Travel – Page 9 – Britt Skrabanek

We Surpass the Tough

Life threw me a curveball a little over a week ago, so I bought a last-minute ticket and flew on a crowded plane to be where I needed to be.

I went to a land of dust, where everything looked stranger than I remember. I lived there five years ago, and not much has changed.

Yet, it all seemed drastically different. Because I have changed.

The concrete soaring throughout downtown Dallas was foreign to my eyes. The sky was reflected in the mirrored facades, decorating each building with spongy clouds.

Peculiar enhancements of the city confused me even more.

Bigger and better restaurants had popped up in a land where food reigns supreme. My skinny jeans already felt tighter just being there again.

Eating out is predominately what you do in Dallas, unless you’re into shopping. Then, you can lose your paycheck on any other number of lavish designer offerings.

Forever destined to battle brown in the harsh climate, additional green spaces are now perched here and there, sprinkled with questionable forms of art.

Like this…

When I first landed the city was foggy and grey. Stark buildings were still visible, jutting out into the horizon like perky breasts.

Everything seemed hazy to me. The spontaneity of it all, fueled by an emotional impulse to be with my mom when she received her test results.

Emotional time is an understatement.

This was our second round with breast cancer, but the familiarity of the process wasn’t comforting. Recognizing the tough times lurking in the shadows, ready to charge our lives once more, seemed so scary and unfair.

Five of us showed up at the doctor’s office with my mom and surprised the nursing staff with our sizable support group. We jokingly called ourselves her posse.

Hey, whatever it takes.

Being back here again at this point in my life is different than the time before, almost twelve years ago when I was a lost and confused college kid.

This time I thought…show her how much you love her, do everything you possibly can to give her strength. So, I wrote a tribute to her last week and I showed up on her doorstep.

That was all I could do. So I gave it my all.

There was an exquisite outpouring of kindness from many of you readers out there. Thank you.

Several of you are part of my blogging family and it seems like we go through a lot together in this thing called life. Many of you have been through similar experiences, and either supported a loved one or even lost one.

And though this is a personal time for me, I felt compelled to not only write a piece for my mom, but to share the results with you all as well.

We received the best news we possibly could have. She has Stage 1A.

There is still a long road to travel, but my mom is beautifully brave. For the time being the haze has lifted and those blue skies are a welcoming sight.

My mom will totally kick cancer’s ass once again. I just know it.

De-plane, De-stress

Many of you read The Life Enthusiast Chronicles with Jessica from Notes of Nomads earlier this week. Jessica kicked off this new monthly series around here with gusto, don’t you think?

Now I’m over at her place, wearing my All the Way Yoga hat for my very first guest post in blogging history! (Sorry, I’m like an excitable pet sometimes.)

The question…how in the Sam hell does one stay healthy and happy when traveling? The answer…de-plane and de-stress.

Five things need to happen promptly when you arrive to make you feel awesome. Take a short trip over to Notes of Nomads to check out The Grounded Nomad: Travel Yoga & Wellbeing.

Bonus! There’s a free Yoga video, so you can practice along with yours truly. No travel plans? Writers and desk jockeys…this video’s for your butts, too!

Oktober Silliness

Back at the end of July, I had a convo with my blogger pal Juliann from Browsing the Atlas when she posted Weekly Photo Challenge: Masterpiece and covered the exquisiteness of Beijing roofs.

Juliann has a thing for choosing one focus for her photography as she globe trots, and I thought this was a rad idea.

Then, I remembered the time I did the same and focused on one pivotal representation of my surroundings.

The majesty, the colors, the architecture of….Lederhosen.

Some years ago, Mr H, my awesome sis-and-law and her hubby, and myself traveled to Fredericksburg, Texas (kind of the middle of nowhere) for Oktoberfest.

We always wanted to go to Munich for the real deal, but right in our Dallas backyard – not really, since everything in Texas is monumentally spaced out – was our very own Tex-German shindig.

Cute old couple alert! It’s a little blurry, but he danced with his hand square on her ass the whole time. That’s love, right there.

Umm…there’s a beer on your head.

I wasn’t expecting a lot, but it was pretty damn fun! A little too much fun, perhaps. We blame the beer for “sultry”, gender-bending moments like this…

That cold, frothy elixir turned the four of us into a team of misfits with one obsession…besides where to get our next beer.

We dared each other to get the best shots of Lederhosen, creeping up on unsuspecting, costumed dudes and snatching the best pic. Mind you, this was before phone cameras were any good.

It was risqué. It was silly. It was awesome.

