“Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.” - Jack Kerouac

This is, for lack of a more magical way to say it, THE ENTIRE STORY THUS FAR. 

I was 15 years old when I went to Europe for the first time. Unsurprisingly I was enchanted by the charm and overwhelming majesty of Europe, most specifically of the first city I set foot in, La Chita Eterna.  In Rome, fairy dust was sprinkled on everything; I became positively HIGH on the drug that is experiencing Europe for the first time (or ever, in all honesty). Italian Coca-Cola had nine times the American amount of sugar, absolutely everything seemed to be covered in cobblestones that were laid before Caesar was born, and BONUS: you can drink at almost any age in Europe! HELLOOOO, first drink of booze ever (minus the alcohol my grandma accidentally gave me when I was 5).

The entire experience was akin to the first time Harry Potter came arrived at Hogwarts; everything was ubiquitously cool, and I was completely dumbfounded that such an amazing world existed all this time without my knowledge. I remember thinking I NEVER wanted to come home. I could have stayed in my perfect Italian Hogwarts eating chocolate frogs and illicitly trying to booze it up on red wine and Limoncello forever.

In some seriousness, on that trip I came face-to-face with the notion that I live in a world that is imperfect. I discovered that I apparently live in a time in which hatred, violence and injustice all still exist and manage to even thrive. These were all concepts that I had only learned about in school or on the news, and I had never experienced in such a real-world sense up until the age of 15. Lucky girl, right? First-world problems officially realized. I ended that trip with the vehement urge to return again, and I spent the next few years shamelessly wanderlusting over my travel wish list and planning imaginary foreign trips on a regular basis.

I was 21 when I next returned to Europe, an excursion for which I studied abroad for a summer on a dual program I had hand-crafted with UNL. I first set foot in foggy London town after a torrential six year hiatus from the continent. It (the hiatus) was, for lack of sharper words, JUST AWFUL. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, and fonder my heart seemed to be.

It took me about 30 minutes to get from my plane seat on the tarmac of Heathrow Airport to the real outdoor London atmosphere outside. I purposely held my breath walking out of the airport, to allow for the magical rush of European air to fill my lungs with proverbial fairy dust. It sounds corny, and frankly I feel like I wrote the last three sentences for Walt Disney himself, but that moment was everything. It was, in fact, fairy dust that filled my lungs, as does every first moment I have in Europe. It completely jazzed me. I could feel the weight of the summer I would spend in Europe flutter around me like cartoon birds in a film that claims to be live-action, but yet somehow sneaks in an animated dancing animal during an emotional moment for its protagonist.

*I apologize in advance for the numerous run-on sentences you’ll read before this is over.*

My first thought when I reflected on that initial 24 hours in London was that I wasn’t even near homesick, and didn’t intend on being, during that two month timespan. I did however have a sense of overwhelming gratitude that I had many things for which I could very well be sick for at home.

I spent two months hitting the wickedly intoxicating sauce that is Western and Central Europe; I drank the clichéd tourism like an addict with no intention of detoxing or rehabbing. I climbed more cathedrals and crawled through more tombs than I could ever hope to count, took about 300 photos a day, and learned gobs of twinkling knowledge about history, art, religion and culture. It was a veritable wasteland for my existential flank. After spending three hours in any given city, I felt as fluent in the native language as if I had been there for three years. I was a sponge that couldn’t be wrung out enough times to soak up the greatness at the rate it was being spilled on me.

Recently, I purposely re-read my travel journal from that second trip. The last entry, assumedly which should be an EPIC one, shockingly had almost nothing to do with any of the history, architecture or culture of my time there. It was all about the people I met and the influence they had on me. I easily made five of the best friends I could ever know on that trip:

Melissa,	the token gal pal who had an undying devotion to the “carpe diem” mentality, and who made me feel like I was doing Europe wrong by showering and wearing makeup daily.
Nathan,	the professional drag queen whose fashion choices in Europe forever broke me of my “this is hideous, but it breathes well and can be worn multiple times!” attitude by wearing neon pink high heels on an all-day walking tour of Paris.
Brian,	the med student who everyone knew was going to outshine all of us in the grander scheme of life by becoming a multi-lingual doctor who forgoes his salary to administer Malaria vaccines to impoverished kids in Africa.
Baylee,	the passionately hipster girl from Ohio, whose knack was convincing me to climb out of her roof window and drink 50 cent red wine and existentially talk about life with.
& Hunter,	the outrageous and obnoxious greatest Spanish speaker of us all, who insisted on staying out until 3 AM every night and took vast pleasure in translating my girly magazines into French out loud to me while I did my hair in the morning.

Those people, among others, saved me. At the time, I was very in-between phases of life, and I was even closer to falling into some kind of canyon of feeling that I wasn’t capable of being the person I wanted to be.  Europe in 2007 introduced to me the life I wanted for myself that I never knew how to foster. It started with the allure and unquenchable desire to experience the foreign experience and Heaven-sent sugar-laden foreign Coca Cola again, but it ended with a deeper understanding of how to live happily, coupled with a gratitude for the random, brand-new people that save you when you didn’t know you needed it.

