Learning to Get Lost -- and Like it

Living in a new place, it's hard to get acquainted without feeling overwhelmed. A trip to the DMV can take days of planning, trying to build the confidence to make the thirty mile journey, find parking and then fill out unfamiliar paperwork.

A grocery store shopping trip could turn into an exhibition, walking mindlessly up and down the aisles to find pickled roasted red peppers that aren't conveniently listed on one of the locator signs.

Finding the courage to venture more than a few short miles from my apartment was difficult at first and I was stubbornly determined to relinquish the attachment I had to my GPS. This is, after all, New Hampshire, not Syracuse. I did not have to worry about accidentally ending up in a not-so-great part of town, where I might encounter less-than-friendly people. I doubted that people in New Hampshire had heard of turf wars or RICO busts, let alone seen the aftermath of one.

For me, putting my GPS in my glove compartment was not only a test on my limited sense of direction, but on my driving anxiety as well. Before embarking on any type of trip, whether it be four hours or ten minutes away, I'd print out the most direct route, as well as two alternatives. I needed the list of directions, the street view and the actual map. I'd mentally prepare myself, literally visualizing every turn I would make, writing out directions in abbreviated form on a Post-it to stick on my steering wheel lest my printed list get blown out the window of my car. I was, and still can be, the definition of a paranoid driver.

But letting go of that anxiety and letting myself experience a place for what it is, without a purpose in mind? I'd never done that before. 

So I started letting myself get lost, choosing a direction to set out in, making turns down rambling dirt roads to see the place I'm now calling my town. And if my stomach clenched at the thought of not being able to retrace my steps in a heavily wooded area and end up stranded without GPS or cell service with the threat of bears and moose and all other types of scary woodland creatures that could attack me at any moment, well, I'd just have to get over it.

The first few times, it didn't work out the way I planned. I drove through Plainfield, turned off on a dirt road that promised a "scenic drive" and got caught in a downpour, tires slicing into the mud to turn around with the slight fear of ending up stuck in a ditch (not all winding mountain roads in New England believe in guardrails). Or, when I decided to try to find the Hillbilly Flea Market in Bridgewater and nearly had an unfortunate encounter with another car on a narrow bridge.

There were, however, moments of great enlightenment. Like learning that in Vermont, it is legal to pass someone on a double yellow-lined single-laned portion of Route 4. 

My coworkers had been great in suggesting places for me to go, cafes in Hanover or produce providers in White River Junction. But as much as I appreciated, and enjoyed, their recommendations, I had to "discover" the Upper Valley for myself. 

I needed to find the roadside vegetable stands and barnyard bookstores. The used furniture stores and yarn shops. The best places for maple sugar candy and library's with perfect rocking chairs.  

I didn't find my favorite place in my college town through careful planning with exact destinations in mind. The nondescript used bookstore on Utica Street I found on my own prerogative and the calm of Tim Horton's at 3 a.m. had been an amazing accidental discovery. In "finding" those special places, I became better-attached to my college town, beyond the guise of popular bars and cheapest gas station beer.

And here, I've needed to do the same. Getting lost on a darkened road at 11:30 at night may be terrifying, but I have to learn to be comfortable being scared in Lebanon, New Hampshire. 

I have to learn to feel affection for the town I'm now calling my own.

Ten things I learned from being raised in Jersey

Last month I moved out of my parents' house in Jersey to a small town in New Hampshire. Officially, I'm no longer a resident of Jersey -- permanent or temporary. 

The two weeks I spent at home preparing for the move were quite telling. I often found myself going out for a short errand, only to take a 20 minute segue to drive by a place I loved. I might not have gone into Sun High Orchards where my family buys their sweet corn or the Randolph Beach where I spent so many summers, but just driving by showed my appreciation.

I don't believe in really saying goodbye to places, but I do believe in acknowledging the importance that they had in my life. So here it is, a list of what I learned from being raised in Jersey.

1. It's OK to display your rough edges -- and be proud of them.

I am awful at following driving directions. So awful that when I'm driving to a new place, I often give myself a 30 minute window instead of a ten-minute one. So awful that a former editor had to draw me two maps to walk to an assignment that was less than five blocks away. 

But I own up to it. I make fun of myself for getting stuck in the wrong turn lane, ending up in the EZ Pass lane instead of the cash toll one or print out five sets of directions for the same route.

