefty price for it. Which we weren't.

So we decided to leave the Altai for a future trip, and we focused on the Sayan Moutnains on the west of Lake Baikal, bordering southern Siberia and northern Mongolia.

The village of Arshan is small and known for it's mineral waters spas. The marshutka ride from the station in Irkutsk to the village was one of the most picturesque rides I have taken; the mountain range slowly coming to view, and steadily spreading dramatically as we approached the village. We were back on high mountain terrain.

The Love Peak was said to be an easy enough hike, despite the steepness of the elevation gain. Supposedly, people have been able to do in in sandals and without water. It is also said that couples who make it to the peak are destined to be together for the rest of their lives, or to break up very shortly after the accomplishment. Well, as we set off the next day for our hike, we learned that either a) All our research was horribly misjudged or b) We weren't really that competent of hikers as we thought we were. Or a bit of both. Or just damn bad luck.

After walking through the terrain of what seemed to be abandoned Soviet sanatoriums, we found what we thought to be the trail. It really was like hitting a wall and we found ourselves up one of the steepest hikes we have ever done to date; we kept pulling ourselves up by the trees and making sure that our boots were well dug into the ground with each step. Not to mention the small rocks slipping beneath us, making every step a bit unsteady. To think that people would actually be able to do this in sandals was beyond me, and it really made me feel small and weak. By the time we found the actual trail, and as it evened out, we had a clear view of our love peak. Well, we had a clear view of it being covered in heavy clouds of rain and snow. Soon after, at a distance, we heard something that resembled much an avalanche.

We stood for a couple of minutes hoping that the cloud would move away; after all, this was the first mountain in our trip, and we really wanted to summit. There was a sense of pride and stubbornness at being so damn close to it, and yet realizing that we were not prepared for a snowy hike, and that it was something that we really had limited to zero experience before. After we heard the second avalanche come down in the distance, we decided to turn back and make our way back to the ground. We must have been a little bit less than 400m short from the peak when we turned - maybe even less. On the way down we could see clear blue skies over in Mongolia, as the storm clouds behind us settled. We passed a grave with a name and a reminder to always respect the mountain.

And that was our first failed mountain of the trip.


2. Stepantsminda, Kazbegi, Georgia 
500 Elevation gain from the village to Gergetis church

Georgia will always have a very special place in my heart. The memory of my year in Georgia is one of the most treasured experiences I hold - all the people, the places, the food, and the chaos. One of my favorite and most memorable weekends from that year in Georgia is the time me and a dear friend of mine went up to Kazbegi in the fall. By then we had learned to prepare for the unexpected and even the worst in Georgia - a potentially deadly marshutka drive, or overly intrusive Georgian men, or having a woman stare at you while you are squatting in the toilet and try to make conversation. Anything could (and usually does) go in Georgia. However, for that weekend in Kazbegi - everything seemed to fall right into place.

Going back I had an expectation of what the hike would be like, what to prepare for and what to be careful of during the hike. We were hoping to hike to the Gergeti glacier, which is roughly a 8 - 11 hour hike depending on pace and weather. The day we arrived to Kazbegi was absolutely beautiful and the weather, although crisp and bordering on uncomfortably chilly, gave us the reassurance that the hike would be absolutely possible. We were well prepared, extremely excited and ready for the hike. Locals even said that if the weather kept like it had been, there should be no problem for us to make it to glacier, even with some snow on some of the higher grounds of the trail.

We woke up to Mt. Kazbegi covered in clouds, and the Gergeti church invisible among mist and fog
and snow clouds. It was almost like a cruel joke and bad weather kept waiting until our hiking days to make an appearance.

We hiked up to the church regardless. And the mountains all around were covered in fog and there was really no view to be enjoyed. The air was still incredibly crisp and there weren't that many people in the mountains. We decided to walk around the church grounds for a bit, and chatted up with the monk while we debated whether to call it a day or make an attempt for the glacier regardless.

 

As it turns out, those 10 minutes were enough for the clouds to disperse and for the mountains to come into view. Maybe we could do this hike after all ...

