Saturday, September 19, 2009

Last Day and a New Idea

My last day in Seattle is a sunny, warm blur. No time for slow buses, I drive downtown for the final sprint of last minute errands, in between alternating hours of work and a final coat of stain on my little cedar shingled house, before winter rains come while I’m off traveling and working for a month. Sailing through green lights and Seattle crowds, all of my senses--knowing this is goodbye for awhile--devour it all. The deceptively warm air on the verge of autumn, sunshine bounces off glassy buildings from which stream glossy armies of business men and women, clutching cell phones and leather accessories, brokering deals at crosswalks, trying to decide on dinner tonight, or trying to decide how to get the kids from soccer practice, all rushing past me with purpose, as flocks of bicycled police race around dreadlocked street urchins and a white submersible tank filled with grayed tourists. I pause to let it all stream by me and drop a $1 into the hand of a pierced, tattooed man playing a dirty accordion. Tomorrow I will just be gone. I’ll be in Indonesia. And this world, my world, will spin madly on.

When I think about the next few weeks, I laugh. I'll learn the language as I go. I'll figure out my plan as I am there. I will hope to make friends along the way. Trips before, there's always been someone I know, somewhere. This time there will be no one. This time I’ll just get on the plane and figure it out when I get there. Just take the first step and try, then try again, even if I fall, fail, get up and try again, and again.

I sit with my cup of coffee and tell my new friend Sebastian that I’m leaving tonight for Indonesia. I ask if he’ll do something for me. Then I pitch a new idea. Photos of third world Indonesia – the coffee, the people, the daily lives – and sell them for first world prices in Seattle, in a coffee shop, like this one, maybe? After my costs to print the photos are covered, 100% of the proceeds would go back to Indonesia, to a charity that I will find. Because I promised myself if I made it working on my own for one year, I would start doing things different, big things, or maybe just small things. I’m not sure. But I’ve made a year. Now I hope to do more, give more. I hope to travel and give something back, hopefully more than I take. I’ll throw my heart into marketing it (and just hope word gets out) the photos sell, those who created my experience – and my photos – would get something in return. His business gets the goodwill and local marketing in the holidays, as the tourist season dies down, and… “Of course! We love to do things like this!” exclaims Sebastian.

“Really!?” my voice cracks, I wasn’t prepared for such an easy sale.
Then he, understandably, retracts, “Of course…but with the caveat that I have to see these photos first. You know. Not that you wouldn’t bring back good photos, but they must be good.”

I tell him I can send him links to my albums, that I get pretty good reviews. I don’t tell him that I really have noooo idea what I’m doing or if I will get "good" pics, but I just want to try. See if I can make this idea work. Refine the idea, then maybe take it to my other travels, pitch it to other coffee shops. I figure it's worth a shot. My hands shake with nervous excitement. I finish my coffee and cross it off the list.

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