J
Jennifer Stevens
Guest
It’s three days before the new year, and our coastal Croatian apartment is littered with stuff. Plastic IKEA tubs have been pulled out from under the beds, filled with reusable water bottles and exercise equipment. Kitchen cabinets sit open, reminding me of all the food I need to make before packing up the car.
Luke and I had originally planned to stay until January 8th—exactly 90 days from when we entered the country by ferry. But Croatia recently announced its official entry into the Schengen zone (a collection of EU countries where passports are not required for entry), which means we have to leave sooner, so we don’t overstay our welcome.
It’s complicated, but without a residency visa in a European country, Luke and I can only be within the Schengen zone 90/180 days. And since these are rolling days (which my mathematically challenged brain cannot understand), Luke has created an Excel spreadsheet to help. Its calculations state we need another nine days outside of Schengen, so Bosnia will be our home from December 31-January 9th.
I should be packing, but I can’t seem to open the dresser drawers. Instead, I’m lost in thought, contemplating the events of the last year.
Snowshoeing in Finnish Lapland, moments before Russia invaded Ukraine.
2022, in my mind, started at the end of February. Luke and I were in the Arctic Circle in the snow-dusted forests of Finland when news of Russia’s invasion broke. A guttural scream from one of the lodge’s employees rang through the communal cabin—drowning the crackling fire and prompting guests to look up from their steaming cups of Glögg. The woman apologized, explaining that she was from Ukraine—that most of the winter staff was from former Soviet states. They were all in shock; no one actually expected this to happen.
It was only a week later that Romania started taking in Ukrainian refugees, and our school community and every Romanian I knew were trying to help in any way they could. Colleagues opened up their homes to mothers and children; friends drove their cars to the border to shuttle weary travelers; and I joined coworkers at shuttered school buildings to set up cots and make beds. When buses arrived, we used Google Translate to make lists of supplies refugees needed, and did our best to let them know they were safe. Even though this old, communist building is scary, it’s full of people wanting to do the right thing. We’re here to help you.
The following months—my last months in Bucharest—were spent taking journalism students to the train station and to refugee centers. They were equipped with reporter’s notebooks and cameras to document the arrival of trains coming in from Suceava: the town closest to a Ukrainian border to the north. They listened as frightened young mothers told stories of hiding in bomb shelters, of standing in the frigid cold as walls of people inched to the border. They volunteered to teach English to young kids and fold donated clothing. I spent most of my volunteering efforts in a small closet in a college dorm building, organizing coats and boots for its residents, then sneakers and cardigans—and finally, summer dresses and flip flops.
On the left, my students await the train from Suceava. On the right, cots set up in one of Bucharest’s old school buildings.
In July, when Luke and I left Bucharest, we donated most of our clothing and all the coffee mugs we’d accumulated during the last five years. I often think about who’s wearing those clothes; who’s drinking out of those coffee cups. Whoever it is, I hope they’re somewhere safe.
When I think back to our time in Romania, especially after these last few months on the beaches of Croatia, it doesn’t quite feel real. We had one good, albeit stressful year, getting to know the school and culture, creating respective curriculums. But then the next year I was diagnosed with cancer. And then, a global pandemic had us locked down, teaching online for almost a year. Then a year of teaching in masks, six feet apart. Once things were finally looking up, Putin bombed Ukraine and literally, all hell broke loose. Saying goodbye was bittersweet.
I’ve felt fortunate to be able to hit pause and step away from teaching and process what’s happened. I’ve had five months to slow down and rise with the sun, eating with the seasons and living off the land. I’ve gone on long walks where I’ve gotten helplessly lost and decided to skinny dip at remote beaches. I’ve felt lonely. I’ve asked myself more than once “What the hell am I doing with my life?”
Earlier today, I heard a Taoist proverb that I can’t stop thinking about: “We cannot see our reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see.”
With tides raging all around the world, I feel an immense privilege to be able to stop—even between visa runs—and wait for the waters around me to calm. I hope that 2023 provides small opportunities for all of us to experience moments of peace, and the chance to see ourselves more clearly.
The post End-of-Year Reflections appeared first on Adventurous Appetite.
