As I headed south a feeling of expanding and shrinking came over me. 

First, in Seattle the world seemed bigger, so many cars and people compared to my Alaska. Then at the hotel near the airport things started to grow and shrink like in a house of mirrors. The Embassy Suites felt altogether community-less, small and somehow sick, as in ill. Success of corporate America, stacks of private rooms all surrounding a pool fell flat. The center of their design was missing, the pool was being renovated. So instead there was a cement slab and with the water gone, the place was creepy. Like some strange version of corporate projects. An abandoned idea. Efforts were made at uniting people, like free cocktails and a "managers" hour, but it ended up feeling like a trick rather than a gift. 

I stayed in my room, cozy only because of my lavender, friends to message, and much needed privacy.

In the morning, I climbed into the van/shuttle for the airport. There it was me and the driver. She is 24 years old, lives her  mom and her niece and nephew and wants kids, but not yet. Here the world felt right and small and intimate and like faith in people is a reasonable choice. 

She kicked me out, at the appropriate time, in front of 1B. She grabbed a cart and I threw my luggage on. I handed her some cash and she jumped back into her van. Our little world ended. Then the airport and the plane and all that felt big again. I met Robin and Phil on the plane to Atlanta, they were heading south to buy a Sprinter. Proof the American Dream does sometimes play out. They were both teachers and they introduced me to Helen Thayer, a writer I must look up. 

Off the plane in Atlanta and wham the expanded world again. People moving so fast, so unconnected, all need and desire, little content to be found. Until I made it to the international terminal and the gate for Buenos Aires. Here, something similar to the Alaskan-gate effect (Alaskans will know what this is, no matter the airport once you make it to a flight headed to Alaska the chances of you seeing someone you know is like 90%, the other 10% you might not know, but they will help you, and you can leave your bag for them to watch, perhaps even a child) occurred. Rather than what I expected, a gate  filled with women like I had seen when I headed to Ecuador (thin, elegant, fancy women, but no--the women at F10 in Atlanta headed to Argentina were practical, low make-up, and from everywhere. Some clearly southbound, like me. The world felt small again. 

Ten hours of flying to Buenos Aires. Two dreams of hostel like hotels where people talk to each other and trust each other and act like old friends while listening to nice Irish music and drinking nice wine. Then bright lights. Awake and out the window, South America. I swear I saw snow. And flat flat land and water, everywhere water. And I can see why my dutch ancestors considered this place. It looks like what I think the Netherlands must. Waterways and boats everywhere, somewhere over Chile, if the flight tracker was right. Then seat belts and landing and two hours in line at migreciones. 

I was ready to exit into the free world. Except not. A kind man tugged at my shirt. "Taxi, official?" He asked. I nodded. I could not remember a word. No sleep. No coffee that counts as coffee. No Spanish that counts as Spanish. He grabbed my cart, thankfully. The wheel was broken and turning my 150 lbs of luggage was hard. He asked if pesos were ok? I nodded and handed him US currency. He accepted it. He handed me an official looking paper and grabbed my cart again. I walked next to him as we walked through huge glass doors. Floods of people, calling out names, a sea of signs. He tapped the finely dressed young man and that man grabbed my cart and I followed. I felt so useless and totally vulnerable, yet safe. He could have brought me anywhere. 

I mustered up the courage to try some words in Spanish. "Para mi, is muoy calihente." A mix of French and Spanish misspelled here to match my awful Spanish. He nodded and loaded my bags into his car. After he closed the trunk he hugged a man that walked by, another driver--I think. 

In the car, the world shrunk again, in a way. Now all the different and new things to see flooded through the glass. Cement buildings everywhere. Graffiti. Cars. No english. Cars. Palm trees. Was that an aspen? 34 degrees S, 70 degrees F, No ninos en escuela ahora. Si. Petro $1/L. Cement buildings everywhere. A big huge world with stacks and stacks of apartments.  Transfer to domestic airport. Inside the world is big and little and medium. The line for luggage is huge, the bathroom stall barely fits me and all my bags, and here now at the Havanna Cafe in the worn out lime green velvet chair. The perfect sized chair with the perfect cup of Cafe con leche and a view of the ocean. Two men lean on a wall and cast their lines into the water. The same water, the same ocean my husband casts his line into. The same water. The same world. The right sized world, at the moment. 

 

Shaky Ground

Day 2. Seattle to Atlanta to Buenos Aires to Ushuaia. 

I awoke in the worn out hotel room in Seattle to "I will wait" by Mumford and Sons, my alarm clock song. In this case, Joe seems like the one waiting, some might say he is stuck back home with kids. He would say differently. This is what he wanted, to be the stay at home parent, to rid our life of nanny and child care stress, to take care of the home.  I stink at housekeeping. I envy the skill of organization, systems, and routine. My creative bursts rule the roost when I am in charge, so quilts are half made, kitchen table turns into painting studio, and meals are forgotten until too late in the day. I love my messy self, I love my children, and I hate housekeeping.  