It's one of my rough edges and in some twisted way, I'm sort of proud of it.

Jersey's the same way. Our trashy board walks are shown in tourism ads. Our driving skills are worn as a badge of courage. We grudgingly admit that our politicians might night always be clean-cut. 

And our pride from being from "the armpit of the country" is undeniable. In embracing our rough edges, we own them and let no one else define our state's "flaws."

2. The true meaning of sports rivalries.

Jersey has an intrinsic network of sports team loyalties. There's the divide between Jets and Giants fans ("but they both PLAY in Jersey!") not to mention the mash-up of Devils/Rangers/Flyers fans. There is no uniting factor that brings all Jersey diehards together. Someone always gets left out, someone always gets pissed off.

But that's one of the things that makes Jersey so interesting.

I went to a bar last month to watch Game 5 of the Devils/Rangers series with my grandfather, dad and his friends. His friends live in a mix of towns in Northern New Jersey and when we got to the bar, a mere 40 minutes outside of NYC, it was apparent how loyalties were divided.

The bar owner was wearing a Rangers Jersey and had seemed to have memorabilia from every sports team except the Nets and Devils. Such is Jersey, where sports rivalries run deep and long. In high school there were constant arguments between Jets and Giants fans, Yankees and Mets fans. 

But the rivalries add another layer of excitement to professional sports. It was definitely much more interesting sitting in a bar filled with Devils and Rangers fans trash-talking each other than it would have been with a group of people rooting for a common cause.

And when the Devils won Game 5, it made the victory in the bar that much sweeter.

3. Sometimes the best defense against stereotypes is embracing them.

Can't make left turns. Can't pump gas. What exit? The smell. 

Anyone who's from Jersey and moved out-of-state has heard those and others a million times before. No, the whole state doesn't smell, just when you drive past the refineries. And maybe through Newark.

Yes, it really is illegal to pump gas. And yes, I can make left turns, I just choose not to do it that often.

But instead of trying to deny them all (I don't know what smell you're talking about) or reacting with extreme sarcasm (yes OF COURSE we call it JOISEY), it's better to embrace it.

So here's to my friends who fist pump at parties, tease their hair as high as they can and answer the question "What exit?" with a straight face. You're Jersey, and regardless of what people think of it, you're proud of it. 

4. Bruce Springsteen really knows what he's singing about.

It's hard to imagine Springsteen singing about any other state than Jersey. And it's also hard to imagine Jersey without the influence of Springsteen.

I learned about my home state through his lyrics: Asbury Park, the working class, the strength that goes into maintaining a life, not knowing what the outcome will be.

Springsteen is Jersey's troubadour. He's the person politicians quote when they want to inspire, when they want to prove how Jersey they really are. 

His lyrics speak of having pride in a place that's not quite perfect, and never will be. There may not be a reason for every misfortune that strikes, but there's always a reason to get past it. And that's what Springsteen, and Jersey, is about.

5. Sometimes you just need to say what you feel the moment you feel it.

My high school had a few rough edges and a bit of a not-so-good reputation. It was the type of places where parents in my hometown uprooted their kids after they completed sixth grade so they wouldn't have to attend that school. 

Throughout my years at Dover, I was constantly fielding questions about the metal detectors (there were none); the drug sniffing dogs (nonexistent); and the guns the security guards and school-assigned cop carried (yes, they had them, but they never used them).

There was one characteristic that I came to admire in the majority of my classmates at Dover, one that wasn't quite taught to me in my elementary school:

It's OK to stand up for yourself.

In sticking up for yourself, if saying what you feel ruffles a few feathers, so be it. If the words you string together to prove a point aren't the most eloquent, so be it. And if your reaction causes a bit more viciousness to come your way, so be it. At least you said what you wanted to the moment you wanted to say it and you don't have to go around carrying those words around in your head, just begging for the perfect moment to be said, because they've already been spoken.

6. Accents aren't always a bad thing.

I used to talk really fast. LikehowmanywordscanIfitintoonebreathIbetitcanbemorethanthirtymaybefifty.

Fast. Coupled with my slight "aw" accent, I was quite the interesting study when I first went away to college. I wanted more than anything to blend in with the rest of the 2,000 or so undergrads in my class (with their even-paced tones and almost rhythmic way of speaking) and forget Jersey entirely. A new beginning.

