a) I like being positive. I have the ability to choose which stories I tell myself, and I generally choose to dwell on the positive ones.
I can be:
Aimee, the motivated homeschooled kid who excelled in university, struggled stalwartly against religion to achieve her own identity, found yoga as a means of achieving peace, clarity, and connection between mind, body and breath, and set off on an adventure to discover herself through the world.
Or I can be:
Aimee, the lonely, vulnerable homeschooled kid who graduated university in the throes of a mental and emotional breakdown, suffering from PTSD and feeling absolutely worthless. Aimee, the girl who was too afraid to sleep at night and couldn't eat for three months, so started practicing yoga because it was the only thing that made her feel safe. Aimee, the girl who set off on an adventure to escape the ghosts of her PTSD. Aimee, the girl who flees.
All the stories are true, so what's the harm in manipulating them to create a happier, more peaceful existence?
Because manipulating your story makes life fake and unrealistic, just like google searching, "bacon cures cancer!" until you find an article that supports your query and then giving up the pursuit makes your evidence rather implausible.
As a theatre artist, I was trained to be honest. Action and reaction. Give and take. Feel ten, show seven. Internalize. Believe. Look. Listen. But you know what? Artists really are tortured people. I think this is because they tell themselves their whole stories. Over and over and over again.
Aimee, the girl who can't face her problems.
Aimee, the girl who flees.
Aimee, the girl who can't face her problems.
Aimee, the girl who flees.
b) I focus on the positive because the people with whom I've stayed/am staying/will stay read my blog. I want to make a good impression and I don't want to attack anyone.
But half stories are dull, meaningless, and easy. Half stories tell nothing worth knowing and only serve to superficially satiate my egotistical artistic angst.
I need to readdress the way I think about this blog. Sure, this is a travel page and a means of documenting my adventures, but it's something else, too. It's a space I've created wherein I can practice being vulnerable, expressive and honest through my writing. It's a space wherein I can ask questions and tell my whole story.
What follows are some of the missing pieces.
Bold, Broke and Beaten
I travel alone.
I'm bold.
I travel with little/no money.
I'm broke.
I travel wearing a mask of false-modesty and manipulated expectations.
I've been beaten.
A previous friend turned lover once told me that men only listen to women if they want to sleep with them. A previous lover turned stranger once told me that I needed to go through life expecting that every straight man (and some of the curious ones) wanted to have sex with me.
And that I needed to interact with men accordingly.
I flat out refused to believe either of them. Part of my denial was rooted in my own extreme insecurity (who would want to touch someone like me?), part was rooted in the remnants of my dying Christian faith (don't think about sex, don't think about sex, don't think about sex), and part was rooted in a sexually unsatisfying relationship wherein my partner thought sex was gross. Live for long enough with someone you love who won't touch you, and you'll make yourself believe that there ain't no one getting touched this whole world round. Not nobody not nohow.
Misery loves company, yes?
Ladies, false modesty/insecurity won't get you anywhere but taken advantage of or receiving anything but abuse as a single traveler. Are you young and attractive? Then fucking own it and don't let yourself be caught off guard when friendships on which you relied turn rejected lovers turn manipulative aggressors turn bitter strangers. When interacting with men, you'd better be intensely aware of what you're communicating with your body language, your tone of voice and your enthusiasm. Girl, you're traveling. You're going to be interested in what the fellow you just met in Morocco has to show you. Girl, you're hot, foreign, and interested. Of course the fellow you just met in Morocco is going to be romantically piqued, regardless of how absurd the notion of the two of you, candlelit dinners, and twisted bedsheets rings in your head.
In my experience, expressing enthusiasm to a romantically available member of the opposite sex is frequently interpreted (fortune cookie style) as, "She's interested in my city, my language, my hobbies and my favorite coffee shop -- she must be interested in me. IN BED."
I interviewed a 55 year old truck driver in Kildare, Ireland. I trusted him because he was a friend of the family with whom I was volunteering, so I let myself relax in his smoke-filled apartment and allowed him to refill my Jameson drink a couple too many times. The fellow kept talking and smoking and pouring drinks... I drank and listened and smiled. By the end of the evening, he had gotten my naive, insecure self onto his bed because I couldn't even comprehend that he would try anything (the whiskey didn't help...) and was trying to take off my shirt. Even as his hands brushed against my breasts, I still thought, "How is this happening? No, this can't be happening."
But girl, it does happen. Are you a young, attractive solo traveler? OWN IT.
Morocco taught me to be abundantly aware of gift-giving manipulation. Because I don't have a lot of money, receiving gifts is often an upsetting experience, contaminated by thoughts of --
"What do they expect in return?"
I don't want to live my life expecting people to have expectations, but for the solo lady traveler, understanding how the other perceives a "balanced transaction" is vital for physical safety and emotional health. Gifts are rarely given for the sake of giving -- don't be so naive to think that just because you're not paying money doesn't mean what's "given" is free.
I give you a yoga class, you say "I feel so much better now!" and maybe tell me to have a good day and you'll see me next week.
I give you a piece of hazelnut chocolate cake, you say "OHMYGOD, you're amazing!" and maybe ask me for the recipe.
