When I first discovered Wikipedia, it was through an article my brother sent me. The article was about elephants. Elephants being used as a form of public executions in Asia by crushing people to death. I remember opening the link and being completely and utterly perplexed as to why I would receive such a link. Also, I was quite disturbed.

This was the first thought that entered my mind as I climbed onto the back of a 10,000 pound Asian elephant named Lucky. Lucky is in the middle.

Elephants are ridiculously large mammals. Of course, you acknowledge. They are the largest land animals. Everyone knows they are large. Certainly they appear large as you watch them on Animal Planet. They are shockingly large when you view them at a zoo. But nothing, nothing, can prepare you for their sheer enormousness until you are perched precariously on their back looking at the hard ground and their crushing feet.

My roommate and I were in Thailand, in the jungle. Adventurously agreeing to hop on the back of an elephant for an hour trek through the jungle around us. I thought it would be simple. After all, I have ridden on horses before. Felt the swaying of their back as they gently covered the uneven ground. This will be fun! I reasoned.

Nothing about an elephant is gentle. Every pace and sway swings you so drastically from side to side that you desperately cling to your seat and realize that you are now parallel to the ground. Hello stony, uneven ground and monstrous elephant toenails! your brain screams as you paw at the roughly tied seatbelt around your waist.

As we began our trek, the program director took our nervous, smiling picture with our elephant and emphatically stated, “Never, ever, should your mahout get off the elephant. Elephants are very dangerous animals.” We nodded our agreement with wide eyes and gripped our seat with white knuckles.

As we went down the first hill, our seat began to slide – ever so slightly – forward. And as we went up the next hill, our seat slid backwards. Unfortunately, this ground was extremely uneven. Every few feet, we were sliding around on the back of an elephant, nine feet from the ground. Between gasps, I was doing my best to befriend the young man who was our elephant guide.

*Smothered squeal* “So how long have you been driving elephants?” I quickly exhaled.

“Ah, about eight years.” He shrugged, no longer willing to continue a conversation with a coward like me.

About thirty minutes into our hike, we arrived at a flat plateau. All at once, our group’s mahouts slid off the elephants’ backs and stood around lighting cigarettes. I desperately eyed my roommate, breathlessly wondering aloud about the program director’s previous statements. Our mahout, from the ground, shouted up to me, “Don’t ever tell anyone that this ever happened. It never happened.” Not words that inspire confidence.

“Now it is your turn!” He encouraged me eagerly. “Slide down his neck until you are sitting behind his ears. I will take your picture!” I cautiously eased myself, inch by inch, along Lucky’s neck and rested my hands on his bristly head. My legs fit perfectly behind his ears and I could feel his breath.

Our mahout called out and our elephant began to walk. As I desperately searched for something to hold on to, I realized that I had absolutely no control. The elephant could fling me off and do a tap dance on my back with little hesitation. Elephants have a way of doing whatever they feel like doing.

After about fifteen minutes, our mahout encouraged me to slide backwards and get back into my seat. If sliding down an elephant’s neck is difficult, then sliding up it is near impossible. I teetered and clung to Lucky’s short bristly hair, slowly scooting myself backwards and hoping to not get trampled. After a few minutes of struggling, I flung myself into the seat and clung pathetically to my roommate’s hand. “Never let me do that again.” I managed to get out.

A moment later, our mahout shouted up to my roommate. “Your turn!” She looked at me and then down to the head of the elephant. Then back at me and my white knuckled grip on her hand. And then at the ground.

“No thanks. I think I will pass.” She replied.

Smart woman.

I suppose there comes a point where a blank page is a bigger obstacle than a sheer mountain face. When typing words on a page becomes more daunting than running a gauntlet. I have hit that point over and over again in the past several months.

I began this journal five years ago today. I updated at least four times a day to ramble about utter nonsense and wax poetic about attractive movie stars. Then it evolved.

I had never intended this to become a travel blog. Nor a photography blog. But I suppose that is what it became slowly – changing as I unknowingly became something new.

I didn’t notice it after my first trip to Kosovo.

Nor Amsterdam.

After my second trip to Kosovo, I hardly gave it a sideways glance.

In Vienna, I gave more thought to my photography. But never to share.

In Ethiopia, it simply became a way to connect with loved ones despite the hours it took to upload every post and entry.