Unfortunately that was not to be the case. The more anxious I got about meeting people, the more my accent surfaced. WhichledtometalkingsuperfastandthenforgetwhatIwassayingonlytocutoffmidsentenceandfeelsuperembarrassedandevenmoreanxious.

But there's something to be said for accents. My slight Jersey accent became an irreplaceable part of my character and a constant reminder of where I came from. (Which as a freshman in college is very important to remember). 

7. Roots -- and your loyalty to them -- matters.

Wanderlust.  We've all been afflicted with it at some point, that desire to leave where we grew up and live somewhere entirely different. Some of us leave, only to be drawn back fairly quickly by some sort of force that won't let us be away for too long.

Then there's those of us who leave and never give a second thought to coming home. Or, for most of us that move outside of Jersey (and I really don't know how much authority I can say this with, just based on experience) and develop a strange give/take relationship with our roots: alternatively praising and dismissing the first place that became familiar to us.

Jersey tends to inspire strong feelings in people: they either completely love it or entirely hate it. For whatever reason, there is no middle ground.

So that makes its defenders that much more necessary. While I momentarily cringe when someone insults really insults where I come from, I can almost understand it. Just like I hope they will understand when I retort with a swift, and often brutal, defense.

I'm proud of where I came from and while I might not always like to admit it, I'm loyal to the tiny town on the top of the hill where I road my bike through the woods, got into my first fender bender and bought my first bottle of wine.

8. Every piece of land means something to somebody.

Across the street from the block I lived on in Jersey is a deserted wooded area filled with remnants from my hometown's iron ore mining history: sink holes and cow bellies with undisclosed depths. The woods descend from the top of the massive hill my town is built on down to the valley, into a favorite sled riding hill. 

Ten or so years ago a development group that had possession of the land tried to orchestrate a condo complex on it and I got my first taste of small town politics. My father was part of a group of townspeople who vehemently opposed developing the land and wanted to leave it as is. 

I was recruited to distribute pamphlets in mailboxes that listed the reasons why a new condo development would disrupt the peaceful, quiet town (or as quiet as you can get for a suburb in Jersey that has a major highway running through it).

At the time I didn't quite understand my father's dedication for a plot of woods that I regarded as creepy, but I was fascinated by the dividend between the "outsider" development corporation and the town resident oppositions. It was a somewhat twisted dedication my father's group had to the woods defense: we may not want to build on this property, we might not like this property, but we'll be damned if an "outsider" makes a decision about our town.

9. Confidence.

Jersey Girls have a reputation.

As a woman, as soon as you connect yourself to Jersey, the stereotypes flood in: big hair, big make-up, big mouths and a certain lack of refinement that a lot of "outsiders" frown upon. 

Maybe that's where the old joke stems from ("Jersey girls aren't trash, trash gets picked up!") And maybe that's where people begin to mistake being upfront for looking for fights. 

But there is one undeniable characteristic that the "typical" Jersey Girl has that often gets overlooked as something negative: confidence. The ability to stand up for what they believe in, regardless of the consequences. To wear heels that are too high and skirts that are too short, yet still command the respect they deserve.

10. People always find a way to survive.

Perseverance. The town I went to high school in is a mix between blue collar and middle class families that deserve financial aid to put their kids through college, but won't get it because their salaries rank too high on the national scale. There's throwbacks who's families have lived in Dover for generations and remember when the town's sections were classified by which European country its inhabitants immigrated from. 

And then there's the mix of the new.

If you drive downtown between 7 and 9 a.m. on weekdays you'll see them crowding the streets surrounding the train tracks.  Some are holding styrofoam cups of coffee while others stare down at their scuffed work boots and blue jeans. Some have papers, but most probably don't. They're waiting for a landscaper or maybe builder to come by and offer a days work for unreported wages.

And they'll be there every day.

Whoever said roots can't come with you?

It was a nameless summer night, one of many after my junior year of college. My best friend Katie and I were sitting on her back porch swing outside smoking cigarettes.

Late summer nights were routine for us; ever since we were 15 and 16 we spent part of them together. Midnight swims in her aboveground pool followed by whatever late-night movie was playing on TV. We passed a lot of idle time together making plans for the future, for getting out.

