Brooklyn, I'm Trying

Why We Travel… Reason #14 | Granada, Spain

Liz Norment — Wed, 20 Nov 2019 22:42:35 +0000

this view through the eyes of fellow wanderer @puma4487

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“no hay en la vida nada como la pena

de ser ciego en granada“

this phrase, discovered engraved upon a stone wall in granada, spain by happenstance, yet has stayed with me since the moment i discovered it. it reminded me of the simple staggering power of words and of views.

there is nothing in life

like the pain

of being blind

in granada.

i noticed it when i’d first arrived in granada. it was hotter i swear than i’d ever felt outside, even being from the south. the wheel on my suitcase, packed with a year’s worth of my belongings, had just broken off on the cobblestone streets. i’d dragged 40lbs of cumbersome luggage up granada’s many spanish steps to my hostel… just to learn that they had to given my room away. because i’d missed my check-in time. because i’d missed my train from sevilla. they’d tried to call, of course, but my phone had been stolen the night before.

and so there i was in my predicament. i couldn’t help it, i started crying. they booked me another hostel across town. completely defeated, i kicked my suitcase back down the steps. when i finally greeted it at the bottom of the steps,i found this phrase, engraved into a pillar on the wall. no hay nada en la vida como la pena de ser ciego en granada. and in my “misery” i paused. i breathed in. my lip stopped quivering. i noticed as the sun was setting, my eyes were drawn up the mountain just before me. and standing proudly in front of me the alhambra, illuminated. a site i’d been waiting to see my entire life. and the impact of it hit me all at the same time. and i cried, this time, not out of frustration, but out of pure gratitude. that i was in granada, and indeed, that i was not blind, in sight nor to any of the staggering significance that had brought me to this very moment. broken suitcases and overbooked hostels be damned. i was alive. and i was in granada.

there are so many scenes that have moved me to tears by their intense beauty. so many experiences that have made me uncertain if i’m even able to take them in. i’ve witnessed moments that have made me clutch my chest lest my heart jump right out because of the stunning humanity that exists all over the world. i’ve been reminded in those moments that no matter how difficult the path may seem at the time. I’ve learned that no matter how low the trough of the wave is, the crest will be so so high that you won’t even be able to see the bottom. significance hits you this way and sweeps you up, just at the right moment, and just in time. always. all you have to do is seek it.

so this is why we travel. to understand that there is nothing in life more painful than to remain stagnant in a world so beautiful, than to be deaf to “i love you” “te quiero” “je t’aime” in so many languages, to be numb to the tastes and flavors and traditions of so many rich cultures.

and to be blind

in granada.

tell me, then, what beautiful scene has left so so happy to have your sense of sight, and adventure, and the propensity to appreciate them both.

this moment captured by the talented @puma4487

<3L.

Madrid, Waking | Why We Travel

Liz Norment — Fri, 29 Mar 2019 17:52:37 +0000

The latest in my Why We Travel series takes you into the intimate moments before a city is ready to reveal itself to you. Before the sights and sounds surface, before its citizens start to mindlessly pass you, into the innocent way it wakes. This was the magic that I was immersed in every morning as I commuted an hour outside the city while teaching English in Madrid. I’ve never been a morning person, except for in 2013, on a commuter train through the Eastern plains of Spain. Come with me, through these words I wrote during one such commute.

I get to see Madrid each morning just as it’s waking. A city so captivating, that mix of dominating modernism with unwavering tradition. I see it at its most vulnerable. The sunrise hardly beginning to warm the sky over the mountains in the east as the rest of the metropolis lays in soft darkness, waiting. The plants sit still in the windows of the flower shop, actively dormant. The startled baker picks up a pile of baguettes he dropped along the sidewalk, brushes them off, then leaves his delivery before the cafe has its first customer. At the coffee stand in the station, sparse customers ask quietly for a cup before boarding the train. But for most, we wait until we reach our destination, preferring the slow calm waking of early dawn over a caffeinated jolt, letting the sunlight warm us and the city as one before we let substance, noise, bother consume us. As it slowly peaks over the horizon the sounds crescendos, the pace quickens, the Madrid at dawn bows graciously to the Madrid of morning and we all inhale as we are enveloped into this charming, relentless city.

