Travel, Food, and Life

Writing about myself makes me squirm.

I have enough dishes, flatware, serveware, and teacups to throw a dinner party or afternoon tea for anywhere from four to twelve people.  I pay rent for all of these items to live in a storage facility in Houston.

I accept that the world is not fair, but I try to fix that in my corner. 

The third nicest compliment I’ve ever received was that I “shine with enthusiasm, compassion, and integrity.”  A few years ago, I would have been hurt or insulted that “intelligence” didn’t make the list.

I love everything about travel, from the logistics to breathing foreign air to seeing how far I can stretch the dozen or so words of a local language that I’ve learned on the flight.  On a scale of 1-10, I’d rate my adventurousness at a 6, mostly because I fear unstable governments, criminals, and other threats to my safety.

It took me 35 years to appreciate my parents, what they accomplished living in a country that didn’t speak their native language, and what they sacrificed for my sister and me to get the generous starts in our adulthood that we got.  It makes me grateful for the way my mother prioritizes my parents’ health and longevity. 

I don’t like strangers.  Crowds make me anxious.  At the rodeo in Houston, there is always the moment when the concert lets out, and everyone heads for the midway.  When I see the wall of bodies headed for me, I panic.  My friends think it’s funny because of how fast my emotions change, but I’m not faking the urge to flee.  It’s funny until my fingernails have broken the skin on your arm.

I swim four times a week so I can eat more food.  I discovered that swimming also creates a path for my subconscious to speak in English rather than symbols.  Chopping vegetables into tiny dice does the same thing.

Because of some health issues, my doctor forbade me from eating bread, pasta, potatoes, grains, and dessert.  I don’t miss the pasta, which surprised me.  I do miss bread but only because of its function as a butter delivery device.  If it were socially acceptable to eat pats of butter, I would.