That summer had been particularly brutal with heat, making it nearly impossible to enjoy. Night offered some relief, but it also brought mosquitoes. The smoke from our cigarettes kept them at bay.

Late nights are one of the few times I feel I can be completely honest. There's something different between the hours of midnight and five a.m. that just make it OK to say things I wouldn't usually say; offer insights I wouldn't usually offer.

This was one of those subconscious nights.

"I don't feel like I have a home anymore," I tell Katie, who raises her eyes in a quizzical look, her way of saying to continue.

"I don't belong here anymore, but I don't belong permanently in Oswego and I don't know where I'm going to belong next year. I'm just...temporary."

"You're lucky you got out," says Katie, who has been plotting her escape since high school.

But the problem, as I've found with getting out, is that metaphorical sense of "roots" begins to disappear and a feeling of "everything-is-temporary" begins to replace it.

What does it mean to have roots? I always thought it meant a place I could always go back to, no matter what point I am at in my life. But the further I get away from the place I grew up, the more it feels like an abstraction: something I'm supposed to have but not quite sure if I have it.

So I've decided I'm ripping my metaphorical roots from whatever ground they're currently planted in and taking them with me. Every place I've been and fallen a bit in love with is not staying where it is anymore. It's coming with me.

Mine Hill: my favorite oak tree I used to sit in for hours reading, aging aluminum slide in my backyard,  dirty bike paths behind the elementary school. Coming with me.

The Shore: the feel of the sand after the beachcombers are done raking it, "watch the tram car please" announcements, rickety roller coast on Pier One in Wildwood. Coming with me.

Dover: empanadas by theater, annoying air conditioners in the high school, five hour marching band bus rides. Coming with me.

Addison, Vermont: dairy cows that wake me up at 5 a.m., basement bar, miniature donkey farm. Coming with me.

DC:  Mr. Smith's the piano bar, Frances Scott Key monument on M street, Shake Shack. Coming with me.

Ecuador: rides in the back of a pick-up truck, winding roads of Quito, my host mother's amazing cooking. Coming with me.

Oswego: 24-hour Tim Horton's, the river walk, the cubbies outside the library (the perfect place to curl into with a book). Coming with me.

Roots. Metaphorical, but not temporary anymore. Every place I've ever been, will always be with me.

Every Jersey girl has a memory involving her father, her hometown and Springsteen

I was raised on Springsteen.

For as long as I can remember, Saturday mornings were always my father's errand and garage sale day, when my mother ushered me out the house so she could clean or take time to herself. At the time, my father worked five days a week in Newark. Often, he would not get home until long after I went to sleep. But Saturday mornings, I was his responsibility. 

He drove a teal Ford Ranger at the time (a truck that would later become mine) and he'd settle me into the front seat on top of a pillow so that I could see over the dash. The night before, we'd scour the classifieds of our local newspaper (back when people used the classified section), choosing interesting ads to go check out.

We typically avoided the ones that started on Friday ("All the good stuff will be gone by Saturday," my father would say) and look longingly for estate sales ("Those are always the best"). Taking a red sharpie, we'd outline the boxes and then my father would lay out a map of our county to plot the next day's route.

My father loves maps. Even after GPS's and Google Maps became reliable, he still uses "old-fashioned" maps to plan his journeys. He'd measure the distance between each address on the map, choosing where we would start and finish our trip. Saturday mornings, we'd wake up early. Leaving the house by 8, we'd be gone well into the afternoon, trapeezing across Morris County, New Jersey. A weekly education of the place I was growing up in.

And these trips would always, always include music.

Music was always playing in my house. Whether it be the low hum of a top-40 station in the kitchen while my mother is making dinner, or Sunday morning Mozart after mass, music is a constant. My father took control of my music education at a young age. Springsteen, The Moody Blues, Pink Floyd, R.E.M., Rush, ELO, The Who, The Stones, Meatloaf...Every early memory I have of my father includes a background soundtrack from one of these bands.

I can probably sing Springsteen's entire "Born to Run" album. "Cadillac Ranch" is the funniest song I've ever heard (and best inner-album art). "Blinded by the Light" will only always be a Springsteen song to me. And NO ONE can play the sax like Clarence Clemmons did (especially his solo in "Jungleland").