Why We Travel… Reason #13 | Lunch in Taipei

Liz Norment — Thu, 31 Jan 2019 14:45:51 +0000

lunch in taipei.

every morning in taipei started with the same understood priority, the same frenzied mentality, the same shameless need- get pork buns. of course this task was quickly followed on our mental itinerary by “check out hidden taiwanese morning market” and “visit taipei memorial hall” or “hike up to breathtaking view of skyline at elephant park” and “stroll around xinyi district” “share bottle of wine to get the nerve to check out taipei 101.” but first, always, the pork buns.

and somehow, during the first few hours of this particular afternoon, the pork buns had eluded us and we found ourselves ravenous and panicked, searching around the university neighborhood of taipei, an area presumably ripe both with fresh knowledge and cheap street food, trying to find the buns. we knew what to look for- a constantly billowing steam cloud, incessant flow of people, sticky array of communal sauce bottles. smiling, grease-shimmered mouths.

buns, contemplating buns in taipei.

and while we knew we must be getting close, against our will, something else to tempted us away from our noble mission. we passed a crowded restaurant of communal tables all centered around one big smorgasbord of dishes. we stepped in to get a closer look and what we saw from the street nearly multiplied before our eyes- a buffet of foreign delicacies, an array of dishes in nearly every color of the rainbow, a beautiful smattering of what we only assumed to be edible based on the context clues- hungry people, stacked plates, used chopsticks and inviting tables, yet hardly anything in front of us was identifiable. and so armed each with our own set of tongs and a temporarily empty plate, we began to paint our canvases and satiate our curiosity with one of nearly everything. we divided and conquered- a purple and black rice sushi roll, an array of what must be mushrooms in shapes that i didn’t know mushrooms could be, wrinkly dumplings filled with surprises, a lilac rice krispie treat ball, slimy purple jello bean pie, a flauta-like yum-yum, small elephant ears with boysenberries… and general tso’s chicken? they have that here?

we squeezed into a communal table and began sampling our findings. after each bite, the conversation was the same- “mmm, this is good!” “oh, what is it!” “i have no idea!” “oh. this is good too!” “ah, what is it?” “i dont’ know!” we ate and laughed and made ridiculous guesses at what we had in front of and now inside of us.

i dare you to correctly identify 3 things on this plate.

i dare you to correctly identify 3 things on this plate.

we were sitting across from a Taiwanese girl who sat and ate her food slowly, deliberately, not making eye contact with us. she kept her head down, took small, slow bites and often looked up at us inquisitively. I thought maybe she was sick, or that something was wrong- her behavior felt off and it made me feel sad and a little ashamed at the way we were acting. it was then that i became acutely aware of our blatant american-ness- both wearing cutoff shorts, too-loose tank tops (a product of the relentless humidity), with long messy hair and loud laughter and evident wastefulness- we had two trays completely covered with a bit of every single food they had on the buffet, and i had no qualms about not finishing the purple jello bean pie.

we continued to sample and giggle and guess what we possibly could be eating, but i couldn’t help but feel both sad for and ashamed in front of the girl at our table. i wished i could ask if she was ok.

finally she slowly raised her head to meet our gaze and pointed to a purple object on my plate. “taro root” she said, and looked at us nervously. we both looked up and stopped, mid-chew of whatever substance was in our mouths. she quickly put her head down again, and then said “mushroom,” pointing to another completely unidentifiable substance on our plates. “mushroom?” i asked, pointing to what was certainly a pork substance… she smiled at my confusion and then pulled her phone up from her lap and began pointing to items on our trays and attempting to pronounce each one in english. “tofu cake” “mashed potato dumpling” “soy braised rice cake” “pickled squash” “this, something very good for woman”

as it turned out, only half of the things i knew for a fact were mushrooms were actually mushrooms, and when i pointed and referred to the “fried chicken” with confidence, she shook her head and smiled and said “mashed potato dumpling”- “everything here vegetarian” she told us. and that made us laugh even harder, pointing out to her all of the things we thought were meat. “i know you did,” she said, laughing with us.

