One thing I like about travel is that it takes you out of your own space

The trip doesn’t have to be thousands of miles. The decisions don’t have to be life-changing. Even an overnight getaway can help clear my head, re-focus on what’s important in life, identify the habits or commitments I should shed.

A couple weekends ago, I did some mental spring cleaning while indulging my German heritage. On a blue-sky March day, I took a spur-of-the-moment post-skiing overnight trip to Leavenworth, an excessively cute, Bavarian-style town in the Washington Cascades. Though it’s more Bavarian than Bavaria itself, I rather admire the marketing acumen of the 1960s Leavenworthers who converted a dying lumber town to this Alpine gingerbread extravaganza to lure tourists.

When German relatives come to visit me, everyone suggests I take them to Leavenworth. But really, why would I take a real German person to a fake German town … even a cute fake German town?

My cousin Ute took herself there though. She found many subtle things amusing that I hadn’t picked up on. For example, a northern German beer served at a pub decorated in Bavarian (aka southern German) blue and white flags. This would never happen. The orderly Germans would riot in the streets first.

I’m always rather astonished when I run into a real German person there. But it’s happened several times so I guess the word is out and any Germans wanting an American version of the Homeland are drifting in.

Despite my poking fun at the Bavarian façade, it’s a charming town surrounded by snowy mountains where a person actually has a choice of several restaurants with sauerbraten and wurst (sausage). Does life get any better than this for someone of German heritage? And if the persistent accordion music drives you to drink, well, the beer options (in true German style) are plentiful.

No monumental decisions to change my job or pack up and move to another country. I came home with wine, German bread, and Alpine-inspired art for my home. And a fresh view of my priorities.

A tiny slice of travel (and German Bienenstich pastry) is all it takes.

Welcome to Teplitz, Bessarabia, Ukraine

The hospitality was bounteous, if not terribly personalized. A short visit with the mayor and his wife, then they handed us over to the guesthouse where we’d be staying that night. As with every Ukrainian meal, plates of food covered every square inch of the table’s surface. But the guesthouse owner hovered over us like she was daring us to eat and the odd smell permeating the building put a damper on my appetite.

Serge had sworn to me it was just sulfur in the local water that created the smell. But my nose told me “sewage,” not sulfur-rotten-egg smell.

Suite ala Teplitz

I knew I should feel honored that Elli, Elaine, and I had been given the “suite” with its private bathroom. The other alternative was simply to rent a bed in a common room (currently filled with male Ukrainians) and use the bathroom down the hall. But the dubious glamour of a suite in Teplitz evaporated quickly when we found out we couldn’t use the toilet (apparently it wasn’t actually connected to any water/sewer system) or the bathtub (ditto). Fortunately we could use the water in the sink, though the cold water gushed out in a stream of black and the hot water wasn’t. From the constantly dripping faucet, the abundant smell of this sewage-smelling water permeated our room.

The town's well house was decorated and ornate.

The liquid dilemma

It was early for bed, but there was little to do in Teplitz once it was dark. Without streetlights, the moon and stars didn’t produce enough light to stroll the pothole-filled streets or broken walkways without risking a broken ankle. But Serge and Peter had a plan for the evening—they suggested we all talk over beers they’d brought back from a local store.

I envisioned the walk to the outhouse through the dark, tiptoeing through mounds of goose poop and ducking under clotheslines that were hung at just the right level to decapitate me. I envisioned the outhouse,

The "aromatic" smell of Teplitz's water drifted out from this well.

which was a rickety wooden structure with a small triangular hole through the floor boards that was so small it was apparent people missed the hole more often than hit it. I shook my head.

“No thanks, I don’t want any liquid in my body.” I’d drunk sparingly all through dinner to avoid using that outhouse more than was necessary.

Serge tried to reassure me. “It is only beer. There is not that much alcohol in it.”

He obviously didn’t get it. I explained that I didn’t want to drink any liquid, not even water, since I had no desire to visit that outhouse. He burst out laughing, then rattled a bunch of Russian off to Peter, who then joined him in laughing. I’m glad I could amuse them. I went to bed.