First we have a distance shot of our unsuspecting Lederhosen subjects, Herr Rot and Herr Weiss…

A little closer…

Then, the money shot…

Guess they weren’t meant to live happily ever after. Herr Naked Legs stole Herr Rot away…

In the end, Herr Gelb stole the show with his manly stance and edgy variety…

Hey, I warned you that this was Oktober silliness, nothing more. Hopefully you had some laughs. If not, please drink a big ass beer then read this again.

Find your own Oktoberfest (here are a few big ones in the U.S.) and marvel at some Lederhosen. You’ll love it.

Any silly Oktoberfest stories out there?

The Grit and Grace of Montreal

old port of montreal — Mr. H at Old Port of Montreal

If Brooklyn and Paris mated, their love child would be Montreal.

Grit and grace. Hard asses and romantics. The ones that won’t look you in the eye and the others who stare right at your ass.

This paradoxical city is emphasized further by its language tug-of-war. French is everywhere: the parking signs, the menus, the spoken greetings.

Yet, a sorry attempt at some high school French by an American tourist (yours truly) flips the switch. Seamlessly, as if “Bonjour” were never stumbled over, the conversation morphs into English with a peculiar flourish.

Walking down the street is a puzzling treat as English and French interlace. A couple at a table next to us bounces back and forth – a French question, an English answer, then one, then just the other – like a nail-biting tennis match for the ears.

Taking a road trip will only confuse the American more. Living in the U.S means conquering an ocean to hear that steady foreign hum.

Although Ontario looks a lot like Wisconsin, there are doors like these in the rest areas…

Eventually, there’s no more English. None. Our foreign experience creeps up on us in the form of construction signs and unpronounceable roads.

Where the hell are we? North America? Canada?

No…Montreal, Quebec.

Each languid day is strange – no schedule, no obligations. And, Mr. H. and I wander around this land without time.

One of the deepest ways to connect with someone means surviving together in a place where nothing makes sense, somewhere that is the antithesis of home, routine, and grind.

Travel makes the heart open to possibilities. And, so we opened ours to Montreal and did all of this…

And, we got down at Piknic Electronik at sunset on an island. Yeah, it was cool…

But, what about the food, Britt? Montreal is one of the foodie capitals of the world, isn’t it?

Indeed, it is. So, food gets it’s very own post next week. Get ready to drool.

The Falls of FUBAR

Flowing energy rushes toward the edge, a slave to its inevitable fate. It builds and builds and builds some more, unwilling to compromise.

Suddenly, it slips.

For a few precious seconds it suspends high in the air, engaging in a soundless symphony.

Then, it falls.

The finale is deafening, like cymbals clanging against the bottom of an unforgiving pit. This masterpiece draws us in – millions year after year.

Niagara Falls.

Embarking on a road trip to Montreal made this a no-brainer overnight stop for us. Mr. H and I booked a crappy chain hotel on the Canadian side, followed our trusty electronic maps, and strapped Ken Follett the cow in his seat.

Along the way we admired ~~Provence~~ upstate New York…

Ten lengthy hours after leaving Milwaukee, we arrived.

It was dark. And the border crossing at Niagara Falls, Canada was completely FUBAR.

Labor Day weekend. Border strike. FUBAR.

There’s something bittersweet about driving across North America, making it to your destination in decent spirits – cramping with hunger, aching from head to toe, delicates lodged in places – and being trapped with all the other bleary-eyed, naive tourists in this…

…for a freaking hour.

Naturally, Mr. H. wasn’t havin’ it. I love him even more for rescuing us from our gridlock hell to nowhere. My hero!

Destined to sleep in our truck on the side of a potholed street, we stumbled into a nearby hotel and luckily they were able to accommodate us. (Nothing like flushing money down the shitter on that unreachable hotel on the Canadian side, eh?)

As usual, we made the best of the situation. We lowered our standards and gleefully stuffed our faces in the familiar chain restaurant attached to the joint.

Mediocre fried food. Cold beer. We were saved.

Feeling tipsy, our sanity obviously questionable, we decided to go to the casino across the street to drink our touristy sorrows away and people watch. We’re not gamblers, so this environment fascinates us.

After a while, what initially seemed intriguing became ho-hum, borderline depressing, and our eyes became heavy. So we stumbled back to our hotel, scented with cigarettes and defeat.

The next day, despite our irritation with the whole charade, we went to the damn falls. We were a tough crowd, but Mother Nature won us over with her minxy appeal.

The credit card bill, the slot machines, and the traffic disappeared in that moment.

Niagara Falls…are they really worth it? The blood, the sweat, the tears?

Hell yeah they are!