In London, it became a way for me to remember.

After that, it began to morph again. Once I returned to the states, I was inundated with requests for more posts, more thoughts, more pictures. I received emails telling me how many were reading, how many were expecting me to update every week. And all of a sudden, writing became a chore. Something I had to do. Something oppressive. 

But still I wrote. Through my first few months living in Korea. 

Through Vietnam.

And Lao.

And Cambodia.

Slowly the entries trickled in as I forced myself to write something. Anything. To put the words to the page and still enjoy it. So I wrote about China.

And visiting North Korea.

It took me months to write about Hawaii.

And Australia.

And yet, Thailand still waits for me to pen my adventures. It is that thought that has made me wait so long to write this again. 

I had forgotten that I was writing this for myself. To remember. To see where I have been and remember the hysterical stories that makes each step a joy. Each journey an adventure. 

I think I am beginning to see it again. What a five years it has been.

Australia was cold for July. I don’t think I was quite prepared as I stepped off the plane into the chilly air. I was visiting an Australian friend and she drove me to the boardwalk to stroll along the beach. We watched the local “polar bear” club shiver in the shallow shores as we wrapped our scarves tightly around ourselves.

The air was crisp and clear, almost surprising when you stepped out the comforting confines of the indoors. It reminded me of April in London – far too cold and me with only warm season clothing. Apparently I am a poor judge of weather. We drove into the mountains and stared off precipices into soaring valleys, raced down bush back roads looking for wild kangaroos, laid by bonfires and gazed up into a vast sky – counting the shooting stars.

We watched Aussie movie classics, wrapped up in blankets in front of space heaters, sipping homemade soup. Through those movies, she taught me a new country’s phrases, sayings, and social norms enough that I felt like I understood another culture better than any other before. There is an Australian comedy, The Castle, in which the main character stares off into a great nothing and peacefully proclaims, “Can you feel the serenity?”

Last week, I was in Thailand on holiday. Thailand is the Australian tourist location. Everywhere we went, we were assumed to be Aussies. Our last evening, we ate dinner on the beach – watching the sun set over the calm waters. All of a sudden, some workers started their jackhammers behind our restaurant. The couple next to me turned to look at my traveling companion and I and the husband pipped up, “Can you feel the serenity?” I almost choked on my drink. My American friend with me smiled and laughed, but I laughed because I understood in a way she didn’t.

To answer his question: Yes. I certainly can.

I apologize about the delay. I had typed up several entries to readily put online once I had internet access, and they suddenly were deleted. The motivation to retype all the entries that I already wrote was non-existent. I have been through the US, Australia, and back to Korea and haven’t had much of a chance to update. Thanks for waiting so patiently. 

Over a month ago, my friend and I were returning to the states via a layover in Hawaii. One of our first goals was to hit the beach and snorkel.

We arrived at Hanauma Bay in a tour van with several other unsuspecting victims. Our driver handed us our snorkels and then inquired about flippers. We requested them and, as he dug through his box of swimming gear, he warned us of the numerous deaths that resulted from flippers. He solemnly handed them to us, looking deep into our eyes, and asked us if we were positive that we wanted to use these death traps. Considering that we were snorkeling in three feet of water, we were not too worried.

The bay is a flooded volcanic crater protected by the government for its unique fish and coral formations. Before we were allowed to swim in the bay, we were gathered into a small room and showed a video with singing fish about not stepping on the coral. After a full 15 minutes of fish convicting me of putting my feet down anywhere, I was starting to panic that I would single-handedly kill off all the coral of Hanauma Bay.

We hiked into the crater, strapped on our gear, and waddled down the the lapping waves. My friend happily swam off leaving me to my panic of killing off the entire bay with my toxic feet. I slowly eased myself down into the water and practiced breathing through the snorkel. Check. One hurdle over. I kicked off to go exploring in my friend’s wake. 

Now, there is a slight problem if one has learned to swim in the ocean and not in a pool. In the ocean, you swim UNDER the waves so that you are not repeatedly smacked in the head by them. Imagine the problem of this if you are breathing through a snorkel attached to your head. 