Surviving the night

And just barely woke when Elli returned from talking and drinking with Peter and Serge, whispering to me about the cockroaches they’d seen in the room where we’d had dinner.

I’d already consciously chosen to ignore the fact that my sheets, though apparently freshly laundered, reeked of the sewage-smelling water and had stains all over them. Cockroaches weren’t enough to disturb me at this point. I merely groped over the side of the bed to be sure my backpack was firmly zipped shut so I wouldn’t take any six-legged visitors with me when we left the next day.

Despite having drunk almost nothing, I found myself wide awake in the night, not once but twice, desperately needing that horrible outhouse. I survived both trips by doing something I would never have imagined before. Even though we were in the middle of a town and I’ve always thought I was a civilized person, I avoided the outhouse by simply peeing in a corner of the yard. Hey, it was dark.

A night in Teplitz is a travel experience I won’t soon forget. Or probably repeat willingly. But it has left me emotionally prepared to casually endure some pretty terrible toilets in my travels without flinching. Nothing like traveling to an ancestral village in rural Ukraine to open one’s mind to the possibilities of rustic toilets.

To read more about visiting ancestral towns, check out my book, “Yes You! Yes Now! Visiting Your Ancestral Town.” Also, see more photos of Teplitz.

The four of us stood by as Serge our interpreter explained to the small group that we were visiting from America, our ancestors had lived in this village, and we were interested in seeing any remains of the old German Lutheran church and cemetery. The conversation around Serge gained energy, volume, and some energetic hand motions as they gathered around an old village map debating which buildings on the map might still exist.

I noticed that the stout woman had returned, dressed in a brighter dress and fresh headscarf. She’d obviously changed into her best outfit, bent on scoring the local hostessing prize by landing some Americans. My friend Elli was soon caught up in the overwhelming tide of her Ukrainian hospitality and followed her new friend down the road. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back. She said she wanted me to try her schnapps.”

As Serge came to the conclusion we wouldn’t find what we were looking for, he tried to gather his wayward Americans back into the van, but of course, Elli was missing.

“She went that way,” I said, pointing. “For schnapps.”

Shaking his head, Serge gestured me to follow him as he led the way down the road, through the gate, and into the yard of the home where Elli had disappeared. Our kerchiefed woman smiled enthusiastically when we knocked, two more captives to her hospitality. The table was spread with small fish, bread, vareniki, and large water bottles that could only contain schnapps. The woman’s husband and adult son were sitting across from Elli who looked a bit helpless.

“Explain to her that we can’t stay. She just said schnapps, I didn’t expect a meal. And she won’t listen to me.”

We drank schnapps, ate vareniki, and looked at the family photos

Rather than trying to ease us out of there, Serge shrugged in resignation. “Everyone has to have at least one experience like this.” He said something in Ukrainian, the woman beamed, and brought out more glasses. We spent a cheery half hour nibbling on vareniki, sipping vodka, and looking at family photos. She chattered away the whole time, apparently not caring that we didn’t understand her, just delighted to have landed the American guests in her home. After a tour of her cellar of preserved fruits and vegetables, Serge finally eased us out the gate and back to our van, finally ready to move on to our next destination.

Benkendorf had been an impulse stop for us, not one of our main destination villages. But it became one of our more memorable stops…and our first lesson in not fighting the tsunami of Ukrainian hospitality.

Read more stories about visiting ancestral towns in my book Yes You! Yes Now! Visiting Your Ancestral Town and see more photos of Benkendorf.

Nostalgic moment - we always stayed here on our family road trips. I'm sure this was quite the place to be in the 60s

It had all the makings of a charming mountain town. There was its well-preserved historic district and its past as a rough and tumble pioneer mining area. There was its location in the Idaho mountains, with a bike trail through the forest and a nearby ski resort for winter sports. The town even showed its quirky sense of humor with a flying saucer in the parking lot of the burger place.

How can you not love a town that has a UFO to climb into and explore?