Spoiler alert - we didn't make it. Snow was too high, and although the clouds had dispersed out in east, they were still quite heavy in the west - where the glacier is. We got off the mountain, followed by a snowstorm that left the village of Stepantsminda without power for the remainder of the night. Still, Kazbegi turned out to be one of the most beautiful hikes of the year so far. I learned what rime snow is, and as it turns out it is one of my favorite things in the world. I caught glimpses of Mt. Kazbek behind heavy clouds, looking all majestic and sublime. I learned with all assurance that Kazbegi is one of my favorite places ever. And I can't wait to go back a third time.

Somewhere in the Borzhava Mountain Range, Carpathian Mountains, Volovets, Ukraine

The village of Volovets has been, by far, the most elusive and complicated village we have ever attempted to get to. Everything until that point had been pretty straight forward - you know the difference between feeling like "Okay, I can roll with this" and "Where the hell are we and how did we get here?". There were train transfers which we couldn't really make sure would get us to the place we wanted to get; once we got to said place, we realizes that we were still incredibly far from the actual village and there were no taxis or buses in sight. We finally got ourselves a marshutka, which didn't actually make us feel any more secured about our final destination. But luckily, we were able to call the hostel we were staying at, and through broken and desperate English and Russian and a lot of confusion, we made it! 

After talking to some of the other guests at the hostel, we learned that the trail was not a difficult one and that the peak was easily accessible - BUT - they were expecting a rainy and foggy weekend. 

So, if you're reading this then you should probably get the idea of what the theme of these hikes was.
The closer we got to the peak, the thicker the mist grew and the less we were able to see. I was the first one who suggested turning back around. We had gone off the trail earlier on in the hike, and we really didn't know how safe we'd be the higher we went. 

However, the rain and the mist actually turned this to be one of the most eerie and moody hikes we have ever had. It really felt like walking into a fairy tale setting: the fog grew so thick that it became really difficult to see past a couple of feet. The rain darkened the wood which just made the green of the grass and the trees pop even more dramatically than they would have on a clear day. 

So this turned to be the third mountain we failed to summit during our trip. It was a very strange feeling, turning back around - despite the fact that it had been a beautiful hike up; that we were in the Ukrainian Carpathians and that I was with my best friend, not peaking felt defeating. And on the way back down was when I learned to let that go - I mean, what did it matter? It's not about bagging peaks - it can't be about bagging peaks. It's about going outside, getting lost and letting go. 

Knocknadobar, Cahersiveen, Co. Kerry, Ireland
620m of Elevation 

Ireland - a country well famed for rain and bad weather. I had prepared for the worst possible outlook for our hike. We had originally planned to hike the highest mountain in Ireland, Carrauntoohill, but considering our luck and the high possibility of bad weather, we changed it to a more accessible mountain and to one that we could still hike up comfortably enough if we were to get caught in rain. So, we headed into Knocknadobar through the Pilgrim Path Walking Route.

So, something interesting about Ireland and these Pilgrim Paths; there are a total of twelve Pilgrim Paths in Ireland. Some of these have existed from even before Christianity was introduced into Ireland. So before these were known as Pilgrim Paths they were simply known as sacred mountains. These were the places were harvest festivals were celebrated; where pagans would meet and dance and celebrate around a lit fire. These are the scared mountains were magic happened. 

The trail is now marked with crosses all the way up to the top. Each cross depicts a scene from the Bible's station's of the cross scene(I am so sorry, I am not sure what the correct name for it is). As you hike up to the mountain you have a crazy view of the Atlantic to the west, and green pastures to the east and north. And the further you go up, the more you see - and the iconic Skellig Islands come into view(home of the puffins and uninhabited monasteries... OH! and where they filmed the new Star Wars movie). 

Surprisingly enough, Ireland gave us our clearest day, and our most picturesque hike. We were accompanied by graffitied sheep and nothing else. We had the sun right above us and the breeze of the Atlantic. It was unheard of - not just good weather, but glorious weather... in Ireland. It was also one of the barest mountains I had ever hiked; most other hikes have always been covered and overcrowded with trees (and I love that), so I didn't expect a bare mountain to be as beautiful and as majestic as Knocknadobar is. Everything was finally falling into place, and it seemed like our last mountain of the trip was going to make up for the rest of them. 

Until we got to the top. Where a heavy cloud of rain awaited us. 