I love work, even on days like today.

I arrived at the airport feeling flustered. I tried taking deep breaths, tried to find my zen. After attempting the self serve check in and failing an overly chipper agent pointed me towards 'Special Services.' This rarely bodes well in my experience. I stepped up to the counter whilst trying to balance my overstuffed backpack on top of the smart cart. My coat fell and I forgot what pocket my passport was in. Flustered wasn't going anywhere. The agent at the counter didn't share his coworkers happy demeanor. He grabbed my passport from my hand, typed in the information, looked up and said, "You are not in the system." I had been, in it, just moments ago, but now I was gone. I pulled my phone from my pocket and found the email with more information to prove I existed. Once he found me, he looked up and said, "You don't have the proper fees paid, you must pay the government of Argentina and then check in."

This sort of moment does not feel foreign. Often for work, I jump into these situations. I cram all the education on an area that I can into a week or so. I focus on penguin biology, currency, packing, how many vitamins needed for 55 days. And usually, it works. Sometimes, there is a snafu like a "reciprocity" fee when I  have 45 minutes to get on a flight.  

I felt my body lunge from flustered to problem solving mode. There was no time to fail.

I stepped away from the grumpster and called our emergency travel line and Valerie (always kind and patient) held my hand (over the phone) while I read through a website in Spanish. After some guessing and trying different credit cards,  I think I am set. I paid my fees, but can not print the document. Hopefully, Argentine customs accept digital proof of purchase.

After checking in, shuffling through security, I found my gate. I boarded and am here now, using the internet on my flight to Atlanta. I look online and can see that last night an earthquake shook my children while they slept, a 7.1 earthquake hit somewhere in Alaska, the largest since the 1964 quake that bent and twisted the whole peninsula.  My husband rarely checks email and he isn't on Facebook. 

As I think of them shaking in the dark, possibly waking scared and confused. I worry about the Dutch Delft ceramic houses that sit on a shelf above my Bella's head. I wonder about the bunk-bed over my middle child and where my son slept. He shares my creative approach and often camps out. Sometimes he sleeps in his blue/green hammock and I wonder if he swayed a little more without feeling a thing from mother earth. 

I wonder, as I always do, if I am irresponsible for leaving them. Hudson had a fever when I left, who leaves a kid with a fever?  Is it wrong for a mom to work in the field? Gone so long? Obviously, I settle on no. Still, the question nags. 

Rising up at the same time as the nagging question are the voices of my friends. Fellow guides, friends and family, coworkers like Holly and Valerie, but mostly writers. I have a tribe of women writers and they rise like a chorus of angels with support. They fill my page with "You got this," and "We love you," and "You are giving your kids a gift." This support makes all the difference in this and any adventure a woman faces. Because when the earthquake hit, Shell messaged me on Facebook, "I checked Homer and your family is fine." My tribe checked on my family as I continued south. When I shared my first blog, Kelly shared it even bigger and better. Others did too. We all met at a workshop with Jennifer Pastiloff and Lydia Yuknavitch. Jen soaked us in this idea: How bold one becomes when they know they are loved. The tribe took that love lesson from the workshop and put it into action. What if we all loved, as an action, each other? What if we all became that bold, with tribe at our back? I could fill so many posts with examples of the love we have given each other since September. My tribe is coming with me on this journey and so are you, if you are reading this. 

I am giving my kids a gift and I got this, but not alone. Gratitude has replaced flustered. Gratitude for my husband, an adventurer who chooses to chop wood, put up fish, fold laundry, shuttle kids, and wait for me. Gratitude for my friends, who will inevitably help my dear family. Gratitude for my mom and dad, my brothers who pushed me to keep up, never accepting that I couldn't, and for my tribe. I am praying that the ceramic little blue houses stayed in there spot, that my kids wondered in awe instead of wept in fear, that all of you check out a map and see how freaking far it is from Alaska to Antarctica, and that penguins are as cute as this flight is long. 

God willing, the next time I post will be from Ushuaia. 

Anouk of the north: Goes South

Anouk of the north: South to Antarctica

In which I embrace previously manifested notion: I go south.

Listen to link below for soundtrack to this post.

From the tourist named Annie, i.e. one who makes a journey.

Tourist = journey and Annie = grace, so maybe, just maybe this could be a graceful journey.

I have guided many long seasons, but this one is different. I will be gone somewhere between 54 and 57 days, if all goes as planned. I train for 14 days. Train sounds tough, badass. In this case, training = cruising aboard the Sea Adventurer, one of Quarks boats.

This is the "easy" part of my journey.