But on this brightly sunny September morning, when I’d expected weekend hikers and bicyclists, or locals bustling around doing their weekend errands before the high school’s afternoon football game, the town was oddly lifeless. I wandered the abandoned streets, searching for some activity.

At the sight of the open door of an espresso place, I thought I’d found the town’s Saturday morning hangout spot. But no one was sitting in the big arm chairs, sipping coffee and reading a Saturday paper or chatting with friends. It took some determination to get the attention of the lone person working there. And he seemed slightly startled by my request for a latte.

Latte in hand, I did my own unguided walking tour of historic Wallace. Charming 1800s architecture … a nostalgic look at the motel where we used to stay as a family (it looked better in the 60s than it did today) … gazing through the store windows at old mining and stock certificates. I even stopped in the middle of the street (which was perfectly safe as there was not a car to be seen) to photograph their “center of the universe” plaque. (Does Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood know they have a rival to their claim as the center of the universe? Are they worried about competition from Wallace?)

My memory of past Fourth of Julys is a blurred collage of barbeques and family picnics. Usually I’m wrapped in warm clothes and shivering since summer in Seattle traditionally starts on July 5, though a few clips in my memory collage also reflect the sunshine of long lazy holiday weekends at my aunt and uncle’s lake cabin in eastern Washington. And of course, fireworks are a thread throughout all these memories. I’ve seen more impressive displays, but few were as terrifying and awe-inspiring as watching my cousin David explode bomb-like objects in the street of his residential Tacoma neighborhood.

But two Fourth of July holidays stand out for me, refusing to blend into other memories. These were the two that I was in Greece on this uniquely American day.

Just out of college, I went on one of those if-it’s-Tuesday-it-must-be-Belgium sort of tours of Europe with a bus full of 20-somethings. Though we were strangers at the beginning, we quickly bonded in that two-month interlude we were taking between college graduation and reality.

We found ourselves on the Greek island of Hydra for the Fourth of July, determined to celebrate. In some ways, we managed a perfect American Fourth. We went to the beach (which was actually hot and sunny, a big improvement over the Fourth in Seattle) and swam among the jellyfish. We bought watermelon at a local market (which we promptly spiked with vodka…what can I say? We were college students let loose in Europe).

We ate dinner at an outdoor harborside café where an understanding waiter lit a few sparklers for us. Fueled by the sparklers (and probably the vodka in the watermelon), we proceeded to sing every patriotic American song we could think of, including TV army recruiting commercials. Though I cringe now to think of a bunch of loud American college students bellowing out the Star Spangled Banner into the warm evening air on a charming Greek island, at the time I remember feeling terribly patriotic.

Eight years later, I was living and working in Greece for another Fourth of July. It was just another day in the office to our Greek colleagues, who showed only a mild interest in the fact that we were missing a holiday.

“Independence Day?” said Kostas. “Who did you need to get independent from?” The question startled me. Europeans seem to know so much about what is going on in the U.S. (far more than Americans seem to know about what is going on in Europe), that I assumed they knew our history, too.

It was an oddly displaced feeling to want to celebrate this quintessential American holiday amidst the Greeks going about their everyday lives. Unable to find any official celebrations, even by calling the U.S. embassy (who probably thought I was a terrorist trying to find a gathering of Americans to hit), and denied family gatherings and picnics and fireworks, my colleague Dave and I decided to celebrate on our own. After months of doing our best to blend in and not stand out as loud, stereotypical Americans, we defiantly came up with a plan to be as American as we could be.

My Fourth of July 1991 was spent eating hamburgers at Wendy’s (the only American fast food chain in Greece at the time, which we’d avoided for months), having dinner about 7 p.m. (in defiance of the Greek 9 p.m. dinner time), and watching the welding sparks from a neighboring construction site in lieu of fireworks.

Not exactly the best celebration of what it means to be American. Not exactly the best celebration of what it means to be independent. And certainly not the best Fourth of July food I’ve ever eaten.

But in trying so hard to celebrate American Independence Day without being surrounded by the normal red, white, and blue hoopla, the Fourth of Julys I’ve spent in Greece have become my most memorable.

