I’ve always had a love affair with words. It’s why I’m such an avid reader. From a young age I loved the ability of a book set my imagination alight and transport me to somewhere else. It’s also why I’m such a passionate music fan. Once I discovered the power of setting words to music, and making lyrics, I was a goner. The ability to marry music and words is a gift. A gift I never tire of admiring.
If you know me, you know just how much I love U2. And if you know that, you probably also know that I have a U2 lyric for almost any occasion. Just ask my girls Krystle and Amanda who traveled to Buenos Aires with me in 2015. I couldn’t get down the block or go a day without Bono’s words springing to mind.
It was expected by the end of the trip. A lyric to go along with a new location. For example, it didn’t take long for a lyric to find me when we visited La Recoleta, the famous cemetery where Eva Perón is buried. As I was looking at the crosses that create a skyline above the mausoleums, a verse from “If God Will Send His Angels” revealed itself.
Jesus never let me down
You know Jesus used to show me the score.
Then they put Jesus in show business
Now it's hard to get in the door.
Similar to my cemetery visit, the most fitting lyrics would find me on my Remote Year journey when I needed them most. So many times an experience or a place would render me speechless. In those moments I found a voice in the lyrics I know so well. Their catalog like a well worn paperback I’ve read so many times that the spine is broken.
Two weeks before I left for Remote Year, I posted to Instagram about the risk, the hopes, and the surrender tied to taking this journey. I closed that post with one of my favorite U2 lyrics and my unofficial mantra for the year ahead: “She’s going to dream up the world she wants to live in, she’s going to dream out loud,” (Zooropa).
The lyric is the spoken word outro to the title track of Zooropa. It’s also the indelible album opener. A six and a half minute opus that begins with a two minute instrumental intro. The prolonged intro has always reminded me of waking up, that stirring before you are truly awake. “What do you want?” are the first words you hear, as if waking from that instrumental fever dream. The song gradually builds to a beautiful climax of revelations and incantations.
No particular place names
No particular song
I’ve been hiding
What am I hiding from?
Zooropa...Don't worry baby, it's gonna be alright
Zooropa...Uncertainty...can be a guiding light
Zooropa...I hear voices, ridiculous voices
Zooropa...In the slipstream
Zooropa...Let's go, let's go... overground
Zooropa...Take your head out of the mud baby
She’s gonna dream up
The world she wants to live in
She’s gonna dream out loud
At first listen it might sound like a stream of consciousness soliloquy, but listen closely and you’ll find there is plenty of lyrical gold to mine. I’ve always connected with this track and it’s no wonder that it became my unofficial Remote Year theme song. I was hiding in my pre Remote Year life. What was I hiding from? I was hiding from the unknown. I was hiding from risk. I was hiding from my potential. Above all, I was hiding from the life I wanted.
Saying yes to Remote Year was the first step towards finding the life I wanted. I was certain of my decision to say yes. What I wasn’t certain of, is what would happen next. So I took comfort in the line “uncertainty can be a guiding light.”
Turns out there was one certainty that lie ahead and it was my one way ticket to Cape Town that would begin my Remote Year journey. I sat at the gate that day more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life. My nerves in my throat, on the verge of anxiety tears. I had so many songs running through my mind at that moment. But the choice was obvious for my departure post.
I left Chicago with a song in my heart and a reminder that “The only baggage you can bring is all that you can’t leave behind,” (Walk On). And with that I went forward into the great unknown and into the arms of my new community, my Ohana.
One word, five letters, became my fate. Ohana is a Hawaiin word that refers to someone’s extended family, including friends. I was on a solo trip in Hawaii when I got my official letter from Remote Year welcoming me to my previously unnamed group, now called, Ohana. Some might call it coincidence, but I took it as a sign. A big, beautiful, positive sign.
I love the word Ohana. I love the way it sounds. I love what it represents. And I love that it gave me a word to represent my community. A lot of people use the phrase travel family or worse still, the cringe inducing portmanteau (aren't they all), tramily. Well, call me rigid, but I take the word family pretty seriously given how close I am to mine. I wasn’t looking for a new one. Yet, these 31 people I met as strangers became the extended family I didn’t know I needed. Those numbers include two very important people, our program leaders Danche and Miguel, the VIPs of Ohana.
Danche and Miguel were the first two faces to greet me at the Cape Town airport with the Remote Year banner in hand. A cinematic greeting to begin a year bigger than the big screen. I quickly found myself in conversation with them and my first impression of meeting them both was one of comfort.
This feeling of comfort was sealed by another beautiful sign. Once again fate was there to reassure me of my decision. I have two pieces of jewelry I never take off: my evil eye bracelet and my evil eye necklace. A nod to my both my Greek heritage and my superstitious nature. While we waited for the next Ohana to arrive, Danche took out her wallet to buy us coffee. Her wallet was a tapestry pouch with an evil eye bead as the zipper pull. A detail lost on most, but valued by me. I took something familiar as a sign that everything was going to be alright.