The moment I started swimming, everything went downhill. I inhaled a lung-full of water and proceeded to flail around in three feet of water. I began to put my foot down so I could clear my mask, but the singing fish came back to haunt me. I was now drowning and unable to put my feet down because I was terrified of the fish attacking me for killing the coral. After desperately searching for a patch a sand to step on, I gasped for breath and looked at the mine field I had surrounded myself with. As beautifully colored fish swam circles around me, I was convinced they were mocking me with their song. I knew I had to try again in order to escape my precarious position. I took another deep breath and went back under. 

I wasn’t drowning! I could handle this! After a few minutes of blissfully floating along the surface, I began to venture farther out. Pretty soon, I found myself surrounded by unbelievably colored fish swirling around my death-flippers. I was captured by the bright coral and unusual fish enough to lower my defenses. Unfortunately.

I suddenly caught motion out of the corner of my eye. Something coming ominously closer. I slowly glanced ahead of me- half curious, half worried. Swimming straight at me was a very large fish, mouth gaping open as if he were singing that dreadful song! I flailed, trying to move desperately out of his way, but he continued to swim towards me. I flailed more, although that didn’t seem to help much. I gulped water through my snorkel, but was afraid to put my foot on the coral in fear of the evil fish ahead. Who knew what tortures he could wreak on a coral-killing, poison-footed human?

So, of course, I continued to drown pathetically until I could drag myself ashore. Needless to say, I don’t suspect I will go snorkeling again any time soon.

There is just something about traveling. The rush of anticipation, the fear of the unknown, the thrill of the unseen. It is almost like perching on the edge of a ravine, drinking in the beauty but knowing full well that with one slip – it could all end.

Or at least that is how I view it, but I have been known to be a bit dramatic.

Last month, I visited the sea (Japan-side) and climbed some breath-taking mountains. My friends and I were beaten away from dangerous cliffs by elderly Korean men, fried snails on a grill only to have them explode on us, and were angerly shouted at by beach authorities who assumed that as foreigners – we must have been littering. It is amazing that, for such a small country, Korea offers such incredible natural diversity. Thus concludes my explanation of why these pictures are in this entry even though it has nothing to do with the rest of it.

Last week, I visited the eye doctor due to my second case of pink-eye this month. The first time, I had a translator at the International Clinic, but this time – in interest of time – I chose to go to another, smaller, clinic. Sometimes I simply forget that nothing is quite as easy as it seems.

It began with finding the clinic – in an obscure building on the third floor. I was given the name in English, but apparently the sign was written in Korean – of course. After several minutes of slowly reading the sign in the pouring rain, I triumphantly burst into the office.

Receptionist: (bows a little) Anyo huseyo. (Meaning hello).

Me: bows back and responds in kind. Gives name and waits for response.

Receptionist: pulls out a massive sheet written in tiny Korean symbols. Begins babbling in Korean, obviously expecting me to respond back to help her fill out her paperwork.

Me: Uh, luni (eye)? (begins violently pointing at my eye because, duh, it is not like I am at an eye clinic or anything.)

Receptionist: (smiles at me a bit pitying.) Con-tact-uh?

Me: What?

Receptionist: Con-tact-uh? (points at her own eyes)

Me:  Huh? Mulieyo (I don’t know).

Receptionist: obviously at a loss of how to explain this any other way.

Me: (finally putting together the fact that some Korean words are the same as English, only with an -uh at the end) OH. Contacts! Nae (yes)!

Receptionist: smiles benignly, realizing she wont get anymore information out of me, puts the form away and ushers me into the doctor’s office and away from the gaping stares of the others in the waiting room.

And thus began the next twenty minutes of feeling like an child. The doctor and the receptionist were more than kind considering the circumstances, but I had not a clue what they were asking of me. They would babble a few minutes to me, realize I wasn’t responding with anything other than “I don’t know”, and then begin babbling to each other about me. At one point, in complete frustration, I called our school nurse to translate for me. I, smiling at my genius, handed the cell phone to the receptionist. She explained everything to the school nurse, hung up my cell phone, and happily handing my cell back to me. I, slightly dejected at the thwarting of my brilliant plan, accepted it and dumped it back in my bag. She then grabbed my hand, led me down the stairs, across the street and into the nearest pharmacy – still holding my hand.

I think it is very tempting – despite our own level of understanding – to treat others who do not speak the same language as us childishly. Based on what little she knew I understood, the receptionist earnestly desired to make things easier for me – though unknowingly making me feel silly. It also made me realize the extent to which I still depend on others. Maybe I needed to be made a little humble to allow the kindness of others to shine.