and this very experience was so emblematic of the culture in taiwan. that truly nothing in this country is what meets the eye- there is a palpable and clandestine story, an ancient complexity that is only discovered if you look hard enough, shedding your own preconceived notions along with your interpretation of what meets the eye.

so many things that i thought i understood i didn’t at all. so much of the culture you saw was simply the tip of the iceberg, and slowly the rest of it was revealed to you, if you earned it, in beautiful. complex layers.

and this, of course, is the very reason why we travel– to have our understanding and perspective completely turned upside down. to eat things that we’ve never eaten and can’t identify and fearlessly bite and chew and swallow and give a hesitant thumbs up to the street chef. to be so surprised by the often unexpected kind and thoughtful nature of humans that transcends language and cultural boundaries. to realize that mushrooms are not always mushrooms, that general tso’s chicken, thank god, it seems remains within the boundaries of shitty suburban strip malls. and that people are usually so, so lovely.

to be completely and utterly surprised by humanity beyond our own understanding. that is why we travel.

<3L.

Why We Travel… Reason #15 | Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrive!

Liz Norment — Mon, 04 Dec 2017 19:01:49 +0000

le beaujolais est arrivé!

the second time i was in paris, i remember how audacious it felt to purchase the flight. i’d already spent time in paris, a few years back, but the city had been pulling at my soul since i left. it jad settled into a part of my heart that i didn’t know was there, much less vacant and seeking. it was filled, immediately, with a first glance of la tour eiffel, lit up and sparkling. with my first ascension up the tight spiral staircase of the arc de triomphe to reveal the city of light, illuminating my face, staring back at it. the first time. my first promenade down the rue de montparnasse, my first glass of wine in a dark and hidden bar in montmarte, my first full day wandering around the palace and gardens of versailles. my understanding, finally, of the inside-out centre pompidou and all the treasure held within it. my first real baguette.

paris had more than charmed me, it had changed me. and so the first trip i planned with my barely-there paycheck upon moving to spain was to a place i had already been. and i was in love of the audacity of it all. after i landed, i navigated my way by bus through a drizzly evening from charles de gaulle and sat with my face glued to the window. paris. i was back in paris.

i inevitably missed what i thought was my stop and realized that i was terribly lost. i got a cab to the address i had of a friend of mine from years ago. i knew i had 2 hours before he’d be home, so i wandered down the champs elysees, through the christmas markets, that even 6 weeks early seemed so so timely. i indulged in a rather shitty styrofoam cup of mulled wine. i shamelessly didn’t hold back tears. i was so, so happy. when my pack got a bit too heavy, i wandered into a bar along a side street. it was small, crowded. audaciously devoid of intentional decor and exactly the type of cafe you expect in paris. i loved it. as i tried to awkwardly make room for my travelers backpack, my overstuffed leather tote, my distinctively unchic pea coat, the felt hat that i thought was a good idea and now realized really wasn’t a good idea… i was tried to be as inconspicious as possible when someone gleefully shoved an antique looking juice glass into my hand. i looked up. “le beaujolais nouveau est arrive!” i looked noticeably dumfounded, confused. he repeated himself, in hesitant english “uhh, the new wine has arrived!” i was more confused. the new wine? didn’t i come here for the old wine? he didn’t bother explaining, just toasted me with intention and motioned for me to drink up. i did, and almost immediately the bartender was there filling my glass over the brim. everyone was dancing and singing, sipping and spilling. no one seemed to notice the spanish flag patch sewn onto my backpack or my obvious lack of any knowledge of french. it was all “congratulations!” and two kisses and wine. wine. wine.

i spilled out of the bar and onto the street, late now to meet the friend i was staying with. i hailed a cab. on they way i caught a glimpse of the eiffel tower lighting up, again, and began to cry. paris! my god the beauty of it all.

when i arrived at my friend’s apartment, i asked him what was happening. and he laughed when he told me, “oh of course, the new wine!” the explanation he went into was brief but with enough passion to make me realize that this would be my favorite reason to celebrate for the rest of my life.

during the rest of my stay in paris and consequently as the jubilant weekend wore on, i learned that the legend of “beaujolais day” and was captivated even more. the story, as i heard it, is as follows.

