Alone, but Never Lonely: A Year of Borders, Beds, and Backpacks

By Suzanne Anthony

Motionless, Suzanne gazed across the river at exploding images of destruction and despair as the city she called home had just been shattered. Staring at the billows of smoke that now engulfed downtown, she realized that the world had changed forever. This was not a scene from some far away war torn place. This was New York City.

Her country's freedom now under attack, Suzanne finds herself without a job and without a purpose. Finding a severance notice in her inbox, she leaves behind her comfortable executive lifestyle and journeys alone beyond her comfort zone to liberate her spirit and claim personal freedom.

Traveling with a sense of adventure in her heart and only what possessions she can carry in a backpack, she finds her way to the far corners of the world where few have ventured. Suzanne takes us on a rich, personal odyssey, returning home one year later to Ground Zero where it all began. As she returns to her beloved city, she is filled with renewed purpose, a broader perspective of the world, and a greater understanding of herself and humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 29, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595618187

Suzanne Anthony

Suzanne Anthony has returned to corporate life to fund her passion for travel. Her hobbies continue to be writing, sailing, scuba diving, and hiking. Having visited over 65 countries she considers herself a global citizen, but currently makes her home in Atlanta, GA.

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Copyright © 2008 by Suzanne Anthony

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ISBN: 978-0-595-51244-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-61818-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

I Don’t Heart Texas

The Blue Lagoon

An Island in Identity Crisis

Will Crew for Tickets!

Journey to the Center of the Earth

Tramping Through the Parallel Valleys

Dying and Getting your Life Back

In Search of the Devil

Melbourne in My Rearview Mirror

No Tents, No Tarmac, No Toilet

The Many Moods of Khaosan Road

Cambodia Carpooling Breaks Record!

Happy Songkran New Year!

The Roof of the World

The Kindness of Strangers

A Fine Line between Love and

Hate

The Land of the Thunder Dragon

Oh, Calcutta!

The River Rigor Mortis

More than Just a Monsoon Brewing…

She Sells Seashells in the Seychelles

A Lat in the Loom!

Some Summit, Some Buy the Postcard

The Sultans of Swing

I Had a Farm in Africa —Out of Africa

Zigzagging the Zambezi from Zambia to Zimbabwe

Jammin at the Jungle Junction

Baksheesh!

Every Man’s Dream

September 12tth—The Morning After the Year After

Lost Relationship in a Lost City

Dangerous Territory … but Only for a Pig

Free Bath with Purchase

World’s Most Expensive Internet

Café

Moonlight, Musicians, and Magic Carpets

Arrivederci, Roma!

Luca Braszi Sleeps with the Fishes—The Godfather

Thanksgiving Turkey, Croatian

Style!

Red Roses—Memories of Sarajevo

Parisian Pooches and their Precious Poop!

Homeward Bound

To my Mom and Dad who instilled wanderlust, to my Fairy Godmother Crystie, and to Brian for planting the seed.

On a crisp cobalt blue September morning, my life changed forever. I can feel the still air, as if there was an absence of weather, void of wind and humidity with the temperature so perfect it was indistinguishable to the skin. I was running late for work in my usual robotic state, sleepwalking through what had become my mundane daily routine. At the other end of the line was a panicked voice, my mother shouting, Thank God you’re there! Of course I am here, Mom, why are you calling me? You never call me! A plane just hit the World Trade Center! I was so afraid you were in there. Frustrated over the inconvenience of an interrupted commute through the World Trade Center PATH station, my response was Oh crap! How am I going to get in to work now?

As we talked, I flipped on the TV to CNN only to stand unable to pry my feet from the floor, or the phone from my ear as the second plane

slammed into the South Tower. "Oh_ I guess I am not going to work

today after all, huh?"

This defining moment in my life at 8:46AM on September 11, 2001, so filled with sadness, fear, uncertainty and rage would trigger a chain of events to alter my course and ultimately lead me on a journey of self discovery. I went to work on Monday, September 10th full of ego and self importance, certain that my position in product development was one of the most important jobs in the company. Just one day later, I was wondering exactly what I did that was so important after all.

