A Sea Change 4 Ritzy Clothes

 The ship was not luxurious except for the food and wine. Our floating world contained about 200 passengers, mostly Americans with some seasoning of wealthy and well-dressed Europeans. Aside from the countess and an English lord living in South Africa who always dominated the scene whenever he appeared at 11:00 a.m. at an outdoor bar to sip his bouillon, the Europeans weren’t at all interesting except for their ritzy clothes. Every evening they dressed in “smokings,” tuxedos to us, and beautiful cocktail dresses in contrast to our dresswear mostly bought at Macys. We felt distinctly lower class, which in their eyes we no doubt were. One dress-up night, however, Glenn felt a lot better about the European competition. He had reluctantly brought his own Italian tuxedo along. We were on the dance floor when he felt someone tugging at his jacket. A German was fingering the fabric. “Nice,” the man said.

Judith Works (to be continued)

A Sea Change 3 Hindu Island

 A Hindu island floating in a Moslem world, it was filled with smiling people, soft gamelan music, fringed silk umbrellas, textiles woven in ikat designs, paintings and carvings. Rituals ruled the island with statues of gods draped in black and white checkered cloth symbolizing the polarity of positive and negative forces. Swastika designs on buildings and fences encouraged cosmic energy and harmony.

Slender, graceful women in sarongs balanced towering offerings of fruit and rice cakes toward the split gates of the intricately carved temples. Hens and chicks pecked while fighting cocks were cooped up in upside down baskets. Rice paddies glised green on the terraced hillsides. Tall bamboo poles leaning with the weight of small offerings decorated village streets. Small shrines stood in the fields.

The soft scenes defined our vision of paradise with the gods and people in harmony even though we knew that the island had a violent history. We were tempted to stay forever like many expatriates whose villas are featured in design magazines but we could see our ship moored in the harbor awaiting us. A complete fugue from reality was not on our itinerary.

Judith Works (to be continued)

A Sea Change 2 Malaysia, Thailand, the Maldives ...

 We had boarded the small cruise ship in Bali and were headed towards Oman, a passage that would take nearly a month. Along the way our itinerary would take us to Java, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, the Maldives and India. The cruise was to be the formal transition to our retirement although it also became an interval in the unexpected consultancy in Rome. I was still mourning the loss of my mother and our departure from Rome, the sunny Italian lifestyle, our many friends and the travel for work and pleasure. It was time for a break before we gathered our wits to really understand a new way of living.

The trans-Pacific flight was interminable: Seattle to San Francisco; San Francisco to Hong Kong across the date line; then Hong Kong to Bali, another five hours. We landed in what must be the most beautiful island in the world, an oriental version of la dolce vita.

Judith Works (to be continued)

A Sea Change 1 How I floated into retirement.

 The countess was drunk again, floating motionless on her back in the warm water of the ship’s swimming pool. Wrinkled, thin and heavy with jewelry, she seemed to have an ability to remain afloat instead of sinking as the weight of her jewels would dictate. We watched her while awaiting the crew members who would haul her out on a nightly basis. 

During her more sober day the poor countess, who had recently suffered the theft of other jewelry from her chateau, was comforted by an Indian woman who lived in Florida. She was on board to give cooking lessons. In between dishing up curry and dal, she told us about her Irish husband who sold upscale plumbing to sheiks in the Gulf and showed us how to tie saris. She flashed around in her own bright saris encouraging us to donate money or condolences to her new best friend, the countess. We demurred.

Judith Works (to be continued)

India 10 Candlelight Joined All The Others

 My tears started at the first “you.” I ripped the paper into tiny shreds, placed them next to the rose petals, and removed my ring. After a moment of hesitation, I set it beside the flame. The gold caught the firelight and lit the bowl even more. I bent over, placed the package on the water, and let go. The Ganges took the cup from my hand and carried it along in her current. Soon, my candlelight joined all the others.