In a land where wine is held so sacred and for good reason- Chablis, Champagne, Bourdeaux to name a few, Beaujolais was virtually unrecognized and not nearly revered. so the winemakers of the region set off to charm and fool everyone in the frenchest of ways, by letting their reputation recede them… provided they successfully outran it. one bold winemaker picked and fermented his grapes. aging it for exactly one week, he raced into Paris and announced that the parisians would be drinking that year’s vintage Beaujolais before anyone else in the world. And it would be up to their discerning taste and opinions that would mark that wine’s character and reputation. He risked a non-existent reputation and the hope that the Parisians wouldn’t ever want to appear foolish or not en-vogue. and the people of paris embraced it, they beheld it, they drank it. The next year, more winemakers decided to join, racing against each other on the third thursday of November to declare their Beaujolais Nouveau the first of that year. And from that vintage on they continued to do so, and the people of paris began to embrace it and revere it more and more, in spite of themselves. And so they made it a holiday, a jubilant weekend-long celebration, a commemoration of a bold marketing ploy and when something so unfrench became something oh-so-French.

And this is why we travel. For the wonder and bewilderment of that initial arrival, for discovering such a beautiful tradition in a foreign land to embrace, forever, as your own, and for that irrepressible feeling and adventurous spirit that is forever us. because you and I and le Beaujolais nouveau have all arrived.

<3L.

Why We Travel Reason #17 | Visca Catalunya

Liz Norment — Wed, 04 Oct 2017 23:12:55 +0000

It was Wednesday, my last full day in Barcelona, and I had been exploring the boundless wonders of Montjuic. Today’s offering, from this seemingly endless mountain, was hours spent wandering through the dimensions of Joan Miro’s mind and collection in a bright white modern museum that sits atop the city.

The path we chose back down the mountain and through the city was meandering and indirect and ended up taking us through El Poble Sec, a neighborhood that was perceptibly full of Catalunyan pride and political mobilization. There were si flags hanging out of nearly every apartment window, entire floors of balconies draped in red and yellow striped banners, a man sitting at a table with a sign that read, “if you want to know why you should vote yes, ask me” and young people walking around with the Catalan flags draped over their shoulders like capes. The neighborhood seemed united and ignited, preparing for the upcoming secession vote. We couldn’t help but absorb the passion from this spirited movement found on nearly every corner. A few blocks down the road we heard a faint sound, a drum beat, a nearly tribal hum growing louder. It was an unsynchronized cacophony that somehow sounded harmonious. It grew louder. We waited on the corner when all at once a small parade of sorts, a band of misfits yielding makeshift percussion instruments. Drumsticks banging on empty water bottles. Palms slapping wooden boxes. Wooden spoons on pots and pans, drumsticks on drumsticks. whatever tools could serve as an adequate and audible extension to the heartbeats within them. A passionate movement to bring sound and life to a history of oppression, a command to take a stand and an understanding for all of those within earshot.

We marched alongside them, and they gleefully recognized our haphazard following, turning towards us and beating their instruments louder with huge smiles. Which felt both odd and inviting, although they must know it was nearly impossible to resist this form of resistance.

Onward, to the park, we followed along. They entered and descended upon a Wednesday afternoon in Barcelona. They marched into the center of the park, loud and impassioned, then at once suppressing the racket and kneeling down, all of them, silent and kneeling and waiting as one rose from the group like a flame out of ashes, and through a megaphone and in proud Catalan, he sung an easily discernible explanation and plea. We must vote yes. We must fight back. We must move forward. We won’t be silent. And as the noise and people both grew to take a stand, the parade dispersed, placing their instruments in the hands of park dwellers; children on playgrounds, grandmas on park benches. A boy on a bicycle. A dog who playfully jumped at the sound and celebration. Enabling all who were present to share in one heartbeat and be proud and heard. The noise surrounded everyone and became everyone.