Once phone service was restored, the calls started to pour in from people I didn’t even realize were aware that I had moved to New York. It was as if everyone had scanned their mental rolodex for someone they knew who lived in the city who might offer some inside scoop, some morbid tale to make it all seem real. Yes, I saw it. I stood on the banks of the Hudson watching as the cloud of grey dust rose up to envelop the sinking towers. It appeared to be happening in slow motion. You know how your stomach feels when you watch a rollercoaster going downhill? Same thing.

One by one they called to check in, and over and over I told the story of people stepping off the tug boats soaking wet, covered in ash with that vacant look of the living dead in their eyes. Over and over, I told the story of sleepless nights as fighter jets soared over my apartment. I heard the tone of concern in their voices as I answered the repeated question, So what are you gonna do now?

Most of the calls were expected as I began to make my own mental checklist of friends now accounted for and family members calling to make sure I was safe. For two weeks my routine was to wake up, call my friends and colleagues to check in and compare stories, dreams, and emotional states, then make my daily pilgrimage down to the Hudson to sit and watch the fires burning across the river and try to make my mind process what had happened. How was it possible that within a few hours, the majestic towers that had served as my navigational beacons for the past ten years were gone? If I stared at it long enough, my mind would surely eventually accept the gaping hole in what was now the new Manhattan skyline.

Later in the week I was heading out for one of my routine bike rides down to the river when the phone rang. I enthusiastically answered thinking it was one of my fellow displaced colleagues looking for some companionship. Since the office was closed, we were all left with no place to go and nothing to do but commiserate. Su-ZAY-unne? The heavy Texas twang sounding out the syllables of my name was all it took for me to recognize that it was Red, my high school sweetheart, once thought to be the love of my young life. It had been twenty-five years since I had heard that voice, and instantly I was awash in passionate memories of summer nights stolen away in the back of his Chevy Vega on dark country dirt roads.

Oh my God, I can’t believe you are calling me! How did you find me?

I saw your posting on classmates.com and knew you were living in New York now. I have wanted to call you so many times, but I guess I needed this news to give me the courage.

It was as if no time had elapsed since we parted in a lover’s quarrel twenty-five years ago about what, neither one of us could recall. He was married again for the third time. It was the conviction and reassurance in his voice as he said, I am happy, Suzanne, really I am that made me know the opposite was true.

Red approached relationships with the intensity of sunlight; warm and enveloping at first, but his passion burned so brightly that if one lingered too long, he could radiate enough wattage to incinerate the soul. There was no compromising with him. He was so driven to get what he wanted that he was not able to listen or intuit the feelings of even those closest to him. This intensity had destroyed our relationship not once but twice, but whatever familial bond existed between us seemed to persevere, mending over time.

Over the next few months it was apparent this bond still ran impossibly deep, as we talked on the phone for hours while our conversations flirtatiously moved closer to the inevitable. Distracting reminiscence of our lustful youth helped me fill the empty days, as it would be two weeks before I was allowed back to work in downtown Manhattan.

My first trip back into the city was not easy, as my new commute was by ferry all the way around the tip of downtown, the only access now being the east side as the entire west side was still considered a crime scene. As the ferry made its way around the tip of the island with downtown on our port side, it was impossible to avoid the 360-degree view around the gaping, smoking hole in the ground. How would I ever get used to the sight of the new skyline without those twin icons, the embodiment of New York City?

The first thing I noticed even before the ferry docked was the stench in the air. The wind was from the west and even out over the water the putrid smell of what seemed like burning rubber and God only knows what else permeated. I thought the streets would have been cleaner after a few days of steady rain, but there was fine, silty mud and dust caked on all the windows, particularly those on higher floors. After a few short blocks my legs were covered in mud and dust from my splattering bicycle tires. It still looked like nuclear winter down there. My throat and eyes started to burn after only fifteen minutes, and would not stop until I was back across the river.