 Kristin Zibell 

When not doing things abroad that make her mother and aunts cringe, Kristin Zibell writes to inspire women to live their travel dreams on her blog TakeYourBigTrip.com. Kristin lives in San Francisco, traveling locally and always planning her next big trip.

India 10 Seven Years Together

This time, there were no nervous mothers, no stoic fathers, no 267 guests—just the Ganges and me.

I could do this—with more honesty—in the middle of this holy river, in the middle of India.

By the light of the small candle, I read the vows in a whisper, hoping the sounds of the sitar would cover my words so that only the river would hear them. I placed my ring on my finger and read aloud.

Thank you for the seven years together.

Thank you for your kindness, your love, and your forgiveness.

Whatever anger you have, please release. Whatever blame I have, I release.

Thank you.

I love you and I let you go.

I love you and I let you go.

I love you.

I let you go.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 9 Burning Cup In My Lap

With her flowing current, I hoped the Ganges would somehow redeem and purify me. I hunched over, my curved back shielding the ceremony from the surrounding cackles and laughter of my tour group. Too much had been splayed open over the past eight months; I needed to sew it back up amidst the frivolity. Possessions spread over two apartments, bank accounts scrutinized by a judge, a mother-in-law who wrote to me on my anniversary, 

“If you want to travel, take a vacation. Don’t end your marriage.”

With some semblance of privacy, I faced the river, the burning cup in my lap, ring and vows in hand. I settled into where I was, resigning myself to the lack of seclusion. I had done something similar once on a bright March day in Wisconsin.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 8 Divorce Vows

 The sitar’s high-pitched plucks were the only sound as our boat glided toward an outer bank that looked like a ribbon resting along India’s girth. Night turned the Ganges from brown to black, and Varanasi’s lights became fireflies in the dark.

In the pocket of my jeans were two things: the ring that had been feeling smaller with each passing day and each advancing adventure, and a slip of paper—a eulogy. It was a departure from the vows promised to husband and God seven and a half years earlier. Divorce vows to be read aloud to ring and river. This little leaf plate with the small dancing flame would be the funeral pyre for my marriage.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 7 Ganges Blended Into A Muddy Pink Sunset

 Out of respect, we avoided them, casting our curious eyes away from the smoldering piles where Hindus made their transition from this life to the next.

A haze had settled over the river, the tired humidity catching the smoke and smell of recent fires.

As I passed funerals and dancing bathers, I decided that this river, this place of transformation, would be the final resting place for my marriage. I would release my engagement-cum-wedding ring into this sacred river with a ceremony of my own.

That evening as the sun faded into a haze, we filled a blue wooden boat big enough for a tour group, crew and sitar player. The river slurped the ghat stairs, sucking Durga Puja remains into her current. A campfire smell pervaded the sludgy damp of the riverside. The brown of the Ganges blended into a muddy pink sunset. The bathers had gone home.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 6 Varanasi

I took another sip of wine, swallowed, and breathed. I have to go to India, I inhaled. I’m going to India, I exhaled.

Five months later, my tour group arrived in the holy city of Varanasi. The day was jungle-hot and sticky, with dive-bombing insects. We found our way to the river’s side through the walled city, where sacred cows shared paths with lost tourists. Cafes and temples provided views of the expansive mud-brown river, but we traversed the famous ghats, the long, uneven stairways pilgrims took to enter the holy Ganges.

Revelers celebrated the Durga Puja holiday by dancing in the shallow waters. Men splashed and clapped their own music at the base of the stairs and between boats. A lone woman took part from a distance, covered completely in a wet sari. Large stacks of logs and sticks signaled the crematory ghats.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

 

India 5 Golden Taj Mahal

I spent most newly single nights on the bare floor of my apartment reading travel magazines and drinking red wine. The photos of far away comforted me more than any sympathetic therapist or cathartic girls’ night out could. I wanted to take these pictures of sunrise at Machu Picchu, the Acropolis’s stately grace, and the desperately blue French Polynesian waters and rub them over my body in a baptism of travel and desire—I wanted them in my veins.