Hours later I was in a cab, riding back to my hostel to change before and meeting a friend in El Raval for a drink (and, inevitably, some late-night chupitos). I was turning the corner to my place in the charming L’Eixample neighborhood, when I heard a sound, rising from all around me. I put my window down to be greeted by that same beating, percussion, noise, cacophony, just as I’d heard before. a chorus of dissent. and even in the narrow streets of this historic barrio, it felt like so much more, like this noise carried throughout the city. I asked the driver what was going on. “It’s for our independence,” he said, beaming. “Every night at 10pm we all make noise, until 10:15. that’s it. so we all can feel that we are strong and in agreement.”

I stared out the window, listening with my ears with my hand clutching heart and tears in my eyes. I paid the man and climbed the stairs to my hostel, into my shared room and threw open the window. I saw shadows of people on every balcony on the block, all clutching makeshift instruments, all making noise. This erratic disruption was the beating heart of the city. Pumping and thriving and contagious and from what all of a sudden and finally, I understood.

I’ve lived in both Barcelona and Madrid. Although during my time in Madrid I was older and more immersed in Spanish culture than I was studying abroad at 21 in Barcelona, I felt certain on my position regarding Catalunyan secession. It seemed selfish to deny one’s country to protect some regional identity. It felt unneccessarily protectionist and aggressive, and most of all, it would never work. What I saw and felt last week in Barcelona changed my mind. This region and its people suffered under a 40-year dictatorship during which their culture was completely suppressed. Their flags were hidden, their language was silenced, their identity was a frightened whisper instead of a roar. And I realized that these people are carrying the torch of their parents, grandparents, ancestors, and some are even yielding the torch that they themselves weren’t allowed to burn for so long. And at 10:15pm, when they went back into their homes, the city was still buzzing with pride and passion and my heart and head finally understood.

The next day as I was packing my backpack rather hastily in the common area in the hostel, I was speaking spanish with two Catalunyans who worked there. One of the girls laughed and said “It’s a good thing you are leaving. The US just sent a warning that Americans shouldn’t travel to Barcelona, it’s too dangerous.” and we all couldn’t help but recognize the ridiculousness of the idea. I imagined heeding this warning and not having felt or seen or understood what I had of the Catalan people the past week, something it had taken me nearly a decade to comprehend. I felt jealous of the Catalunyans, even with their suffering, that they are part of a culture that promotes volatile displays of dissension and intention rather than one that encourages its people to be complacent out of fear, to stay put instead of exposing themselves to beauty, pain, curiosity. And yes, there is a danger that can sometimes come from instability, but from such exposure and risk is the only way we will ever grow.

We are blessed to be Americans. However, as a people who stand for freedom, I’m afraid so many of us haven’t felt or seen or heard what that means. Is our own sheltered ignorance not a similar imprisonment to the forced suppression of a dictatorship? At least one was born out of a flame and the other, I felt, out of and into dust.

I realized then that the reason why we travel is for this; to be rather confidently certain of our position yet then to be moved, wholly and completely, to share a different perspective and the hope of a new horizon. To be part of something so beautiful and pure. To be moved by something that perhaps we don’t understand but are fortunate enough to learn from the pain and suffering of others. For Catalunya, for their irrepressible pride and passion. To hear it, to feel it, and to understand it, finally and still. That is why we travel.

why we travel… reason #5.

Liz Norment — Wed, 02 Aug 2017 00:24:38 +0000

more often than not i find my eyelids settling at half-mast on monday afternoons as i’m faced with nothing more inspiring than a dry to-do list and a my finger mindlessly tapping on open tabs on my computer. it’s in these moments when i allow my mind and my heart to wander back to places that have captivated me, if not for inspiration just to salvage my own sanity. this past monday, as it often does, my heart led me back to the algarve region of portugal, one of the most beautiful and enchanting places i’ve ever visited. my eyes began to consume image after image when i finally landed on a thorough and inspiring conde nast “introduction” to the area. and as i drank down every word and explored every pixel and breathed in my own memories, again and again and again, i came across a fascinating anecdote of a historical conquest that occurred in the area, that has found itself legendized as a common term in portuguese- sebastianismo. a word that was born from a story of exploration, of desire, of hope- lost.