That, and maybe I should go to the International Clinic next time.

Unfortunately, I am pretty awful at updating here. I feel a bit ashamed that I come here and settle rather infrequently. It almost feels like a favorite coffee house – warm and comforting, cathartic and peaceful. I used to visit every day, but once I had more reason to come and meditate over my experiences – I came more infrequently. It slowed to once a week, and then every other. Soon it became once a month and I forgot the reason why I would come. Perhaps, I would lean over my steaming cup and whisper that I will be back soon, but I know that I will forget again and return next month in a whirlwind of apologies. I will ask that you settle back with a warm cup of coffee and linger until I return.

April has been a flurry of activity. Every weekend has been spent hiking mountains, dangling over cliffs, laying on the beach, or visiting dangerous tourist locations. After all, it is finally spring. I say visiting dangerous tourist attractions casually because I know that makes you more curious. I am apparently an expert at psychology. Marvel at my skills.

A few weeks ago, I headed north to the DMZ (the Demilitarized Zone) – also known as the border with North Korea. (In the above picture, South Korea is in the foreground, and North Korea in the back). Since the only way one can visit the DMZ from the South Korean side is through the military, we were given strict instructions: no shirts with words – it could be used for propaganda, no sandals – it cannot be assumed that westerners cannot afford shoes, and no gesturing - one mustn’t start a war.

Have you ever been told not to bite your fingernails, and then found it absolutely impossible think about anything else afterward? It is the exact same thing when you have been told that to point anywhere could start a war.

“Let me get a photograph. Go stand over there! Crap! I pointed again!” As I am normally permanently attached to my camera, this was an unfortunately common occurrence. I would shrink and glance nervously around at the South Korean cameras and the North Korean guard towers and skulk off quietly, hoping no one noticed me gesturing wildly.

Thankfully, I finally was allowed to see the world largest flag pole maintained by North Korea’s Propaganda Village, though I am sure the military was hesitant to allow me anywhere as I was pursuing a career in conducting at this point. My obsessive need to research anything made me particularly compelled to share every trivial bit of information with my poor friends.

“Do you see that place over there? The place with the gigantic flagpole which I am violently gesturing to with my eyes? No, I am not having a seizure. That place over there – the one that I am not allowed to point to? Shoot. I pointed to it again! Drat, I don’t think I am allowed to say shoot.”

Frankly, I am quite impressed that I wasn’t wrestled away by the military and locked back on our bus. At least now I can say that I have stood with one foot in South Korea and one in North Korea – although, I certainly don’t think I will be allowed back anytime soon. Perhaps I can tape on a mustache and pretend to be someone else – because I am sure that will go over so much better.

Last month, I traveled to Beijing for Lunar New Year.

Ok, perhaps more than a month ago.

Crap. Let’s pretend it was more recent and that I am not so far behind on my entries.

A year after I wrote this entry, I was standing in Tienanmen Square staring up at the iconic picture of Mao Zedong hanging over the entrance of the Forbidden City. Although I have traveled through four different Asian countries, arriving in China invoked something different. It felt almost like arriving in London for the first time.

There is a feeling when you enter a place which has been documented in thousands of books and television shows that is almost mystical. My favorite places (Ethiopia and Lao) are far from well-documented travel destinations, but life starts to feel surreal when you look around and suddenly remember that you are standing on the Great Wall.

For Lunar New Year, the locals go to their local grocery and buy giant firework cannons – the type you see at a special event and operated by trained professionals. They then set several hundred of these cannons in various locations around their yards and rooftops and spend the next several days shooting them off in rapid succession. It becomes all the more delightful at one o’clock in the morning. When you are sitting comfortably inside a house drifting between sleeping and watching a light comedy, your response is heart-stopping and dramatic. I think I dove underneath a table.

Inside, it felt like we were in the middle of a highly dangerous war zone, but when we put on our coats and stood on the roof – it was an entirely different story. As we stood surrounded by a veritable garden of blooming flowers of light, our hearts still stopped every time one burst. With one going off every minute from every rooftop in every direction for over a mile – we were in a constant state of heart palpitations. Our adrenaline high, we were giddy in the light of the most amazing fireworks show we had ever seen.