What a difference a year makes.

Back in November, when I saw Mt. Si on the training schedule for April, I was doubtful. I mean, these coaches apparently had confidence we could do it, but I wasn’t so sure. It was a big jump from anything I’d attempted so far.

The top of Mt. Si, in the fog.

Of course, as we’ve done harder hikes each week, it began to seem more possible. But it’s hard to describe the feeling I had actually standing at the top of the darn thing yesterday. (And even though, once again, we couldn’t see the view.) In a way, it feels like sort of a graduation, that I can legitimately call myself a hiker.

I was talking to a friend this morning, trying to explain why I’d taken up hiking in the first place. I realized that it was mostly about getting out of a rut – the rut of being unwilling to try something because I thought I didn’t like it….or having a certain image of myself not really doing athletic outdoor things (other than skiing). Funny how a person creates stereotypes about themself. It makes me think more deeply about what other ruts in life I’m in that need changing.

But as for Mt. Si – I did it. (Big smile) And in just over 2.5 hours. The fastest people in our group did it in about 2 hours, which I think is a pretty typical speed for a strong hiker. But hey, I’m happy with getting to the top at a good pace for me and not being in pain the next day. (And since I’m probably the oldest person in our group who’s not an ex-forest ranger, I’m not so concerned that I didn’t make it to the top with the fastest group.)

Of course, I wasn’t thrilled with slipping and sliding on the last steep quarter mile that was covered in snow. And as I hiked uphill, drenched in sweat, nose dripping, hair dripping with rain, I thought that I could perhaps have picked a more glamorous new skill to acquire…but realized this was part of getting out of the rut. I never would have thought before that being such a drippy mess could be fun.

Saturday’s hike: 3,200 ft. of (often steep) elevation gain, 8 miles, carrying my 9 pounds of water

(This was originally posted on April 18 on my hiking blog where you can read more about my 2011 winter hiking adventures.)

But for someone like me, from Seattle, where annual snowfall is only about 7 inches (according to NOAA), seeing large amounts of snow is as fascinating as any of these more typically exotic sights. This makes a trip to the Fargo area in winter (annual snowfall of 41 inches) as fascinating as visiting India, China, Greece, or Italy.

You don’t buy it? Okay, I guess I’m just an easy tourist. But on a recent trip to Minnesota (just over the border from Fargo), I found myself captivated by large amounts of snow and ice and all that means. Falling from the sky, collecting on the ground, being shoveled aside, freezing on the lakes. I guess I’m easily amused, but we toured Detroit Lakes all day looking at amazing sights like these.

Ice houses on Detroit Lake. The little bit of ice we sometimes get on lakes in Seattle isn't firm enough to hold a stuffed animal, let alone a building!

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Can you imagine staring out your sliding door on the second floor and seeing nothing but snow?

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A mountain? No. This was just the swept aside snow residue from one very average parking lot.

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It looks like a tunnel, but it's just a typical sidewalk in Fargo.

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That's a big truck...and you can hardly see it over the wall of snow.

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Ya gotta love the optimism of thinking about summer fun in Detroit Lakes when the temps are below zero.

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A view from above the Aquarius run.

I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to ride a luge, lying on your back, careening downhill at the mercy of the icy track beneath you with little control of your direction or speed. Of course, I’ve never wondered enough to actually try it. I’ve been very happy just watching the Olympics and wondering about it.

But now I’ve gotten a glimpse of the lugers’ world. Okay, I was actually in a toboggan, not a luge. And I wasn’t careening down an icy track. But I was flat on my back. And we were careening down the ski slope. (Though I doubt it felt like careening speed to Mario.) And I was out of control. (Though I’m confident that Mario was in control.)

But when your only view is of the sky, the tree tops, and the back of a ski patrol jacket, you have a slanted view of the situation. Slanted and slushy, with the corn snow spraying up off the back of Mario’s skis and into my face. (Fortunately he’d warned me to wear my goggles.) Looking up at the underside of the rope tow is another view of reality I’d never expected to have.

