the things we carried with us
and the things we left behind
The 9 of us were sprawled haphazardly in the grass: me, my family, and the Behrens. An old Catholic church was looming above us, casting a cool shadow upon the grass in which we made our picnic spot. The shade was a welcome, if brief, respite from the heat. It was 2019, middle of summer, and we had been in Ireland for about a week. We’d eaten our weight in warm, yeasty biscuits topped with cold butter and fresh jam and driven, with no short amount of stress, on the left side of the road, and walked miles upon miles through the high, green grass in the Irish countryside. In the safety of the church’s shadow, we feasted on fresh basil, tomato, and mozzarella sandwiches, ice cold strawberry lemonade, and salty potato chips. I was happy as a clam, content to wander through Ireland for the rest of my days. The castles were old, and desolate, which allowed me no shortage of fodder for my imagination. It was this trip that I allowed myself to imagine a future where I lived among the old taverns and windy highlands. When it came time to leave, we left behind candle lit pubs, the burn of whiskey, biscuits with jam at 3pm, laughing until our stomachs ached at something my dad said, chasing each other in the grassy fields, a silent grudge against the British. We carried with us an old silver locket found in a pawn shop in Kilkenny, a penchant for Guinness, daydreams of old stone castles, the smell of the sea, and the fear that we’d never go back.
I begged my mom for a family trip to New York— I, at 14, wanted to see the city I was sure I’d move to one day. First, we stopped in Washington, DC, and spent days with our faces upturned at the walls of the Smithsonian museums. Every night, we’d get dinner at Tom Yum and fall quiet while we hunched over our bowls of soup, eating our fill. It was peculiar, to get hot soup while covering in dust and sweat from the humidity, but we had found the restaurant the first night we landed and had a mutual agreement to go every day after. Alongside the National Mall, I wrote my friend a letter to find when her family would visit a few weeks later. My mom helped me hide it beneath an elm tree, despite my protests that a squirrel would find and eat it. Once we were in New York, I thought I had made a mistake. Lugging our suitcases alongside sidewalks and in the crowded subway platforms was hellish, my anxiety at an all time high. I tried hard not to be disappointed that I hated the city, with its streets that smelled like piss and the people who’d shove and push to get past you. I had never felt so small. The next morning, however, I stepped hesitantly outside of the hotel and was pleasantly surprised to find the streets more manageable. People still shoved, and the piss smell was present but the morning light softened the hard corners of buildings and the downturned lips on the habitants. I let myself love the city, slowly and with caution. I liked the ferries that blew their horns and made you flinch, the steam that rose from the sidewalks, the sounds pressing in on me from all sides. We left behind humidity so intense it made you want to cry, roasted peanuts that burnt your fingers, the roar of a train as it thundered past, sesame bagels piled high with chive and onion cream cheese, the fear of losing each other in crowds. We carried with us cheap plastic souvenirs for friends back home, memories of candles on the tables of Italian restaurants, the squeaking of theater chairs as you unfolded them, cheers and applause from a crowd hugging you tight, watching people picnic in the park, and a subtle longing for the palpable energy of the city long after we left.
The residents of Iceland believed in fairies and gave each other books for Christmas. Or at least, thats what the travel books told me. I never got the courage to ask someone while there because I couldn’t bear the potential disappointment. We stayed on sheep farms and in old cargo boxes, and saw landscapes that I couldn’t fathom. One day, during a long drive that was driving us all crazy, we stopped at a lone gas station with a flickering sign that read hot dogs for sale. We only bought one, a mistake I still think about to this day, and fought for as many bites as we could, my sisters and I shoving each other to be first in line behind my dad. The bun was warm, slightly sweet, with a beef sausage covered in crispy onions and a beige sauce that tasted like roasted garlic and brown sugar and tangy sauerkraut. We left behind a field of mossy stones, black sand beaches with angry waves, austere people with their collars upturned against the wind, sprawling hills interrupted by the jagged edge of mountains, the fear that we were stuck on an island far away from everything else. We carried with us the taste of that beige hot dog sauce, hearing the wind howl against the side of our lodgings, standing on the edge of the world looking out at the vast ocean and feeling larger than life, the smell of sulfur, and a deep and persistent hope that everyone who lived there still believed in fairies.