My father would make tapes of his favorite records and we'd play them in the truck between garage sale stops. He'd quiz me ("Song, band, album: Go!") and I'd be rewarded with an affectionate "that's my girl" if I got it right or receive a "lecture" on the band's entire discography/history/style if I got it wrong. The result? I became the world's youngest classic rock connoisseur. I could lecture about the significance of The Moody Blues' "Every Good Boy Deserves a Toy." I could explain why Pink Floyd shouldn't be defined by "Dark Side of the Moon." I could hold a discussion on the depth of U2's "Joshua Tree." And I was eight.**

My father would rarely have a particular item he was looking for at garage sales. We would go "treasure hunting," hoping to find an antique perfume bottle for my mother or a discarded coin collection for him. I'd be content to look for slightly loved toys and books with scarred covers. Between sales, we'd stop for lunch or go to Home Depot for items he needed. 

Next to smell, sound is one of the strongest memory triggers. Every time I hear a Springsteen song, I am instantly transported to Spring Saturday mornings, going from house sale to house sale with my father.

When I turned ten, I decided I was too old to be seen in public with him anymore and our Saturday morning journeys stopped. Our relationship became strained and only in the past five years have we worked to repair it. 

Older now, and I realize how those trips meant just as much to him as they did for me. The summer before I went away to school, I bought him Springsteen tickets for his fiftieth birthday. Standing beside him and my mother, we sang the words to "Born to Run" as the Boss played to a sell out crowd at Giants Stadium. And when I'm home from college, I run errands with him every chance I get.

My favorite Springsteen song, "Thunder Road."

**(Note: this is not the only 'knowledge-that-little-girls-should-probably-not-have' that I got from my father. These trips also included extensive NHL lectures. I could tell you the entire history of Philly's "Broad Street Bully" years; track the career of former Devils' captain Scott Stevens and explain the difference between offsides and icing to people three times my age. I was an oddity to some family members, but my father's friends got a kick out of it. History was also not off limits and I learned all about different WWII campaigns, battle sites of the Revolutionary War and American war heroes.)

It should be better: Noel's story

Noel grew up in Washington Heights in New York City. He left home to go to college and returned after graduating to teach. Now going for a master's degree, Noel talks about growing up in a community that can be very difficult to leave.

Description: It's beautiful and poisonous. The culture is very diverse and rich in the arts, music, food and everything else, but there's a kind of... element that will not let you grow if you stay there too long.

Positive: I taught for the Dominican Alliance, a summer youth program for teens and young adults. We train students before they go to work. 

I was able to come back to my hometown and share with them the experience of getting out, what the world looks like outside of the hood. I also taught them about basic sexual health which, for people their age, they had very limited knowledge of.

Negative: I went to a private school in the South Bronx. It was a really great school, but in a shitty neighborhood. When I went to school every day in high school, I was always worrying about which colors I had on and if it would be viewed as disrespectful toward a particular gang. If you wore the wrong color... 

This went on all throughout high school. Depending on if you wore gold, red, or blue there was a possibility of people assaulting you. If you weren't in a gang and you wore those colors, you could get attacked. 

People were getting their faces cut open a lot during that period. There's a population in Washington Heights that, if you look at them, they have a big cut across their face which means a gang got to them.

Advice to living there: Thoroughly research what part of Washington Heights you're going to live in. the good parts are really good and really expensive. The Hudson River is right there. If the rent's too cheap, you probably don't want to live there. 

Smell: Smells like summer heat.

If you could change one thing: The attitude of the children toward education. It doesn't exist. Even in the private schools where I taught, children didn't take education seriously. 

It's a vicious cycle: they don't learn, they drop out, they hang out with the people that are causing trouble, and then they become the people that are causing trouble. 

There's a really low expectation of what you're going to do if you're a teenager in Washington Heights.

If you could keep one thing keep same: The arts, the music, the food, the culture. Un-Americanized culture. Because it's what makes it different.

Bottom line: It should be better.

Softball games and that awful downtown traffic: Becca's Story

Becca grew up in Dover, N.J., the town where I went to high school. Becca, her mother and sister moved to Dover when Becca was in fourth grade, in a house connected to her grandparent's house. 

We met when we were in elementary school, got close in middle school and became inseparable in high school. We talk (or text) nearly every day: outlets for each other's frustrations, sadness and insecurities. Told over an exchange of emails, text messages and phone calls, this is Becca's story.