(Before I explain the actual incident, it’s important to know that I’d discovered the musical Mamma Mia! the weekend before. I saw the movie twice in 24 hours and had had Abba music going through my head ever since.)

It started out as a perfect ski run. The skies were gray, but clear; the mountains sharply outlined against the sky. I was cruising down a familiar slope, my turns in perfect, unbroken rhythm to the song in my head (maybe you’ve guessed it?), “Dancing Queen.” I was flying, enjoying…and then I realized I was on the ground sliding. And sliding. And sliding.

After I was reunited with my skis and poles, I first thought I could ski out of there under my own power. I did make it to the bottom of the lift on the back side of the mountain, up that lift, and partway down the front side. Then an attack of good judgment hit me (related to the steepness of that slope and the length of the run ahead of me). Marcia went for help.

As long as I was being rescued, it only seemed right to support the ski patrol's avalanche rescue dogs. And it's a cute t-shirt.

The Mario Express (aka the Stevens Pass Ski Patrol) arrived to cheerfully wrap me up and pull me down the mountain. I discovered I was thankful my attack of good judgment had waited until I’d transported myself off the backside of the mountain. Otherwise, I would have had the dubious delight of being strapped in a toboggan and hoisted onto a rack on the chairlift. I’m sure they have a way to keep the toboggan from falling off the chairlift, but the Mario Express was definitely a better way to go. Sort of like flying British Air vs. Aeroflot.

Planes, trains, automobiles … boats, bikes, horses … toboggans … Maybe I need to start experimenting with different forms of transportation on my travels. Dog sleds, anyone?

Here’s the official report of the incident, quoted directly from the ski patrol form:

“‘I was singing Dancing Queen and I caught a ski in the snow, went face forward and landed in the snow. Then slid for awhile, strewing my equipment on the run.’”

Love Mario’s sense of humor in quoting me directly! I also loved his prescription for a cure—chardonnay. I’m never good at following directions, so I went with Alaskan Amber Ale instead.

They had to rely on their stockpile of cow chips or twisted grass or (if they were lucky) coal to last throughout the winter. For me, in a blizzard on the edge of North Dakota in 2010, well, it actually got too warm in the TV room while we were watching a football game and we had to open the door to the deck to let in some of the below-zero air for a few minutes.

So I shouldn’t complain. But the whole reason for me coming to North Dakota/Minnesota in the depths of winter was for a family wedding that I’d really looked forward to. A wedding in a town only 30 miles away. But it might as well have been 30,000 miles because a blizzard had closed down all the highways between us and Detroit Lakes. And even those closed-down highways were several miles of unplowed, snowy gravel roads away.

Our attention was almost hypnotically centered on the weather forecast. Where was the storm? Which direction would it go? Would we really get a break between blizzards on Friday? If so, would the highways open? If open, could we get to them?

It was a completely helpless situation I’d never experienced. Sure, in Seattle we panic with three inches of predicted snow and everything starts shutting down. But I’d never experienced being trapped by 300 miles of closed, icy, whited-out interstate before.

Friday morning the family texts started flying. The cousins to the west—completely snowed in with two feet of snow. The cousins to the east—inching their way over icy county highways, transporting 4 of the 5 bridesmaids. We watched the news and when we got the five minute notice that the county road between us and Detroit Lakes was open, we finished up our packing and got the 4-wheel-drive pickup ready to hit the road. My cousin’s husband had already spent an hour plowing out the driveway.

As we drove, I looked out at the clouds of fine snow billowing and blowing sideways across the plains. Vast expanses of white, hiding any definition of the landscape or the road. Bitter and deep cold.

I’m in awe of the majesty of the prairie in the spring, summer, and fall. But I’m intimidated by the prairie of the winter. The unbroken whiteness is a reminder that this is a land not to be taken lightly. I admired even more the perseverance of my ancestors who settled in this land and made it a home.

We arrived in Detroit Lakes ahead of blizzard #2, just a couple hours ahead of the highway being shut down again. There was no way in or out for the rest of that day or the next. But we were where we needed to be, at least for that day.