Throngs of people were everywhere, many of them wearing either surgical masks or gas masks. Every light pole was covered in flyers announcing missing persons with hand written notes like Have you seen my Dad? He worked on the 101st floor … Every person had a camera around their neck, even the policemen and National Guardsmen stationed on each corner. US flags were flying from the windows of the surrounding buildings, and the streets were lined with phone company and cable trucks. One of the downtown restaurants had big signs in the window saying Welcome back Wall Street! The gym next door to our office building had been turned into a comfort station, opening their doors to offer bathrooms, showers, and clean clothes to the rescue workers.

As I headed down the street I came to the intersection where I got my first glimpse of ground zero. Even though the clouds of smoke gave the appearance of impending rain on what was a clear fall day, it struck me as being strange to see daylight through the buildings where the light was once blocked by the giant towers. I photographed the twisted shell of what was left of the tower that now looked like a giant steel gate while focusing my lens over the shoulder of a man on the sidewalk with his easel and palette, painting the same silhouette on canvas.

Down the block was Federal Hall where George Washington first took oath, now part of the National Park Service with an iron gate around the entrance. People gathered outside with empty bottles, bags, and boxes waiting their turn to reach through the gate and scoop up the fine gray, gummy dust and sift through to find singed bits of paper as souvenirs, or worse yet, some sign of their loved ones.

There was nothing certain but uncertainty as the travel industry had been decimated by the 9/11 attack. Business was down forty percent as all travel came to an immediate halt. It was no longer a question of if but when jobs would be cut, how many, and how soon. A month later, the call summoning us to the conference room would end all speculation as the announcement came that my entire department was being riffed, an all too familiar slang euphemism for reduction in force. As we assembled around the conference table for the news, our Human Resources Generalist, Robin, her lips exaggerated like a cartoon from too much lipstick to match her long red acrylic nails, babbled on with nervous chatter about Christmas shopping in order to fill the uncomfortable silence. I angrily quipped, I am afraid some of us aren’t going to feel much like shopping after you are done. It wouldn’t be the only time I was reprimanded for not containing my passion.

There it was laying on the mahogany conference room table, the worth of my fourteen year career all neatly packaged into an 8 % X 11 envelope. I was to receive a total of thirty-four weeks of full salary and benefits to be distributed either as a lump sum payment, or as bi-weekly salary contributions. I chose to draw it out as long as possible. I had once been told by a career coach that regardless of how secure one feels in their position, they should always have a plan. It didn’t take me long to realize I had always had a plan, and that was to live out a lifelong dream to travel solo around the globe. I might never get this chance again.

Once the severance notice was official, there was not a minute to waste. I would have just sixty days to orchestrate the largest confluence of events in my life. The lease on my apartment was due to expire on 1st January, so I would extend the lease by two weeks. I had already planned a vacation during mid-January with my diving buddies to Micronesia. Halfway to Australia, the dive location would serve as the perfect launching point for my journey. It was simple. I would just keep going west until I ended back up at JFK airport again.

I would need to act fast to find a moving company and an affordable storage facility for my household goods. Early Saturday morning I awoke wondering how I would find a reputable mover that would not deplete my budget. As I paced in front of the rain streaked window, a big yellow truck painted with Big Sam Movers rolled down the street below. I took it as a sign, turned from the window and went straight for the white pages.

Deciding on the destinations was easy. Having spent most of my early career in the travel industry, I was never without a list of prospective places to visit. Always one of my favorite ice breaker topics, my Top Five wish list typically contained more like twenty five destinations. As the plan started to come together, I would lie awake until 4:00AM staring at the ceiling trying to map it out in my head. I needed a visual reference so I went to the map store and bought the cheapest globe I could find; an inflatable beach ball. This silly little toy would become my most useful reference for plotting my course.

I did as much research on the internet travel sites as possible, but it didn’t take me long to reach the boundaries of the search engines and start to receive the error messages, Destination not found. I phoned American Airlines and asked for the round the world desk. I held my breath during the recorded message, feeling empathy for the person who was about to pick up my call, when a chipper voice answered: American Airlines Round the World Desk, this is Sara speaking. How can I help you? I hope I don’t ruin your day, Sara, but I need to book a complicated round the world ticket. Are you kidding?? she replied. I live for these calls!