I returned to Europe again in 2011, just over four years later. This trip was driven by the urge to actually undertake the things I was saying I wanted for myself.  The second most prominent man in my life (after my dad, not Tom Hanks or Elvis, as I know some were assuming), my Grandpa Ahern, had passed away the year prior. His departure left me with a sense of mild failure in that I hadn’t yet accomplished the great things he and I always talked about during his lifetime, for him to see. He was one of those highly involved grandfathers that seemed to not only know what’s best for you, but knew that you had to unearth your own understanding of this world by yourself. Every time I told him something that I considered revelatory about myself, he looked at me like he had always known; that he was merely letting me discover my life on my own.

I had in fact told him that I would return to Europe someday, and we talked about the historical sites I wanted to see that interested him also. Much of it had to do with World War II, which undeniably left a mark on both his generation and his personal history. That history was one that I always inadvertently found in the back closets of his basement when we used to play at his house as kids. Old newspapers, pictures, and antiquey gadgets were constantly being usurped from his storage closets to play house and monster with.

A few days before he passed away, I visited him in the hospital. When I walked out of his room waving goodbye (which ended up being our last), instead of saying goodbye back, he told me to “have fun on your trip to Greece!”’. Confused, I tried to explain to him that I wasn’t going there anytime soon, nor did I have any plans to go there (ever… my apologies to the Hellenic Republic). Greece had never been in the top half of my bucket list,  nor had the two of us ever discussed it. To this day, I don’t know what story or memory in his head that would make him think I was traveling there soon. We laughed it off, and I left his hospital room wondering if he would randomly bring up Greece again the next time I saw him. When I went to book my flight to Europe this year (jumping ahead to present-day, try to stay with me), the most opportune flight I could find landed me smack-dab in Athens for my first day and for that first breath of fairy dust, international solo-wandering gal air that I crave. The rest is, as they say, bingo bango bongo.

I wrote a thirteen page manuscript (YIKES, RIGHT?) after I went to Europe in 2011, as a 24 year old single, solo woman. Talk about not knowing when to shut-up (irony intended, haters). I started writing it to simply commemorate the experience in some place other than my mind, I got carried away, as I usually do (try to act shocked!), and in doing so it became some kind of highly transcendent piece of writing that forced me to acknowledge all of the existential bits of life that I could possibly glean from that experience. That year was the year I toured a concentration camp; an act that obviously engaged a cascade of emotions and thoughts that I have yet to turn off in my head. There was no way I was going to get away with NOT word-vomiting about those twelve days in which I conquered Eastern Europe on my own (or that it conquered me? Jury is still out on that verdict).

Unbeknownst to most, three months before going solo in Europe, I had been dumped by my most recent boyfriend (MEEP [not really] MY LITTLE HEART), an event that knocked me down hard. I knew even then that it was never about the guy; it was about me facing my undiscovered grown-up fears I had yet to acknowledge in myself. At the given time, it was a very unprecedented reality-slap that I didn’t see coming, especially not from ending a light and short relationship with a man I had known barely six months. I came face to face with those adulthood demons that we all harbor and battle regularly. Needless to say, I was undeniably UNWELL when my mom dropped me off at Eppley airfield that day in November. I didn’t sleep at all the night before I left, wracking my brain to try to understand how I would survive being alone for 12 days, in Europe, with a massively heavy heart and a sudden panic that I would be without anyone to rescue me if I needed it. How I compelled my legs to carry me onto my plane to Poland, I’m still don’t entirely understand. THAT, the perseverance in the midst of all things awful and despairing, was part of the greatness that I took from my 2011 adventure. SCREW whatever is currently breaking your heart or making it hard to enjoy life, at least in some portion, everyday. There is always a reason and a way to choose to find joy, or to live life on your own terms, without apology, and with RELENTLESS VIGOR. As the King would say, "do what's right for you, as long as it don't hurt no one". 

I became and have remained so much stronger and bigger than my demons because of that third trip. And thank God. Thank everyone and everything that has had even the slightest impact on me, even the bad ones. Thank God for a breakup for making me vulnerable in a time that I was given the opportunity to prove myself. It is my firm belief that the aforementioned failed relationship, head-to-head combat with my newly discovered dark side, plus a solo trip to Europe that I had planned before any of the bad went down, were crucial pieces to me becoming a much better version of myself. 

The version of myself that I have been in love with ever since.

That whole “all negativity and bad things be damned, I am awesome and let me vomit rainbows on you to prove it” mentality has made me appreciate and sink into the obstacles and heartaches I’ve encountered ever since. It also drove me believe that coincidences don’t exist. Seriously, they can't.

Present-day, FINALLY! Phew (woof).