I should have felt more frustration or anger throughout our blizzard watch. I’d come 1,500 miles in winter just for this wedding. For 48 hours of watching and waiting, there was a good possibility I would be just 30 miles away, but unable to get there. But I felt calm the whole time. The weather was clearly out of my control, an enormous and dramatic power I couldn’t hope to coax to change. I could merely watch its path and wait.

There were decisions to be made on when and if to try the roads, whether the truck could handle them, where snow may have drifted too deep on unplowed roads, what to do if we got stuck in these bitter temperatures. But I was with cousins who knew the land. They clearly had much better knowledge of the situation than I ever could, so I just put myself in their hands.

Funny how easy it was to be at peace about getting to this wedding, releasing control of this frustrating, helpless situation. Why is it so easy to trust my cousins’ knowledge of Dakota winters, yet sometimes so difficult to wait and trust in God’s powerful and complete knowledge of my life? A Dakota blizzard reminded me of the comfortable peace waiting for me when I trustingly release control of what is not possible for me to control into the ever more capable and knowledgeable and powerful hands of God.

The Road Warrior comes from my childhood and my dad’s approach to a road trip. It’s not that we didn’t stop along the way and do fun things—we always did. I have great memories of national parks and horseback riding and river raft trips and seeing lots of quirky roadside sights (Bedrock City, the House of Mystery, Crazy Horse).

But when it was time to drive, my dad took this seriously. We put miles under our tires. We were on a mission to get to our destination. No whimsical “let’s go check this out” type stops. No stopping for anything, except for gas. I learned early on that you took any stop as an opportunity to go to the bathroom. There was no such thing as stopping only for that.

We took photos of destinations we were at, but no one ever thought about stopping purposely to take a photo while we were driving. Lunch was a picnic alongside the road. Break out the cooler, eat, pack it back up. Keep rolling.

I find myself doing many of these same things. Today I even ate lunch while driving. I simply pulled to the side of the road, hopped out (leaving the car running) while I dug into my trunk for cheese and beef jerky and crackers, then hopped back into the driver’s seat to eat and drive at the same time. When I was done, I waited until I found a “historic info” sign to pull over next to so I could throw stuff back in the cooler, quickly read the historic info about some guy named Mullen who created the road from Montana to Idaho and predicted how revolutionary trains would be, then continue on. “Down” time from driving—about 5 minutes.

But…then there’s my Explorer side; the side that’s curious and wants to see more and learn more and experience new things. The side that wants to chat with the locals and hang out in sidewalk cafes and go on hikes and poke through museums.

That side of me has been developed during my own travels. I don’t want to just pass through. I want to experience a place.

The Explorer says “Let’s hang out and see more.” The Road Warrior says “We have to hit the road and put some miles behind us. We’ve got places to get to.”

Like today. I stopped in Helena long enough to hike up Mt. Helena. I could easily have settled into Helena for the evening. After my hike, I would have loved to settle into the brew pub at the base of the mountain to quench my thirst. I could easily have wandered the streets of the historic district and taken the Last Chance Gulch tourist train. I could have checked out Saturday nightlife in downtown Helena or looked for some interesting restaurants serving Montana beef. I could have looked for the Sleeping Giant mountain that I remembered from my childhood. Or looked for the book store where I remember buying a book on pioneer life in Montana from a woman’s point of view.

But my inner Road Warrior needed to hit the road. It kept thinking of getting to Minneapolis and the miles between where I was and where I needed to be. It didn’t care that it was already 4 p.m. and that I’d chosen a somewhat lonely state highway for my path eastward. Staying in Helena wasn’t an option. The Road Warrior had to have its way. The Explorer had had a hike, it was time to hit the road. So I did.

The Road Warrior got me to Miles City tonight; easily within reach of Minneapolis on Monday. But the Explorer has reasserted itself. Miles City has a  Range Riders Museum. Then there’s the book on little-known North Dakota sights. The Explorer has plans for tomorrow. What will the Road Warrior think of that?