Oh well. Still pretty darn epic. 
The whole thing was epic. Rainy, foggy, unpredictable and absolutely epic.  

Auschwitz

I find beauty and power in many things about this world. 

I find beauty and power in the mountains, in the trees. I find meaning in silent connections and interactions with strangers. I find joy in learning something new. I find challenges exciting. I find the unknown intoxicating and addicting. I find the same beauty and power in an old woman's back as in a child's laughter. I find power in being curious. I find power in being open. 

I am eternally grateful for my family, and for my friends. I can say confidently, that I know now what I deem meaningful in my life because of them. But also, and drastically so, because of the opportunity to live in the places the I have lived, and to have seen the places that I have seen. I know, without a doubt, what matters to me. I also know that some of the things that I value deeply in this world and in my life are not universal. I can't assume everyone to love the mountains (although, come on, everyone should!); I can't assume to connect with people over my Asian-culture fascination; I can't blame someone for not thinking that communicating through body language only can incredibly fun. I can't expect people to show an interest in what I love, in what matters to me - in my life.

And most people don't. Most people don't ask questions, don't really seem to be able to connect or to care really. And I really don't expect them to. I really don't.

But there has been one place, a single place, that I had the opportunity the visit, that seemed to draw everyone's attention. And family members who I hadn't spoken to in over five or six years - my father, who is having trouble with his memory - my brother, with whom I usually only talk about video games and shows and mom - my friends, ALL of them, even the ones I hadn't seen since high school - everybody cared. Everyone wanted to know. 

"Work will set you free"

While planning our stop in Krakow, my boyfriend asked me if I really wanted to go to Auschwitz. He had been once before, and warned me about how it might affect me emotionally (I am incredibly emotional). I was hesitant. I called my mom and told her that I did not see the point of putting myself through something as strong and intense as Auschwitz. I had friends telling me "Why wouldn't you while you're there? Just be sure to get the tickets before hand because I hear the sell out like crazy" FACT: Visiting Auschwitz is free. And truly, I didn't want to. I simply didn't know how I would respond, and I didn't know if my response would be appropriate, or not appropriate enough, or... I don't even know.

I friend of mine (an awesome, awesome friend of mine [thank you so much for everything, Jarek]) met us in Krakow and was kind enough to drive us to Auschwitz himself. He explained how when he was in college he was part of the Erasmus exchange program and that he was used to taking people to Auschwitz on a regular basis.

"Don't you mind it? Isn't it hard to go?"
"No, I actually really like going?"
"Really? That seems like such an odd thing to say! 'I like to go to Auschwitz'!"
"Well, I think it's important to go."

And that did it. A shift happened, and I stopped thinking about how being there would affect me, personally - because really, it isn't about me.

Passing through the main camp, we passed through people taking selfies, people having a small picnic by the gate, people literally trying to snap the perfect picture of the toilets in the shacks. It really did not feel like a place where 1.1 million Jews were murdered. I did not feel like my soul was shattering as it felt when I watched Schindler's List. There was a massive sense of detachment as we first entered the main camp, and I remember realizing how through the shock of seeing so many easy going people, I was unfeeling. I didn't feel anything, entering through the gates where the trains came through - the trains with millions and millions of Jews being transported into a dead trap. I remember just thinking 'What are these people doing?'.

It took us walking through the first set of encampments where it slowly -very, very slowly - it started to settle in. Imagine, you pass through a group of Germans on a tour, facing a site where Jews were burned - heads down, hands shaking and trying to hold back tears. You see people kneeling, hands on the ground as if trying to feel something, or trying to connect to something, or to control something. You read everything there is to read, you try to understand what you read, make sense of it. You walk through the march of the dead, where men and women and children were stripped, shaved and herded into the gas chambers. You see the pictures of men and women and children who died there. You see the rooms with the shoes, with the suitcases, with the hair. You see the book, the size of an entire room, filled with names - the names of all the prisoners, all the murdered. You hear Hitler's speeches and read along the subtitles. You see pictures that the children from the camps drew about their daily life. You see Auschwitz, and you see what hate, what pure bigotry, and what pure hate does. You see what it is capable of.

How can it not shake you?