My nights settled into this familiar routine of turn page, sip, and sigh; turn page, sip, and sigh—until one page turn resulted in a destination. An image of the golden Taj Mahal appeared at sunrise beneath bold text: INCREDIBLE INDIA. 

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 4 - The Travel Never Happened

The travel never happened as promised. Instead, we used our sparse vacation days and bonuses to travel for ten days to China, two weeks to Europe, sixteen days to Thailand. But these trips were more a retreat from home life in a grand setting—not enough for me. I wanted deeper, more. After seven years, I had spoken the truth at last and breathed for the first time.

For three months we separated, each day removing a layer of our life together—the mattress we’d just purchased, the Noritake Colorwave Green china, and the joint DVD collection. Over time, he agreed that our separation was for the best. He dreamed of a house, a family, and a silver anniversary party. I dreamed of a camel ride to visit the Great Pyramids of Giza. When he eventually admitted that it was better to be fulfilled than be together, the cement block of guilt weighing down my newfound freedom began to ligh.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 3 My Ring Held The Promise Of Travel

 There was nothing wrong with him, nothing wrong with me. But I wore despair and denial like a heavy winter coat—my dream, to voyage out like Freya Stark and discover myself amidst the sands of Arabia. I denied myself study abroad in college and backpacking through Europe, shuffling from school to a “good job” and finally a big Catholic wedding to a really nice guy who I loved and couldn’t see beyond. 

My ring even held the promise of travel. A simple gold band with twelve small diamonds, it was both wedding and engagement ring. As the date of our wedding had approached, my then-fiance was in his second year of law school, and his money was going to tuition and car payments. He couldn’t see peeling out a few grand for a matching band, so instead of a wedding ring, he promised we’d put the money toward a future trip. “Wouldn’t that be better?” he offered.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

Letting Go on the Ganges 2

India - There it was. I’d never said it out loud before. Freed from a dark recess of my heart, the words seemed almost to vibrate in the daylight.

“But where do you want to go?” What was this paradise that could be so much better than the life we’d created?

At the time, I had no idea. I just knew I had always wanted to travel. In our first year of marriage I wrote three pages a day in my journal, more of than not trying to reconcile wedlock with the desire to pack up and hit the road. On our third anniversary, I’d given him one of those narcissistic we’re-really-a-couple books called The Book of Us. I’d answered the question, “What are your dreams for your life together?” in ballpoint ink: “to travel around the world.” Then I added “together” to bind words and hope.

There was nothing wrong with him, nothing wrong with me. But I wore despair and denial like a heavy winter coat—my dream, to voyage out like Freya Stark and discover myself amidst the sands of Arabia. I denied myself study abroad in college and backpacking through Europe, shuffling from school to a “good job” and finally a big Catholic wedding to a really nice guy who I loved and couldn’t see beyond.

By Kristin Zibell
 (to be continued)
photo: Janin

India - No Place For A Wish

We were offering our wishes, he explained, to Ganga—the goddess of the river that bears her name. A bath in her waters was the ultimate symbol of redemption and purification, and a wish was perhaps amplified here more than anywhere else.
I looked at the water. It was black. No place for a wish.
“If you can’t think of anything to wish for, wish for world peace.” Ganesh smirked, as if reading my mind, and then hustled to the front of the boat.
I heard his instructions but rebelled. I already knew I wasn’t going to make a wish.
Eight months ago, I was married with a comfortable urban apartment and a dual-income life. On a rare cloudy day in Los Angeles from my perch on the living room futon, I told my husband of seven years that it was over.
“Why?” he’d asked. Shocked. Baffled.
“Being married is not conducive to the life I want to live,” sounding like I was running a meeting.
“What life is that?” He tilted his head.
“I want to travel the world.”
By Kristin Zibell (to be continued)