king sebastião embarked on a crusade to battle the moorish kingdom of morocco, hopeful, willing, and determined, and soon after embarking the entire undertaking was a disaster– outnumbered, outsmarted, and out of options, they were defeated and Sebastião himself was lost among the sandy shores; a revered and promising king met his untimely demise in the craggy, unforgiving intercontinental coastline. from that event was born the term sebastianismo, meaning a failed venture or forlorn hope. such a palpable, fragrant term, born from glory and ending in failure and

what gives us, in all it’s 6-syllable complexity, one very tangible reason why we travel. because to have hope in itself is a rare gift. to believe in yourself, to put a dream in motion, to invigorate your senses, to contain within yourself the unshakable belief in a mission, to seek the unknown, to move, to try. and then even if you fail, if you find yourself lost, if you lose that hope that blindly mobilized you to begin with- at least you had such a gift to begin with. because stagnation, and not some easily defined nemesis- stagnation is the enemy.

and that- sebastianismo– in all of its regal peril, is why we travel.

why we travel… reason #16 | hiraeth.

Liz Norment — Thu, 13 Apr 2017 02:24:10 +0000

what is home but a familiar pulling at the heart. who is family but people, by nature, to whom we are drawn and thus necessitate their comfort, shelter, grace, and presence. and what is homesickness then but an insatiable desire for an intangible past, a physical nostalgia, an endless and familiar dream.

i’ve recently come across this (by nature) unspeakably charming list of words for which there is no direct translation in english. they are feelings we all have, carried in our heart and experienced often, and there is ultimately nothing lost in translation. I forever find myself entranced in the beauty of languages that necessitated the development of these words.

this one, in particular, hit me.

hiraeth (n.)
a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

there is simply no explanation as to why i have left pieces of my heart buried deep in so many places. and it isn’t given voluntarily, it is taken. split from me and taken and consumed entirely. in places, it has been buried between sturdy cobblestones and enveloped into the ether of incomprehensible sunsets alike. in people, it has remained in conversations so deep that it’s a wonder only my heart and not my entire physical being was left there in the depths of a significant verbal exchange. and in relationships where perhaps your heart is only a token of the wholeness that you have given.

it’s involuntary and yet entirely accepted, because to give your heart in such unspoken discernment signifies a recognized respect, a visible beacon, a palpable sanctuary, a home, there.

a home there for your heart.

it happens in that first glance of the tower, likely through thick parisian fog and a blesssing for being so, because if seen any clearer it would shatter you completely. it happens when hearing the call to prayer in istanbul, the surprising harmonization of turet dwellers and worshippers alike. it happens in that last look at prague, and its painful fading into the distance feels as if you held the paintbrush and you alone dimmed each pastel rooftop and shimmering river and glowing streetlamp as it all fades, with permission it seems, into the distance.
it’s hiraeth. for which your heart breaks and then mends and then aches and then seeks.

never settling and always wistfully or painfully seeking.

and then home is something is felt so much deeper. and family are those people who are a constant and impenetrable presence. and love… love is a fucking earthquake.

hiraeth is what we seek and fear from travel. and thus, unquestionably, the reason why we do.

why we travel… reason #12.

Liz Norment — Thu, 26 May 2016 01:32:23 +0000

to witness sunsets on foreign lands.

familiar light bathing an unfamiliar landscape, a humble reminder of the vastness of the universe, of the purity of our existence, of the complex miracle that is life.

the close of a sunday in el parque del buen retiro, madrid, spain.

sunset is the universal changing of the guard, when sun gives way to moon. a silent vow, a vigilant promise, as if only for our watchful eyes. one rising, one setting, and us crossing the threshold. It’s a rebirth, it’s a recharging, it’s a reminder. as day fades into night and the need for acceptance and forgiveness is forgotten. and all that’s remains is the knowledge of existence, pure and honest and hopeful.

over the horizon line on palawan island in the philippines.