And maybe you're shaken - hard and deep into your core, and you think about the brutality of history and the brutality of men and women. You're truly, truly shaken. But what can you do? What can anyone do? It happened. It's done. And in a couple of days, life continues and the impact and the shock become a memory.

 "Auschwitz stands as a tragic reminder of the terrible potential man has for violence and inhumanity" 

I do believe that it is important to go and to be shaken. I believe that it is important to be reminded of the wonders and the horrors of our history. I believe that it is easy to forget and to think of it as something of the past - that we've come so far.

Maybe not everyone can understand my obsession with mountains or with culture. But everyone can understand humanity. Anyone can have a completely different experience and response from a place like Auschwitz - but I believe that it is plain, for anyone to see, what Auschwitz stands for, and why it is important.

Russia; meeting and exceeding

"How many whales do you think fit in Russia?"

"What?"

"Yeah, like how many blue whales do you think equate to the size of Russia?"
"I don't understand your question."
"So, I would like to picture the size of Russia in blue whales."

"Why? That makes no sense."
"Well, Russia is the biggest country in the world, right? And the blue whale is the largest animal in the world, aha? So, I'm just trying to put the two together in a logical way."

"Nothing about that is logical."
"Well, tell me how to do the math, I'll just figure it out."

Coming down from the Peak of Love in the Sayan Mountain Range; one of the many and absolute highlights of what Russia gave me. 

No, I actually wasn't able to figure out how many blue whales make up the whole of Russia. I did come up with the equation and the numbers, but gave up on the task almost as quickly as I usually do with such random ponders. But - if anyone is curious, and figures it out, let me know.

However many whales it may be, there is no question about the vastness of what Russia is. It's almost easy to kinda undermine it, isn't it? "The biggest country in the world", "the biggest animal in the world", the largest, the smallest, the best, the worst - all of it carries very little significance really. It's difficult to picture exactly what the whatever-est of the world actually is - sure, I may say "Ah yeah, sure that's what it is" and try to imagine it as best as I can. But I really don't think that I am mentally capable of truly depicting what that means. Not truly, not without actually seeing it. 

Breaks along the train tracks somewhere in Siberia

And, please do note, that I am not one of those people who places value only on what is visible to the eye. 

But before going to Russia, I knew that I was going to go to the largest country in the world, that I was going to get on the longest railway line in the world and that I was going to visit the largest freshwater lake by volume in the world. And I thought, wow, that's pretty cool - lots of bucket list items checked off I didn't even were on the bucket list to begin with. But once there - from the moment of arrival and throughout every single step, it seemed like none of those titles made it justice. It just seems so plain and simple in wording; "the largest". 

Russia took me by surprise from day one. We began our train journey from the east side of the country in Vladivostok, and I knew very little about the city going in. Judging from what I had seen and lived in Georgia, I had an idea of what to expect from a post Soviet city. The people seemed serious and cold, the language was harsh and - to me - incredibly alluring, the streets were gray, chilly and somewhat bleak. I had to admit several times to my boyfriend that I felt a little bit intimidated by the people and by the whole trip itself early on. 

"They just seem so intense, don't they?"

We hadn't really interacted with a single Russian person by this point, mind you. 

Village of Arshan at the foothills of the Sayan mountains

On day 3 we met three Russian men, big and bulky and scary (I swear, picture it exactly as what you think the stereotype is, that's exactly what it was) at the hostel. One started helping my boyfriend with his Russian and they bonded over ships and learning language through youtube, while the other one started telling racist jokes - "Here, you can tell joke, no problem. You can not tell this joke in America" - and the other one just drank his beer while watching us all interacting. The hostel girl - gorgeous, and impossibly stunning (Again, picture Russian hot lady, and I promise that's exactly what she looked like) was very generous and set us up with another couple setting off on the train that day. On that same day, day 3, we met Olga - who reminded me so much of my mother, that I got low key emotional leaving her on day 7. Olga was our first provodnitsa (both my boyfriend and Olga made sure I got that one right, so I have not forgotten, and I will never forget), who is basically the train attendant in your car - but there will be more of the train and everything about it later. But by day 3, Russia was opening up. And I was obsessed. 

Strolling over lake Baikal

Our roomate who made sure we had bananas for the rest of the train ride

All the preconceived notions, all the cliches and everything that I though it would was very much true, but there was so much more than that.