As our experience lead, Danche oversaw our cultural immersion in each city. She planned multiple events each month for our education and enjoyment. Miguel focused on all the logistical intricacies of group life and travel: part landlord, office manager, and travel agent.
They became more than RY staff, more than friends, but Ohana. As they say in Lilo & Stitch “Ohana means no one gets left behind.” If there were two people always looking out for me, making sure I didn’t get left behind, it was Danche and Miguel. I’m fairly certain I gave each of them a mild heart attack when I broke my ribs in the shower of my Lisbon apartment. But if I did, they didn’t show it. All they ever showed was compassion, concern, and consideration. Their personalities and energy wove their way into the fabric of my Ohana.
My Ohana was my safety blanket in more ways than one. After years of solo travel I was excited for the opportunity to travel with a group. As a solo female traveler, nightlife is usually off limits or limited. The extent of my nights out are dinner with my book as my companion. At most, I will have one cocktail at the restaurant or hotel bar to extend the evening. I couldn’t wait to get to experience these cities, day or night, in the comfort of company.
And that right there is the number one value proposition of community travel - company! There is always someone around if you want or need the companionship. You don’t feel like navigating the new grocery store alone - there’s an Ohana around. You want to grab lunch before the night shift - there’s an Ohana around. You want to explore your new city by bike - ask an Ohana. You want to get a pizza - there’s an Ohana, or two, or three around.
And there’s usually an Ohana or two at home. Your Ohana are more than an on-call companion, they are also your flat mate. After almost a decade of living alone, they reminded me of the benefits to having a roommate. I came to cherish the time at home together. Whether it was having morning coffee together or unwrapping the day over dinner, I forgot how nice it is to share your day with someone, every day.
As for the Ohana I didn’t live with, I saw most of them at the workspace. My Ohana were my co-workers. The co-working space changed every month, but Ohana were my constant. My Ohana became the people who made the work day worthwhile. I took comfort in my fellow “crazy eights” (on the same standard 8 hour CST clock) knowing we’d be on that last shuttle bus together in Marrakech or eating countless Carrefour salads for dinner together in Valencia. They became the people I would share the ups and downs of remote work with because they were living the same work life.
Actually, we weren’t just living the same work life, we were living the same life. I spent most of my time with my Ohana: at work, at home, on the town. Was it a lot? Sometimes. But I wouldn’t have done it any other way. This experience was unique to the 31 of us who started and the 20 of us who finished.
In the beginning our size was a point of contention. We were the smallest group to date and many of us had been sold on a community size of 50-70 people. Everything unfolds as it should and in the end I think our smaller size is what made our group special. After my initial disappointment, I was relieved. I would have been socially overwhelmed by a bigger group. I also found it to be a benefit, by giving me the opportunity to get to know more people better. I’m not saying I got to know everyone well, but I did get more time with more people.
Our Ohana was a mixed bag of personalities with a female majority (we started with eight men and ended with three including Miguel). Each person brought something unique to the group and I will remember everyone for something different. Just like a fragrance is made up of different notes to create something singular, the same can be said for us, different people who when put together create something rare, community.
Community is where the magic happens. I can’t say that I’ve ever experienced anything like Ohana. I can say this: it was powerful and it is unforgettable. As an adult, I don’t know where else I could have had such an experience. My Ohana went beyond the labels of co-worker and roommate because unlike an office co-worker or a real life roommate, you are living the same lifestyle, faced with the same daily struggles of adjusting to each city, and doing many of the same things. There is no lack of shared experience to bond over.
Yet I found that having like minded people to share your individual struggles with is what made for some of the strongest bonds. Ohana is an open, accepting, community all about possibility. And it’s that possibility that I miss the most. It didn’t matter which Ohana you were talking to, the answer was never no, but why not? No dream too big. No thought too out there. Living among Ohana meant living in a world of opportunity.
If only I could bottle the invincible spirit of Ohana. When I was among them, I felt like I could do anything. And I did many things, previously unthinkable, with their emotional support and sometimes even with their literal helping hand.
Six months later, I find that they are the hardest thing to leave behind. When I left for Remote Year in March 2018 I used a line from U2’s “Walk On” for my departure post. I returned to the same lyrical well for my finale post. “You’re packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been. A place that has to be believed to be seen.”
Well I packed the suitcase (more times than I can count) but the place that has to be believed to be seen is my Ohana. The best place I went all year was finding a home everywhere I went with these incredible people. To each and every one of my 31 Ohana: thank you for giving me a sense of home all over the world! As the song goes, “Home, I can’t say where it is but I know I’m going home,” (Walk On).
And that’s just it - amid the transition days, the 4 continents, 10 countries, 12 cities, and the many side trips, knowing I had a home among Ohana is what made the experience possible. The experience - the sights, the sounds, the food, the adventure - will live in my memory. But it’s the people I keep in my heart.
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Your best post yet! Beautifully written