I’ve never loved a city as quickly as I loved Copenhagen within the first few hours. Everything about it— the river that split the city horizontally, the cobblestone roads, bikes upon bikes racing in time with each other alongside traffic, the open air markets— was perfect. My mom booked history tours through the city, and we always came away from a place knowing more than we thought we would. Per usual, we stayed in hostels, some good some bad, but always crammed together, the 5 of us. I liked it this way, I knew we were safe together at the end of each day. Danish food was rough on the palette, but we enjoyed rye bread with sharp cheese and pickled onions, open faced sandwiches topped with fresh greens and avocado, seafood soup, and steaming mugs of rich coffee. Every evening, when our feet were sufficiently sore, the light would fall softly alongside the Nyhavn river and my family would take the long way back to our room. Dad in front, me in the back. When we left Copenhagen and visited Ærø, our days were filled by long, winding bike rides along the water where all I could think about was that I was breathing in air from across the world. We left behind markets with long wood tables where families sat side by side, apartments lit up inside from an abundance of candles, people who would smile at you unprompted, bike commuters’ stern voices warning you to watch out, the crowds of people eating along the sidewalk. We carried with us memories of wind whipping the hair around my face, my mom and I jumping from the wooden docks into the frigid, salty water, my family gagging at the smell of a local Danish cheese we took a chance on, watching my dad pedal my sister’s guide dog in the wagon, and the crunch of gravel underneath our feet in the dusty courtyards.
In Costa Rica, every morning began the same: I’d wake up at 6am to run on the beach. I was 15 years old, alone in a foreign country for the first time ever, and still I made myself set my feet on the red stone floor, at 6am sharp. This had been my routine for the last 5 days and would remain my first to-do item of the next 6. I’d throw on a pair of shorts, a ratty t-shirt, and sandals that would soon be discarded because as I quickly learned: the best way to run on the beach is barefoot. The sand hard and cold beneath your toes, rubbing the soft skin raw. I would run with one of the chaperones, silent except for the sharp exhale of breath. Turning around at the 2 mile mark, we’d run back to the rock we left our shoes by, and then begin our long walk back to the house. Still sweaty, we’d tear into mangoes, warm from the morning sun. The other students would be awake by then, and we’d all sit shoulder to shoulder on long plastic tables. The courtyard would come alive with noise, from greeting murmurs to excited tones about the plans for the day. For breakfast we would pile our plates with black beans, brown rice, mango or melon, plantains fried in butter and brown sugar. Bitter black coffee would be handed out in cracked plastic cups. I always chose the orange one. We left behind new friends from the other side of the country, mango juice running down our chins, laying in hammocks in the afternoon heat, bumping shoulders along paths, wiping sweat from our brows with the back of our hands. We carried with us promises to visit, suntanned skin, guzzling soda from the corner stores in the shade of palm trees, eyes used to the deep vibrant green of jungle canopies, stories we’d keep close to our hearts and save for ourselves, and the sensation of laying on your back in the salty ocean looking up at the red sky.
Along the waterfront in Toronto, every 5 minutes, small dinghies will bump up against the docks, unloading their passengers and accepting new ones. Off they go again, to the green smudge in the distance across the harbour. When it was our turn, after standing in line underneath the stifling heat, my mom and sister stepped gingerly across the plank, finding a spot along the blue plastic benches that sat perpendicular to the edge of the boat. I jumped in after them, determined to get a seat closest to the water. Away we went, the waves battering against the edge of the boat, spraying us with salty droplets. Our tour guide’s voice crackled out from the speakers, informing us of historical facts about Toronto’s skyline. In the harbour, ships of all sizes sailed amongst each other and my heart crept into my throat every time a small rowboat narrowly escaped a large steamboat, skirting quickly around the bow. Climbing back onto the shore, a city awaited us that I wasn’t sure if I liked yet. In New York, the city felt dense but discoverable. Here, the city was so vast it was overwhelming. We ate steaming Nigerian meat pies, Jewish bagels with smoked trout, Russian perogies stuffed with cheese, British fish and chips with sour vinegar drizzled on top. Toronto is home to people from every single country in the world, we learned, and our food intake confirmed it. We left behind a skyline shrouded in fog, slight difference in accents from one person to the next, willow trees along the waterfront, tears over job rejections sent while abroad, eating pizza from the box over the kitchen counter, miles walked across the city. We carried with us memories of the music garden, soles worn in from walking for hours, an affinity for gin based drinks, singing along with the crowd at concerts, acceptance that travel can be anxiety inducing, history lessons we’d never heard about, new flavors discovered, and a craving for home.