Sure, it was cold and bleak for most of the ride on the east side. Run down houses, dirt roads, gray skies, you get it - and then there were snowy mountains and forests just a couple of miles away, followed by cities sprawling with building blocks. One day I was freezing under five layers of clothing, and the very next day I debated losing my winter coat (I did - big mistake). One day the neighboring passengers scoffed and grunted "foreigners" as we passed by. On that very same day, our cart buddy called his wife after we asked him if he knew they sold bananas at the following stop, where he was getting off; we followed him off the train and his wife was there, with an umbrella in one hand and a bag of bananas in the other. In Krasnoyarsk we visited the SV Nikolay Boat museum, where we walked out with two soviet books (in Russian) given to us by our tour guides (They really, really liked it that we tried our best to communicate with them in Russian)...
(well... I rock with body language, my boyfriend is better with the Russian)...
(He rocks too with body language) 

SV Nikolay Boat museum, now missing two pieces of their collection. But I'm sure that's okay. 

Sometimes it is incredibly worthwhile meeting up with online strangers

I guess in it's own way, it's just like any other place; at first glance and on the surface, it's harsh, intimidating and bleak. But it doesn't take much to scratch a bit off to get to the good stuff. It takes nothing at all. A man I originally met online after trying to do some research on some of the Siberian mountains, invited us over for a tour in his home city in Krasnoyarsk. We geeked out over rocks and minerals and exchanged a few. All of those that we met on the train, in Ekaterinburg, in Krasnoyarsk, in St. Petesburg, in Vladivostok, in Arshan - and even in Moscow (they're not Russian, but just as cool and welcoming and awesome). I would honestly argue that the Russians that we met gave the Georgians a run for their money in terms of hospitality. And I have a lot of opinions about the Georgian hospitality ... but that's not for today. 

There were just so many instances where I was so taken aback by the people; so many people that made it all so much more than visiting the largest country in the world. I couldn't get enough of it. 

But then there were also the cities. There were the mountains, and the lakes; the churches and the Lenin statues; the pirozhkis and the babooshkas selling them between the train tracks. How do you even begin talking about Russia? I am trying really hard to gather my thoughts, my words, to make them concrete and form some order out of them. But everything is just chaos. It's just overwhelming in the best way possible. 

Lenin pointing the way

Everything was just overwhelming 

I am not done with it. I'm not done with Russia. 

I'm not even done with writing about it yet. Seven months later, and sometimes I feel like I'm still processing it all. 

Purpose

It has been almost 10 months since I last took the time to write in here.
A lot has happened in the last 10 months, and although I didn't really forget about this space, I just didn't prioritize it.

See, I write. I currently have 4 active notebooks where I write constantly - there's my journal, there's my workout journal, there's my budgeting and adulting notebook, and then there's the stories notebook. I also have six extra notebooks ready to be used as soon as I finish one or as soon as I find a new use to one of them. 

I love notebooks. I take them very seriously. I find it easier to express myself wholly in them - I can doodle, I can scribble; in spite of being able to scratch things off, I can be honest. It's a safe space, and I am in complete control. Sort of. 

But I have written about my thoughts on blogging a long time ago - in this blog actually - and this isn't really supposed to be about that. 

Recently, I lost all of my backup photos, music and writings due to a damaged hard drive. I know - I should have had an extra backup, for these things happen way more often than you'd imagine (3 times in the last year for me), and every single time it is devastating. It's the photos that hit me the most. But it also dawned on me how much of the past year I had in word documents saved up in that drive. I had Russia there, I had Ireland there - I had the last couple of months in Korea, I had love letters and poems, I had wishes and dreams. I had everything I have in my notebooks except much more polished. 

I haven't lost those memories - I still have them, sure, but more than mourning for the loss, I fear it. I am afraid of forgetting. I am very afraid of being unable to recall a name or a hike, or something someone said or did, or a feeling. And it's silly, really... because there are reasons why things are left forgotten. But there are things I want to write about. There are plenty of things I've written about, and I am afraid of losing them again. 

So, this is backup. One of many. Because there should always be one of many. 

Let's give this thing another go, and try to make it work out this time.