As a frequent nomad, very few things take my breath away. Most unusual things just become familiar. I think I need to look through the lens of naivete more often. I miss far more than I see.

Id: Obviously, I lied again. Blast.

Superego: Once a blog-liar, always a blog liar.

Id: But, I had reasons! I arrived back from China only to find that a friend had passed away. My time has since been filled with funerals, classes, broken computers, and preparations for parent-teacher conferences!

Superego: Are you feeling guilty yet?

Id: …

Superego: How many months ago did you return from Cambodia? How long ago did you travel to China?

Id: GAH! Stop already! *Brain explodes*.

Superego: You’d think you’d learn to stop making empty promises to an invisible audience on the internet. It only results in spontaneous brain combustion.

Sam and I spent our final four days touring Angkor Wat (Wat meaning temple), one of UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites. The millions of breathtaking sites and sizzling heat exhausted us to the point of comatose. Although we wished to see more, we were quite ready to return to frigid Korea. New Year’s Day, we reluctantly packed our backpacks with our stale clothes and far-too-large souvenirs, preparing to travel by boat to Phnom Penh. It was too early and we, bleary-eyed, stumbled into the new year’s dim light and laid on the dirt by the road. After an hour of dozing in-and-out of consciousness as people herded about their daily habits, our ride to the small fishing village where our boat was to leave still hadn’t arrived. If we were more awake, we might have been nervous as our departure time drew closer.

The sun rose higher and I blinked and stretched as a miniature truck loaded with people chugged by. This is not an uncommon sight in Southeast Asia – workers off to their labours herded into a space too small for transportation. The cultural perception of using all the space possible. I had taken many pictures of this phenomenon throughout our travels, but this vehicle was smaller – a low riding pickup – and there was something else slightly off. I looked a bit closer as it slowed to a stop. A person sitting on the roof – no, not unusual. Blur of bodies piled in the back – nothing out of the ordinary. Luggage squeezed in empty spaces – slightly unexpected. Foreign faces – crap. This was our transportation.

A small man hopped out of the driver’s side and swiped our bags, desperately trying to explain in Cambodian that there was still room. He stuffed our bags between two strangers who moaned as they were forced to find space. He then turned to us expectantly. I turned to Sam, “Which one of us do you think he is going to try to toss on top?” I asked, genuinely curious to know at this point. We counted eleven people and their luggage before Sam was slowly maneuvered atop luggage at the truck, her body the only thing preventing bags from tumbling out at every bump and turn. I was hesitantly led to the cab where I noticed various limbs sticking out at odd angles through the windows. I peeped my head in cautiously.

The moment I looked through the window, a chorus of warm laughs greeted me. A cheerful Malaysian man called out through the tangled bodies, “Welcome to the party! You are now number eight!” As a small middle-aged woman crawled out, I took a closer look inside. Four people crammed across the back seat, a woman sitting on the stick shift, and the diminutive lady who had just climbed out to make room for me. With prayers in gratefulness that I am not claustrophobic, I squeezed myself into the remaining space. The driver then placed the smaller lady on my lap before rounding to the right-side to shove himself in. After a few minutes of bumping down the rickety streets, I discovered the woman on my lap was from Singapore. Forgive my social graces, but despite the fact that she was very kind and a fluent English speaker, I wasn’t completely sure of the proper protocol for conversing with a complete stranger sitting on your lap. The woman next to me who was wrapped around the stick shift kept nervously patting the ceiling, uttering prayers for her husband perched on the roof. I looked through the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of Sam, but the bodies were so densely packed, I couldn’t have a hope of finding her. The cheerful man laughed again, “How is your friend?” I shrugged to convey the fruitlessness of my endeavor. “Regardless how she is, I think she is certainly better off than you are at the moment!”

Surprisingly, despite all these character building experiences, I am still afraid that I do not know the proper protocol for conversing with a complete stranger sitting on your lap. That skill is not usually something that is taught in charm school.

Goodness, it’s February and I am still not done discussing my Christmas travels! As bizarre as it feels to type this on a Tuesday, I am leaving for Beijing tomorrow for Chinese New Year and I need to finish this crazy story! The general plan is to continue when I return on Sunday with Cambodia, and then next week recap the trip to China. Thanks for being patient! I am afraid I have lost several readers with my sporadic, at best, updates. I hope to improve!