Stockholm, Sweden was grand in a way I hadn’t seen before: white brocaded buildings stood stark against the dark blue water with gold trim adorning their windows. Streets curled up through high hills covered in cobblestones and city squares were centered around fountains with marble statues pouring water out by the gallon. We spent days exploring the city, and I was no closer to having a sense of the city’s geography. Eventually, we found our way to Skansen, an open air museum on the edge of the city. Animals roamed in large enclosures and ponds sat unnaturally still, white lilies sitting peacefully. The day was bright and clear but the park was nearly empty, allowing my family to bicker and laugh as loud as we wanted. Close by was an apple orchard that was host to a bustling cafe. We ate rye bread sandwiches with goat cheese and cucumbers, hot cranberry scones, and dunked heavy pieces of toast loaded with fresh butter into a spicy roasted tomato soup. Satisfied, we laid in the grass and watched the clouds roll by above the gnarled branches of apple trees. It struck me how even though we were 4,000 miles from home, my family found comfort laying amongst the trees like we always did. We left behind trudging up spiral roads, beautiful architecture surrounded by a glittering water, smoked salmon and clam chowder, bickering over who gets the last bite of sour candy, and huddling together on the walk home when the weather turned cold. We carried with us the feeling of home in apple orchards, finding hidden gems by accident in an effort to get out of the rain, singing along to our favorite songs in the ABBA museum, watching the sun cast dappling light over the city as it set over the water, the sight of bright red and pink flowers sitting prettily in their market stalls, and the homesickness of being away too long from your pets.
In Edinburgh, Scotland there are statues with toes rubbed for luck, shining a bright gold amongst the background of grey metal. The whole city is grey. Grey buildings with black streaks where rain has darkened the stone, and grey skies that occasionally open up to a brief ray of sun. One day, after tensions rose after weeks of traveling, we all split up— some of the Behrens breaking off with some of the Goodmans, but I went off on my own, determined to find the Writer’s Museum. I wandered through alleyways and spiral steps until at last I found it nestled between buildings that were nearly identical: tall, dark, and Gothic. There was a little swinging sign above the door, on it a carving of a man curved over a desk with a fountain pen in hand. Black iron swathes curled above the carving, fastening it to the wall. Inside I could see a warm light emanating, but I sat on the steps of the alley for a moment, looking up at statue man writing at his desk. I was alone for the first time in weeks; I wanted to savor the feeling of being in a foreign city and pretend for a moment that I was off on a big adventure. Content with my daydream, I went inside and spent the next few hours running my fingers over Robert Burns’ old writing desk, the worn notebooks that used to belong to Walter Scott, and the view of the city from the old dusty windows. I wanted Edinburgh to be my home and I wanted to go to the warm pubs after work and laugh with my friends and I wanted to live in the city that belonged in a book. We left behind people who wore their kilts with a hard earned pride, vast rolling hills with wind blown grass, sheep dotting the fields like snow, warm beef stews and strong Scotch, accents that felt like a different language, napping in parks next to castles in the middle of the city, and a people that loved each other fiercely. We carried with us redness in our cheeks from the harsh wind, full bellies of potatoes and red wine braised meat, the strange sadness of staring at graves 400 years old, and a wistful longing to stay forever.
inspired by The Things We Carried by Tim O’Brien— an all time favorite novel of mine.