The founder of the nonprofit where I now work (Room to Read), John Wood, was featured in the NYTimes Magazine today. Check it out!

At what point do you tell someone that you don’t know them? Or that you’re not who they think you are? I must have a twin in this city; the number of instances where people assume they know me is increasing at an alarming rate.

Today, as I was in a clothing store, the woman helping me began the conversation with, “Good to see you – it’s been a while since you’ve been in here.” Which was true. I thought she was merely being friendly. So I responded, “Yeah, it has been a while.” As she sorted through my items, she said, “You’re not working today?” Again, thinking she was being friendly, I responded, “No, I have the day off.” It was at that moment that I thought, “Hmmm. She thinks I’m someone else. I haven’t worked Sundays since I was in college.” The conversation continued, getting progressively more friendly, more familiar, until I realized it would be incredibly awkward to admit, “We’ve never met.” So I continued the intimate banter, giving her a hug as I left.

Which probably will create an awkward moment when the woman she *does* know comes into the store. Because she now thinks the person she knows grew up in North Carolina and wilts in the humidity.

Mark Twain was credited saying, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” Or, as a tourist leaving his hotel this morning claimed, “Bloody hell, mate, I didn’t know you was bringing me to Siberia…”

One of our employees, stationed in Botswana, needed money right away. A bank transfer, touted as “money in minutes” took 5 – 7 business days to access. Instantly accessible? Not so much. Another option was Western Union. Having never sent a Western Union money transfer before, I wasn’t really sure what information was needed. Before heading to one of the offices, I called the toll free service center.

“Hi. I need to send money to someone in Botswana. I’ve never sent a Western Union money transfer before; can you tell me what information I’ll need, as well as what the recipient will need?”

There was a pregnant pause. A nasaly mid-Western voice filled the line. “Young lady, are you purchasing something off the Internet?”

Birthday card text received from my aunt and uncle who I rarely see:

“Press the snooze two extra times,
Cruise slowly down the street,
Stay out of the gym today,
and don’t watch what you eat!
Cross off all your “things to do.”
Leave dishes in the sink,
Open cards instead of bills. . . “

I paused. This, too precisely, described my everyday routine…

I decided to try a Pilates mat class at my gym. I’ve never been one for group exercise but the recent camping trip convinced me there were some muscles that weren’t being used as much as they should be. So Saturday morning I headed over to the gym.

There were only 5 of us in the class, so there would be no hiding. The teacher ambled in and I was concerned. She walked as if several of the discs in her back had fused together, somewhat hunched over, head down. Most of the women I’ve seen who practice yoga or Pilates have lithe, slim bodies, and seem to float their existence, one of the reasons that compelled me to try it. Never one to be accused of being graceful, I thought a few lessons couldn’t hurt me.

She immediately spotted me. “You. What’s your name?” Ignoring her brusqueness, I answered. “Ever done Pilates?” No, I answered. “Just follow these two,” and she pointed to the two women in front of me. “I’m not feeling so great, so I won’t be demonstrating today.”

The class started. She called out commands and did not hold back on criticism of any of us. I’m all for feedback, but this was ridiculous.

“You! Yeah, you! You’re doing it wrong. Wrong, I said. Did you hear me? You’re leading with your arms. Yeah, it’s a natural reaction, but it’s wrong. WRONG! You don’t want to use your arms. That’s right – no arms. No arms, people. In World War II thousands of men had their arms and legs blown off. NO ARMS! No arms at all. Pretend you’re one of them…”

I snuck a glance at the clock. Ten minutes had passed. This was going to be a long one….

I hadn’t realized how excited I was to get away. All week I had been focused on wrapping things up at work; I was leaving the company I had been at for three and a half years to go work for a small non-profit. I woke up Saturday morning, giddy with anticipation. “An adventure!” I thought as I checked my backpack one last time. My partner in crime, Emily, and I had been on several vacations over the past few years, but it’s been a spell since we’ve been on a bona fide adventure, a trip where the unknown was to be expected….

After six hours of driving through increasingly more and more remote countryside, we arrived at the northern trailhead of the Lost Coast. We distributed the common gear evenly – she got the bear canister; I got the tent, stove, and fuel – and we set out. We walked briefly along the coastal trail, opting instead for the ridge trail, the trail less traveled as it were.

When Em had suggested backcountry camping I immediately said, “Yes! Awesome idea!” Images came to mind of starlit nights, sleeping in warm down sleeping bags, and cooking delicious meals (food always tastes better when you’re camping). I had forgotten the carrying the heavy pack part. The very, very heavy pack. The ridiculously, what-could-we-have-left-behind-to-make-our-packs-even-ounces-lighter, heavy packs. I’ve never felt such relief as the end of the first day. Why were we doing this again? Oh, yes, to relax.

We had been hiking for almost an hour, over a meadow, through the wood (though nowhere near Grandma’s house), through a very dark Hansel and Gretal, some witch is going to eat us wood, then through a semi-dark wood. We had passed an unusually high number of mounds of poop, considering we had yet to see any wildlife. I was leading, saying to Em, “I love walking through the woods. The pine needles are so soft, a spongey carpet of goodness, — oh crap.” Literally. “Watch out, Em, it looks super fresh, be careful.”

Grrrrrllll.

We looked at each other and it became louder, “GGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLLLL.” At once, with lightning speed, conflicting thoughts ran through my head: We’re in California – black, brown, or grizzly? Stay small or get big? Run or play dead? I then realized most of my knowledge of bears came from nursery rhymes and Bill Bryson.

Emily must have read my mind, “I think we’re supposed to make a lot of noise. Let’s sing.” As if by magic, we simultaneously burst into a very bad rendition of “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s Off To Work We Go.” Sure thing to ward off any predator.

We had been walking along what seemed to be a jeep trail for hours. We couldn’t figure out where we were on the map. We rationalized, we compared finger lengths to miles, we calculated elevation and guessed whether we should be going up or down. Frustrated, Em offered that she didn’t think we were on the right trail and we really needed to get to a water source soon. She had a point – we had no idea where we were and we did need water. We scanned the terrain. There seemed to be a trail down one mountain, through a batch of trees, then up a hill. “What about over there? Maybe that’s the trail we should be on.”

So we did what every single guide tells you not to do — we left the trail. We thought we were heading towards another trail, which somehow justified this very not so prudent decision. The meadow was easy to cross, though steep. As we descended, Em said, “We’d better make this work, because there’s no way I’m climbing back up this.” Famous last words. As we descended into a wooded area, the sound of water encouraged us. We walked towards the babbling. Or more precisely, slid down the precipitous conglomeration of loose rocks, looser soil, decayed leaves and broken twigs. My first of many falls involved me sliding, trying to grab a branch for support, falling face first into the hill, sliding more, and wondering if my limbs were still attached. They were.

We lunched by the stream, pumping fresh water and munching on peanut butter and tortilla sandwiches. “Okay. So our goal is to get to the beach trail. We’ll just follow the water, because it flows to the ocean. We should be no more than an hour away.” Excellent idea in theory, not so excellent in execution. We were at the nadir of a gulch. There was no walking along the stream. After several failed attempts, we decided to attempt to traverse higher ground. Which involved a lot of time on hands and knees. A lot.

Seven hours later we were back on the jeep trail. About 25 feet from where we had left it earlier. Lesson learned: never leave the trail.

Our starting, and ending, point.