Everyone has different expectations regarding how they want their "gifts" recompensed. With some, it's more along the lines of --
I give you a meal in an expensive restaurant, you give me a kiss.
I give you a night out in an expensive club, you give me a touch.
I give you a weekend trip to a posh resort, you had better give me a place in your bed.
For people who have set expectations, offering yoga classes or home cooked meals just doesn't cut it. It's entirely the wrong currency. It's trying to pay with credit at a shop that only takes visa.
So, before you start accepting gifts from men, make sure you understand which currency in which they're operating and whether or not you feel comfortable reciprocating in kind. You can do what I did and refuse to reciprocate, letting the gift stand alone when your card is declined -- but things will quickly become tremendously unpleasant and strained. Analyzing motives can lead to cynicism in the end, but it can also be helpful in knowing when to put your hands in your pockets and keep on walking. In countries like Morocco, "gifts" are nearly forced upon you. If you walk through the souk with open hands, you will eventually find some Moroccan trinket slyly tucked into one (or both) and a belligerent salesman shouting out how many dirhams you now owe him. To get through the souk successfully, you must walk with your hands in your pockets, avoid eye-contact, and keep your wallet/purse out of sight.
But I don't like living life with my hands in my pockets and my eyes on my feet -- so I make a dangerous habit of manipulating the expectations of others in my mind. I want to believe that yoga and food fit into all currencies. I
pretend that what I have to offer is quite good enough, thank-you very much, and that people will
be so satisfied with their more flexible bodies and chaturanga
arms that they will relinquish any previous notions regarding twisted bedsheets. I nurture this delusion because I want to walk through life with
my palms facing up and my eyes soaking in the sights. I want to be open
to the world and all it has to offer.
Girl, are you young and attractive and interested? Then you better be cautious about some of the things that get shoved into your open hands.
My host in Morocco was always giving me things. At the beginning of my stay, I was able to "balance the transaction" through offering yoga classes and cooking dinners. Everything was peachy. I was enjoying his company, getting to see Morocco, learning, sharing, feeling, being. But as my stay wore on and he grew more and more attached, he calculatedly diminished my contribution to nigh nothing. He no longer wanted to practice yoga and preferred to take me out to dinner instead of letting me cook. He used gifts to manipulate me, and I soon learned to walk through markets with a wandering gaze. If I looked upon any article of clothing with an inkling of interest, he would draw me close and beg me to let him buy it.
"Do you want it? Ask me for it. Ask me. You will make me so happy if you ask me for it. I want to buy it for you. I buy it for you because you deserve it. Ask me for it. Ask me."
If I didn't accept, he'd get moody and angry. If I did accept, he'd try to kiss me, hold my hand, or pull me into a close embrace and stroke the small of my back. I'd dance away and he would get moody and angry, shout at me until tears of fear were rolling down my cheeks, then pull my wilted form into a hug to "comfort" me.
Then try to kiss me again.
I stayed in this situation for two months because I was too afraid to leave. I'd seen what other parts of the country were like and wanted nothing to do with them -- not on my own, anyway. I couldn't just pack my bags and catch a flight back to the UK because I travel with little/no money. I couldn't afford the ticket and I had no place to stay. So I spent two months walking on eggshells, a maneuver that became exponentially more delicate as my "debt" grew heavier and heavier. I remember donning my motorcycle helmet before getting into the elevator with him so that he wouldn't be able to kiss me. I remember the feeling of fleeing my body during his moments of petulant, violent, passion -- perhaps if I wasn't inside, my body would be lighter and I wouldn't break the shells.
Girl, don't let yourself fall into this kind of debt. Do men want payment in a way you'd rather not imagine? Then make sure you've found all the emergency exits and that none of them are jammed shut. Unfortunately, if you travel the way I do, there aren't a lot of emergency exits. It usually takes money to get to the door, and I don't have an awful lot of that currency on hand. This doesn't make my way of life dangerous or impractical -- I just need to learn to OWN the fact that I'm a young, attractive, interested lady. And anticipate accordingly.
This sort of anticipation is hard for me. I still look in the mirror and see one eye that's smaller than its partner, one ear that's higher than its partner, and a jaw that's more masculine than those of my previous partners. I still feel the bumpy skin of my upper arms, see the rash on my belly, finger the deep doughnut I can make around my belly button, glimpse the odious cellulite around my thighs, and laugh apologetically at my funny fat feet with their stubby castle toes. I don't consider myself to be especially smart, ambitious, athletic, or artistic. I do not feel desirable. I do not understand why anyone would want to buy me dinner for a kiss.
But I need to live as if I see someone different in the mirror. The someone other people seem to see.
To travel safely as a single lady, it's paramount to not merely see the people around you, but to have a comprehensive, honest understanding of how they see you. It doesn't matter if they're so old that you feel safe with them or if they're committed to someone else so "off-limits".
Age isn't the deterrent you think it is and off-limits is a flexible line.
Girl, don't you dare take responsibility for the situations in which you've been treated poorly, but don't you dare think that you're not attractive enough for people to want to buy you dinner for a kiss.
And don't forget that how you see yourself is not the same as how you're seen.
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