Description: I have no idea how to describe Dover so that it sounds good. I know how I would say it but... whatever. Basically, I guess, it's a small town where you can't wait to leave, but it always brings you back. 

Where the best empanadas are made. Where taxi drivers are the worst drivers. You can add in whatever. You know Dover pretty well lol. 

What Dover smells like: Well...there's two different smells. In the winter it smells like a mix of Spanish food and pollution.  In the summertime, it smells like "springtime:" with all the trees and flowers blooming.

Least favorite area of town: Downtown Dover because of all the traffic and pedestrians (Author's note: who like to walk in front of cars when there are green lights and will literally pat your car on the hood when they walk in front of it.)

Favorite part of town: Near home, because it's where I know best.

Thing to change about town: The parking on Blackwell Street because it's all parallel and I suck at it.

Thing to always keep the same: The pride everyone has for Dover. It shows going through school and at the Friday night football games.

Positive: As for a positive memory, I guess it was being able to finally start playing sports, I really don't know. 

Is it sad I barely have any positive memories from Dover at all? 

Since we moved closer to my grandparents, my sister and I could play sports if we wanted to, because my grandparents could take us and pick us up when my mom couldn't. And playing sports like softball really helped me on many levels: like focusing and an outlet for when I was upset or angry. 

My best memories are from softball practices, bus rides, games. There is nothing like that feeling when you hit a ball into the outfield, watch your teams score go up and eventually winning the game. Or sliding into home knowing how close of a call it was. There's something about the way spring smells that always brings me back to those memories. 

Negative: Negative memory? Well, going to North Dover Elementary for my 4th grade year before being able to transfer to Canfield Ave in Mine Hill because I had no friends. And the teachers were not willing to help me when I needed it: basically getting D's and C's on my report card. 

Advice for someone who's moving to town: Don't try driving to the mall in rush hour. It will take you forever!

Bottom line: It's hard moving and transfering schools, leaving all your friends behind and having to make new ones is never an easy task. But if you find something you truly love, like softball for me, it can really help make the transition easier.

What's in the word home?

When looking up what the word "home" means, many definitions come up. Home, in most cases, is used as a noun, but the meaning of that noun varies. 

Everyone defines home in their own way. It's sort of like one of those inkblot tests: a different image appears out of the inkblots for every person who looks at them. 

Below are five of the definitions I found for home and the way I relate each one to my perception of "home." I invite you all to leave comments, showing the way you relate to these definitions.

Home (n): The place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household

I don't really live anywhere permanently right now. In the past year alone I've spent time in five different locations: Oswego, N.Y.; Mine Hill, N.J.; Washington, D.C., Syracuse, N.Y. and Ecuador.  In each place, I've found a way to make it my home, based on trying to pick out the best parts of each and becoming attached to it.

Home (n): A place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates

I'm not entirely sure that I "flourish" in places, per say, but what activities I'm doing in those places.  I find that anywhere I have the opportunity to be absorbed in knowledge is where I "flourish" the best. 

Also, I don't really know where I spend the most time, but the majority of time I am engaged in some sort of reading material.  It doesn't matter where I am location wise, as long as I have access to a newspaper or novel.

Where I originate: I have a problem with this part of the definition because I am from Mine Hill, but I had my most formative years of schooling in Dover.  I have always identified more with Dover than with Mine Hill.

Home (n): The goal or end point

Because of the point I am at in my life, this definition means the most, but also puzzles me the most.  Coming upon graduation, I always thought I'd have an idea of where I would want to make my home.  

Going through the job application process, I find myself almost "interviewing" potential hometowns.  When I apply for a job, I read about the community I could potentially be living in, trying to imagine what kind of life I would have there. 

I actually kind of hate the idea of a specific, defined "end point." The word "end" particularly bothers me because I don't ever want to think I am permanently stuck anywhere, that there isn't any more room for growth.  

Home could be more a state of mind than an actual goal. I'm much more comfortable with that idea.

Home (n): The place where a player is free from attack

Based on the stories that have been shared on this blog, it is hard for me to believe this definition.  For so many people, home was the opposite: where they were bullied in school, where violence happened in the streets next to their house. There is no ultimate place to go where one is fully free from (emotional or physical) harm.