witnessing the sunset for the first time in madrid was the only way i was able to conceptualize the reality of my new life- that i had moved away, had quit my job, was living in a country across the ocean from everything i knew and everything i thought i wanted and now i was there. i remember laying on my back in a park on the west side of the city and feeling the grass under my body and the warmth of the sun waning slightly and for the first time understanding not only the magnitude of my decision, but finally embracing how i wanted to be and feel and live, from that moment on, indefinitely. something about that familiar reminder connected me, grounded me, and elevated me.

sunset is a universal reminder that no matter how far we travel, how foreign the culture, how unfamiliar the landscape, how disorienting the perspective,at dusk we are blanketed in a sweet and settling confidence that existence is perhaps the only comfort we need. in any land or any home or any state of mind. and with that confidence we can and must go forth.

creating bold silhouettes in nice, france.

to travel is to seek adventure, to be definedly uncomfortable. to reject the familiarities and conveniences of life and to go forth into the unknown. and we are left with afeeling that our path is uncertain but well-trodden, that time is fleeting but will be relentlessly filled. with new people and ideas, with the life we breathe into a place and in turn, that breathes new life into us.

dusk just before the call to prayer, cappadocia, turkey.

for sunsets, and all of the impenetrable familiarity they provide.

that, is why we travel.

on the coast in the algarve, portugal.

why we travel… reason #11.

Liz Norment — Sun, 01 May 2016 10:42:04 +0000

for this moment right here, diving into the honda bay, palawan, philippines.

why we travel… reason #10.

Liz Norment — Sun, 17 Apr 2016 00:07:44 +0000

because life is a gift and not a moment can be wasted, not a minute taken for granted. because in reality we are all just a breath away from what may be our last, so we must seek those moments that take our breath away, that will fill our lungs and our hearts so full we think they may burst.

never is this feeling more evident to me than on this day, every year. when i feel the spirit of 32 fallen hokies weighing heavy on my heart. of 32 young people who were taken too soon. of 32 voices that i know are telling me to live, to go, to seek so much more out of life. to never settle for mundanity. to disregard sensibility. because if you were given a second chance at life, you wouldn’t think twice.

on april 16, 2007, a unimaginable tragedy happened at my school that claimed the lives of 32 innocent students and professors, and disrupted the sanctuary of education that our country holds so sacred. because of the decisions of one individual, 32 lives were taken, 32 families destroyed, and nearly thirty thousand students were left paralyzed in fear. friends and families were frantically making phone calls. and, for a moment, the world stopped i think. the world stopped and asked and begged why. why.

the building that the gunman entered that morning was primarily used by the school of international studies. the classrooms he entered were french classrooms, german, latin. the students were studying to be world leaders, to be diplomats, to have an international impact that began in blacksburg virginia but would reach so far beyond the new river valley. they were explorers aspiring to see the world beyond the walls of their classroom that, unbeknownst to them that morning, would forever be their burial ground.

they were explorers, whose journeys ended too soon.

i recently came across letters written to me 6 days after april 16th, by a third grade classroom in glen allen virginia. and the innocence and sincerity in their words reminded me of just how precious life is. one sentence in particular gripped me- “I hope this never happens again.” and the knowledge that I had then and have now that this did happen again, that it is happening, still. again. and the simple wishes of an eight year old written on loose leaf paper don’t exist in the world we live in.

there is a temptation to react with anger. with fear. to cling tight to comfort and to familiarity. to let fear overcome you and to stay put. but in reality, i know that for these 32, that isn’t what they would have wanted.

for anyone who feels that somehow their lives were spared, their is a reason for your vitality. and for those of you who haven’t felt that yet, you will. what will you do with this life you’ve been given or spared?

go the places you said you’d always go. see the things you’ve always wanted to see. let your permission be the silenced wishes of 32 students with their entire lives ahead of them, of 32 hokies, most of whose diplomas would have international studies proudly embossed upon them, whose steps would have imprinted dirt and sidewalks and countries far beyond the limestone walls of norris hall. and whose lives would have left an impression so many hearts.

leave the perceived safety of the place you are in and go. see. travel. and do it for those whose lives were taken too soon. for the footprints they would have left, for the adventures they would have sought, for the lives they would have led.

because life is a gift. and that is why we travel.

<3L.