Three years later, I am bound to cross the Atlantic for my fair favorite vacation spot YET AGAIN. As a fledgling adult, I vowed to find ways to travel throughout my life, no matter what; lack of travelling partners be damned! Having gone to a concentration camp on my last excursion, I was reminded of my fervent desire to go to Jerusalem to see the sites of Jesus, stories of whom have defined not only my faith but my person. When I walked under the “Arbeit Macht Frei” sign at Auschwitz, and stood in a gas chamber where thousands of people were murdered for absolutely no reason at all, I felt more alive than I ever have.  I felt luckier and more blessed than I ever will.

Those sites, while harrowing to remember to this day, served to remind me of multiple grander lessons; be grateful, no matter what. Have hope no matter what. 

Love so much that you run out of places to put it.

Recently, I was watching a TV airing of the Disney movie Hercules; I happily clapped and sang along during a scene in which Hercules has all kinds of personal epitome’s while climbing Mount Olympus, conquering crazy feats of athleticism and strength. The ever-inspiring Michael Bolton song that accompanies him up the mountain is embarrassingly inspiring. In the past 5 years, whenever I see anything remotely Greek, I am reminded of the last time I saw my grandfather,  when he wished me to enjoy my (non-existant) trip to Greece. Now I can finally capitalize on those well wishes, and find out whatever’s hiding in Greece that he wanted me to see (I'm pretty sure it will be food related.... authentic greek yogurt, are you real life?). Additionally, in order to prove my new attitude regarding challenging my body and mind, I will climb Mount Olympus, Hercules-style (singing Michael Bolton and pretending like I’m not fatigued by the 8-hour hike).

From Greece, I will travel to Israel (RELIGIONNNNN) and ultimately will end my vaca in Rome. This entire story, from high school Europe to post-graduate adult-ish backpacking, first began in Rome 11 years ago. The first thing my high school group did in Rome was eat lunch (priorities, eh?), where I had my first sip of the over-sugared Italian Coca Cola at a café near the Spanish Steps. That was my first-ever international meal, and again, it was drenched in fairy dust. I took a photo there with a handful of fresh new friends, and I swore to myself that I would return there someday (high on fairy dust and sugar, obviously). The aforementioned café still exists exactly where it used to be. There’s no real reason for me to return there except to fulfill that promise to myself, and to bring my experience with the world and my evolution in it, somewhat full circle.  Due credit goes a long way in my book, and I have a lot of homage to pay to a Panini and a bottle of Coke there.  

In Rome, I will retrace the steps I took as a 15 year old, when I was too bright-eyed and curious to see past the glitz and glamour of everything foreign. I will return to the Vatican, now under the rule of a progressive, charismatic and unequivocally accepting leader. My first trip to the Vatican was luckily enough during the reign of John Paul II. Even luckier, he was actually IN Vatican City when I was there, and he was able to bless a rosary I bought in the gift shop for my mom. How do I top that this time around, you ask? Find Pope Francis and high-five him. Clearly. Then never wash my hand again.

Long story….well, long is this: travel seems to save me. It has always provided the answer to what I want to be when I grow up: a citizen of the world. A traveler. An explorer, an adventurer, a not only think but DO outside the box-er. College-Europe saved me from losing grip of the life I wanted for myself. College-Europe quenched a thirst that had dried my soul of wonder since I was 15 and came back from that first fateful trip. Solo, post-undergrad Europe was the solution to the adulthood demons and heartache that I wasn’t yet ready for but embraced anyway. Solo Europe was a reward for managing to lose 70 lbs on my own terms. 

There is a lot of glamour of grabbing control of one's own existence the way you do when you travel alone. Travel is, for lack of a better way to say it, not always fun and parties and bar-hopping with a pack of random friends you met at the hostel breakfast table. It was getting a splinter from running my bare hands across death camp barracks at Auschwitz. Travelling forced me to acknowledge that I was born no different than those who died in the Holocaust, or in any genocide for that matter. It was realizing that if I have been given this blessed life full of opportunity and happiness, I better damn well doing something outstanding with it.

In the end, travelling the way I do forces me to be bigger than my fears and to continue becoming who I am supposed to be in this world. It inspires me to ensure I leave a greater legacy than just a trail of Irish whiskey and some good laughs (though that would be cool too). When I am seeing and experience the world, I have no choice but to stare the beauty of the universe in the face. There’s no way not to acknowledge and remember how absolutely insanely lucky I am, how undeservingly blessed I am, and ultimately how freakishly happy I am. Menacingly happy, and secure. Because I’m not afraid of what the world can do to me. I’m not afraid of the heartache, loss and pit-of-your-stomach suffering that lay before me when there's so much joie and good to be found amongst it.

I do apologize in advance for the lengthy monologue that will inevitably occur after this expedition, a manuscript that will likely arrive on your doorstep around the holidays for your perusal (if you so dare). Until then, live as you were meant to; with joie and gumption, with relentless vigor, and without fear. The things we fear the most have already happened to us.

All my love & la joie de vie,

Margaret