<p>It’s three days before the new year, and our coastal Croatian apartment is littered with stuff. Plastic IKEA tubs have been pulled out from under the beds, filled with reusable water bottles and exercise equipment. Kitchen cabinets sit open, reminding me of all the food...</p>
<p>The post <a href="https://adventurousappetite.com/end-of-year-reflections/">End-of-Year Reflections</a> appeared first on <a href="https://adventurousappetite.com">Adventurous Appetite</a>.</p>
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Luke and I had originally planned to stay until January 8th—exactly 90 days from when we entered the country by ferry. But Croatia recently announced its official entry into the Schengen zone (a collection of EU countries where passports are not required for entry), which means we have to leave sooner, so we don’t overstay our welcome.
It’s complicated, but without a residency visa in a European country, Luke and I can only be within the Schengen zone 90/180 days. And since these are rolling days (which my mathematically challenged brain cannot understand), Luke has created an Excel spreadsheet to help. Its calculations state we need another nine days outside of Schengen, so Bosnia will be our home from December 31-January 9th.
I should be packing, but I can’t seem to open the dresser drawers. Instead, I’m lost in thought, contemplating the events of the last year.
Snowshoeing in Finnish Lapland, moments before Russia invaded Ukraine.
2022, in my mind, started at the end of February. Luke and I were in the Arctic Circle in the snow-dusted forests of Finland when news of Russia’s invasion broke. A guttural scream from one of the lodge’s employees rang through the communal cabin—drowning the crackling fire and prompting guests to look up from their steaming cups of Glögg. The woman apologized, explaining that she was from Ukraine—that most of the winter staff was from former Soviet states. They were all in shock; no one actually expected this to happen.
It was only a week later that Romania started taking in Ukrainian refugees, and our school community and every Romanian I knew were trying to help in any way they could. Colleagues opened up their homes to mothers and children; friends drove their cars to the border to shuttle weary travelers; and I joined coworkers at shuttered school buildings to set up cots and make beds. When buses arrived, we used Google Translate to make lists of supplies refugees needed, and did our best to let them know they were safe. Even though this old, communist building is scary, it’s full of people wanting to do the right thing. We’re here to help you.
The following months—my last months in Bucharest—were spent taking journalism students to the train station and to refugee centers. They were equipped with reporter’s notebooks and cameras to document the arrival of trains coming in from Suceava: the town closest to a Ukrainian border to the north. They listened as frightened young mothers told stories of hiding in bomb shelters, of standing in the frigid cold as walls of people inched to the border. They volunteered to teach English to young kids and fold donated clothing. I spent most of my volunteering efforts in a small closet in a college dorm building, organizing coats and boots for its residents, then sneakers and cardigans—and finally, summer dresses and flip flops.
On the left, my students await the train from Suceava. On the right, cots set up in one of Bucharest’s old school buildings.
In July, when Luke and I left Bucharest, we donated most of our clothing and all the coffee mugs we’d accumulated during the last five years. I often think about who’s wearing those clothes; who’s drinking out of those coffee cups. Whoever it is, I hope they’re somewhere safe.
When I think back to our time in Romania, especially after these last few months on the beaches of Croatia, it doesn’t quite feel real. We had one good, albeit stressful year, getting to know the school and culture, creating respective curriculums. But then the next year I was diagnosed with cancer. And then, a global pandemic had us locked down, teaching online for almost a year. Then a year of teaching in masks, six feet apart. Once things were finally looking up, Putin bombed Ukraine and literally, all hell broke loose. Saying goodbye was bittersweet.
I’ve felt fortunate to be able to hit pause and step away from teaching and process what’s happened. I’ve had five months to slow down and rise with the sun, eating with the seasons and living off the land. I’ve gone on long walks where I’ve gotten helplessly lost and decided to skinny dip at remote beaches. I’ve felt lonely. I’ve asked myself more than once “What the hell am I doing with my life?”
Earlier today, I heard a Taoist proverb that I can’t stop thinking about: “We cannot see our reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see.”
With tides raging all around the world, I feel an immense privilege to be able to stop—even between visa runs—and wait for the waters around me to calm. I hope that 2023 provides small opportunities for all of us to experience moments of peace, and the chance to see ourselves more clearly.
The post End-of-Year Reflections appeared first on Adventurous Appetite.
<p>It’s three days before the new year, and our coastal Croatian apartment is littered with stuff. Plastic IKEA tubs have been pulled out from under the beds, filled with reusable water bottles and exercise equipment. Kitchen cabinets sit open, reminding me of all the food...</p>
<p>The post <a href="https://adventurousappetite.com/end-of-year-reflections/">End-of-Year Reflections</a> appeared first on <a href="https://adventurousappetite.com">Adventurous Appetite</a>.</p>
Continue reading...