This would be the first of many long, chatty conversations as Sara helped me turn twenty-eight flight coupons into my ticket toward fulfilling a lifelong dream.

I Don’t Heart Texas

Texas, USA

Red’s wife worked the night shift, so our phone conversations had progressed to a nightly occurrence. Suzanne, please explain to me again why you need to do this? Because it has always been my dream, and I may never get an opportunity like this again. How could I pass it up? But Babe, look what you are leaving behind … the possibility of ‘us. If ‘us’ had been meant to work, Red, there would have been no stopping us twice already. Besides, if it really was meant to be, ‘us’ will be here when I get back!

He insisted our paths having crossed yet again was too great a coincidence to risk having something happen to one of us while I was away. Though time was short, his unrelenting persuasion convinced me that we should rendezvous before I left. We would meet in the high school parking lot the morning of Christmas Eve.

As if traveling back to Texas to bid my family farewell was not enough stress over the Christmas holiday, I now had to fit into my skinny jeans for my reunion with Red. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it pulsing in my ears as I pulled next to the only other car in the deserted gravel parking lot. We both jumped out and ran together to embrace, our bodies still fitting together as perfectly as they had thirty years ago. He looked better than I expected, still very fit though his beautiful hair was all but gone, what was left now closely cropped to lessen the impact of his balding head.

We spent the holiday catching up on the last twenty-five years and rediscovering what it was that had drawn us so close together time and time again. It was fun revisiting our youth and laughing about the past, the trends, the fashions, our mutual passion for music. I tried hard to convince myself that the giant I Heart Texas sticker on his guitar case didn’t matter. We made a promise to always hold a special place in our heart for the other, regardless of the outcome of my journey. But a lot had changed with us both, even prompting an email from him titled, One hundred things about me you should know. What I could not have known was that after our rendezvous he would go back home, announce to his wife that he was in love with another woman, pack up and move out, and quit his job all within the week I was to leave. This was not part of the promise, nor was it part of the plan.

The last thing I did before I said a gut-wrenching goodbye to Mom and Dad was to take my jewelry off and place it in a tiny box to give to Mom for safe keeping. Looking down at the watch and ring that had been on my hand every day for the past five years, I felt as if I were closing the lid on a little coffin. They drove me to the airport to catch my flight back to New York, never questioning my desire or my sanity.

Packing was a nightmare like threading my life through a needle, the final details requiring the precision of a well orchestrated event. In addition to a year’s worth of clothing, I had to select what gear to pack for the previously planned diving vacation. My friend and dive buddy Van would carry my dive gear back home and store it for me while I continued onward. The movers were coming the day before my departure, so there was no margin for error. Anything left behind that didn’t fit in the pack would have to be discarded. The Pack would take on a life of its own as I laid out my new travel clothes, first aid kit, sleeping bag, hiking boots and toiletries in the middle of the floor of my empty apartment and tried to figure out how to condense the contents of what was left of my life into one 4,300 cubic inch backpack.

My furniture now all stored away, I spent my last night in New York in my sleeping bag on the cold hard floor trying to sleep as the lyrics to one of my favorite Jimmy Buffet songs, Changes in Latitudes kept running through my head like a mantra to remind me that yesterdays were behind me, and I shouldn’t look back for too long.

As I boarded the American Airlines jet the next morning bound for Guam, I had been too exhausted and exhilarated to sleep. I rushed on the plane at the last minute trying to say one final goodbye to Red on my cell phone while huffing and puffing down the jetway. I had longed for the time when I had nothing to do but stare at the seat back in front of me; however I didn’t have much of an opportunity as I fell asleep right after meal service and awoke right before touchdown. The flight attendant actually asked me what type of sleep aid I had taken to sleep so soundly the entire flight. It was a big dose of utter exhaustion.