The second part involves a sailboat and Drake's passage. To be clear, I will cross the Drake 4 times. The Drake, otherwise known as 'The Southern Ocean', a place where the most terrible seas on planet earth are known to toss thousands of journey-makers around each year. 10,000/year is the last number I read. I will cross twice by big easy boat, above.

I will cross twice by sailboat.

This picture is taken by John Miton, I think. I give all the credit in the world to whomever took it and will hear by learn the rules on using photos. I will take them down if somebodies undies end up in a bunch.

75 foot sailboat, three crew, me, and 7 clients. We will travel from Ushuaia to the Antarctic Peninsula.

The sailing trip sounds elegant, graceful, and terrible. Terrible idea to bring a small boat for the most dangerous waters. One guide I know said "crazy." Another with 30 years experience said "We don't do small boats." This is for a reason. The seasoned guides speak of something they know and I trust these women.

But, even with kids to leave, and guides to listen to, this trip calls me. Whales call me with a sing song tune. Ice that might not be here for my kids to see, calls me. Money, income, earning a living for my family, calls me. Adventure calls me. And so does story. The story of this place, calls me.

One story, people like to tell, is the one of being seasick, facing the toils of the southern ocean, begging the southern cross for mercy (I made that up, but I see myself on my knees, all green with fright, looking up at the stars, which surely won't be seeable if a storm is raging, still, I see the cross and beg). I am curious about this story. I am afraid of it and wonder about its truth. Are the gods of the sea laughing as I doubt the mighty Drake? It isn't the sea I doubt. It is our tendency to make big that which we feel we've earned, endured. I am sure it will kick my ass, but I think a more complicated story will arise then the one I know now.

We shall see.

Safe Travels by Lisa Hannigan shared by Becky Alsum, for her sisters and the girl next door which is me. 

Fireweed Makes Me Sick

The essay below was the first essay I sent out in hopes of publication.  Not only did it get published it got me a little gig writing a column for our local paper.  I'll always love this essay yet, this winter is proving to be a whole different experience.  I've come to terms with this northern place in ways I used to only dream about.
Still this is my champion piece.   Enjoy.

Fireweed makes me sick. Its flowing carpets of vibrant purple and green slap me in the face with the reality that summer will end, fall is coming and so is the dark. Each summer I forgive this place, Homer, Alaska. Each summer I fall in love all over again.

Like a marriage with inevitable rough spots, I enjoy the good times and wait for signs the rough spots are coming. My bad fireweed mood lasts a week or so. Then, the long days, still present, caress my mood away. The joyous work of raspberries to pick and salmon to smoke cast my fears aside and keep me in the quick morsel of summer.

Summer gives us a permission slip to explore heaven; we are free. Escaping becomes a viable option, even with three kids in tow. Time changes. Instead of clocks watched, they are forgotten. Hours go by in the raspberry patch with a little bit of time spent picking berries, even in the rain. Mothers and kids meet at the park for a morning play group that turns into afternoon. Just being home feels relaxing. Bikes adorn the lawn. Rocks must be collected to create a floor, other than mud, under the outdoor faucet. Water feels a little bit safer. The pushki smells almost indescribable, like celery, a bit of pungent earth, sweet yet acidic. Sometimes, when the cow parsnip is hip high, I move slowly, the air made dense with pushki incense. Ah, summer.

Unlike a marriage, the rough spots of each season are predictable and run like clockwork. Each fall the tension builds. I make plans to travel to places I know I won't go, can't afford. Still, I plan a trip each year. One year I didn't make it past the dump all winter long. Motherhood makes hunkering down all too easy.

It is said the dark is cumulative, and I agree. But so is the false hope, the high from the summer. Each summer is so damn good you get lulled into thinking this winter won't be so damn bad. October is tolerable, more anticipatory fear than anything else. By November, flu season has run amok and consumed at least six weeks of family life. Holidays provide a distraction and all of fall is called potluck season for a reason.

Then, the shortest day comes — five hours and 55 minutes. A twinge of hope. This is the worst, right? Nope, January comes without holidays and people start to return from the trips they can afford, all tanned and talkative. Sometimes they leave twice. February, even in Michigan we called it "frickin', freezin' February." By March, well, my marriage sucks, the kids are certainly troubled and maybe even disabled, any hope I had of a dashing career is dashed, I have slipped on the ice twice, I have devised seven different strategies for moving out of Alaska to someplace warm and all seems lost.

And then, just when I feel a little too crazy, pent up and scared, spring comes. Each spring, each day with one more hour of light, my anger begins to thaw. My despair lightens, and my husband gets better looking. By May, my kids are at least normal. By June, they are talented. In July and August I can be anything I dream up. And it all begins again.

This place has crept beneath my skin and become part of me — who I am. Since it is just August, a few more juicy days left, I believe this: Homer is the most beautiful place on earth and some day I will be a famous writer.