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I love Vietnam, but Vietnam will lovingly entice you with its charm before breaking your poor, trusting heart. Yes, the country of Vietnam with shamelessly lie to you.

When we landed in Hanoi at the beginning of our trip, we asked immigration about our single entry visas. We were told, by uniformed government officials, that we could receive another visa at the airport in Saigon. This, my dear readers, is a lie. I was not aware of this falsehood and discovered it in a rather unfortunate way.

We arrived at the airport in Lao like the circumspect, experienced travelers we are, about two hours before our flight was scheduled to depart. We proceeded to check-in and continued our well-practiced ritual of foreign flying. Sam received her ticket, baggage checked, before they moved on to me.

I hope you know what is coming. I certainly did not.

The attendant’s eyebrows raised, looked up at me, and announced, “You cannot go to Vietnam. You have to figure something out.” Before relieving my friend of her plane ticket, we were told to stand aside and wait for the airline official – whom she failed to call.

After begging for several minutes, the official finally arrived and explained the situation: “Oh! This happens all the time! You need to go find a taxi, go to the Vietnamese Embassy, get a new visa, and arrive back in time for your flight! Simple!” He smiled benignly.

Sam and I looked at each other in disbelief and fair amount of panic: “Can we make it back in time?”

He opened his phone and muttered a word into his receiver before smiling again. “Yes. I think. You go now. You are wasting time. No more flights today.”

We that, we took off running like contestants on The Amazing Race, perhaps harming some innocent bystanders in the process. We ran through the airport, caught a taxi, and took a twenty minute, winding ride through the city of Vietienne to the Embassy. As our documents were being processed, we slowly chanted: “Our plane leaves in an hour and a half. Holy Crap.”

When our documents were handed off to us, we treated it as the passing of the baton in a relay and took off furiously again. We arrived back at the airport panting heavily, but with an hour to spare. The original official smiled at us when we checked in, replying: “Just remember, Vietnam lie to you, not us. Have a nice day!”

I can now die content in the knowledge that you can obtain a visa in less than 15 and that I can run faster than an Amazing Racecontestant. Although Ho Chi Minh City has its charms, nothing quite endures like that knowledge.

That, and an underlying suspicion of Vietnam.

On Christmas Eve, my friend Sam and I took a three hour, mountainous bus ride up to the city of Vang Vieng, Lao. This little town boasts the reputation of being the location for backpackers in southeast Asia. Being the adventurous backpackers were were, we trekked off to another location.

Vang Vieng sits alongside the Namsong river. The main reason tourist stop over is to tube down the river a few hours before continuing on their way. And that is how I spent my Christmas Eve – tubing down a river in the mountains of Lao. The truth is, though, this river truly deserves its role as a backpackers haven as it has about thirty bars set along the banks amidst sleepy villages and water buffalo. Sounds of rap music and trekkers swinging off twenty foot platforms and belly-flopping drunkenly echo through the normally peaceful valley. It was here that my flip flop got sucked into the current, making me walk back to town barefoot and embarrassed.

On Christmas Day, we hopped a bus again to head back to the capital. The bus had difficulty starting up before struggling around hills and bends in the road. About forty miles from the city, the bus weaved a bit before rolling to a complete stop. People started flooding off the bus and hitching rides back to the city when it became abundantly clear that we had no chance of getting the bus fixed. I, on the other hand, figured that they may just figure it out, and spent three hours of Christmas sitting on a bus and reading October Sky before catching a ride on the city bus.

One attraction in Lao is the Mekong River with Thailand on the opposite banks. Since my only knowledge of the Mekong stems from Discovery Channel commercials with deep booming voices, Sam and I decided to explore. We reached the river before realizing that we had to cross a beach to stick our feet in the water. What started off seemingly a simple walk down a sandy beach turned into a half mile walk in ninety-degree heat across a vast sandy desert. I imagined tying a shirt around my head, dragging myself by my fingernails, and bleating pitifully for water.

Young boys followed us and started kicking sand at me. By the time we reached the Mekong, I was sweaty with bits of sand sticking to my face.  I am convinced that the whole of southeast Asia remembers the sunburned, sand-covered foreigner raving about water and Lawrence of Arabia.

When adjusting to other countries, it is generally recommended to make a good impression and put your best foot forward. I am slightly concerned about the footprints I left behind.