I had a twenty-four hour layover between Guam and Micronesia. By the time I navigated and negotiated my way to an affordable hotel, I collapsed into tears and cried myself to sleep wondering what I was thinking to take such a dramatic leap into uncertainty. I would awake to the sound of the alarm after having slept twelve hours straight through. Completely unaware of my surroundings and unable to determine whether day or night, it would take me some time shake off the fog and crazy nonsensical dreams to realize I had just enough time to shower and catch a cab back to the airport for my flight onward to Truk Lagoon.

The Blue Lagoon

Micronesia

Truk, or Chuuk to the locals, is considered the pinnacle of wreck diving. Amidst the Federated States of Micronesia, the lagoon is a paradise unto itself. Though miles away from land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, it is more like a brilliant turquoise blue lake with volcanic islands dotted around the perimeter. The Japanese Combined Fleet had positioned over 200 aircraft among these tiny islands during WWII, along with over sixty warships in the lagoon, most of which were destroyed during Operation Hailstone on Feb 17th, 1944. The lagoon is about forty miles across and approximately one hundred feet deep, the bottom littered with over thirty sunken warships now turned idyllic dive sites.

I was to rendezvous with the North Carolina Blue Dolphin Dive Club at the Blue Lagoon hotel where we would be transported to the boat dock. It was such a great comfort to see Van amongst the group, especially knowing he would be the last familiar face I would see for weeks. We would be spending the next seven days on the live-aboard Odyssey where Captain Lenny and his wife Captain Cara were known for treating divers like royal guests in their floating home. We were met on deck with a plate of warm soft cookies straight out of the oven and large laundry bin to store our shoes which would have otherwise just been in the way for the next seven days.

Being the outsider among the dive club certainly had its advantages as I ended up with my own single cabin on The Odyssey with lots of room to spare for the two bags, one full of scuba gear and the other containing my worldly possessions for a year. The cozy paneled cabin had a double bed on bottom and a single bunk overhead and an ensuite bathroom complete with my own hair dryer, considered a forbidden luxury item on most dive trips. Now officially homeless, this would be my permanent residence for the week, a realization I had not yet considered until someone asked me where I lived. I paused, searching for an answer and replied, uuhhhh … Cabin number nine?

Still adjusting to the time difference and the gentle rocking of the ship, I awoke the first morning before sunrise. I went up on deck to find the moon still out and a group of cameras pointed toward the eastern sky. As the sun crested over the ocean, camera shutters clicking, one of the divers quipped, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. With the journey that was ahead of me, he could not know just how poignant was his cliché.

It only took the first dive to realize we were in for a phenomenal week. Everything one could dream up in a dive site was all here; warm eighty-four degree turquoise blue water, relatively calm seas, artifact-filled wrecks galore, each covered with their own brand of botanical garden, and enough marine life to satisfy an entire boat of underwater photographers. There were sleek gray sharks, soaring rays, candy-striper lion fish, ruffled nudibranchs, octopus, and that was just the first dive.

For seven days, we did nothing but eat, sleep, dive, rinse and repeat, only going ashore once for a mid week island tour to stretch our legs and explore a bombed out airstrip and former Japanese communication center. Though the historical aspect was interesting, the real attraction was the local browned and barefoot children who rushed up to greet us to trade smiles and pose for photographs.

I did a total of twenty dives on as many wrecks, each one different with its own personality and history lesson. Some were destroyers, most were merchant ships, even a Betty Bomber airplane wreck, all with interesting cargo on board such as Zero planes, sake bottles, armored tanks, shell casings, gas masks, and mess kits. By far the most fascinating was the load of 1940’s Isuzu flatbed trucks immersed in the cargo hold which were, with the exception of their flat tires, still intact! Of all the wrecks, my favorite by far was the Fujikawa Maru, the word Maru meaning merchant ship. This wreck had something to see in every cargo hold including aircraft wings, gun turrets, a galley with the oven door still open, and various pieces of china scattered throughout. We took turns pivoting into position to drop down one by one through a cargo door to view the small men’s latrine, its white tiled bathtub preserved underwater since 1944.

In addition to the historic fascination of the wrecks, there was also an amazing array of flora and fauna encrusting the eroding ships, every inch blanketed by hard and soft corals resembling a vegetable garden full of color, from pale peach to vibrant red and