“Philippines Group 81” in San Francisco. There are also a few extra folks present for training, but most are our group. On the floor in the front, from left to right: Rick, Sioux, Neal, Terry, and Patty On the chairs: unknown admin/training person, Chris, Peter, Toni, Steve, Jerry, unknown admin/training person Front standing row: Dave, Bob N., Tom, Mike McQ, Ken, training person from Philippine PCV Group 2, Linda, Crain, Marilyn Second row standing: Craig, Bob R, James, Brian Furby, Paul, Mike Z., Joe (I think, behind me), Jon Standing on chairs in back row: Kathy, Unknown admin/training person, two Philippine Group 2 PCV’s for training Missing: Pat C., Betty (it’s possible they were somehow cut off to the left)

That last week of easy-going unemployment I’d spent in joyous celebration with a friend in Sausalito, across the bay. We lived bizarrely with no thoughts of tomorrows, riding bikes, feasting, and skinny dipping under the Golden Gate Bridge. Thursday morning the pit of my stomach became rock-hard as we trudged through the fog dragging suitcases to the Golden Gate Ferry. The effort was made to engrave details of the passing bay in my memory. Gray seagulls swooping against a gray sky. Larry and I avoided eye contact. This would be the last familiar face I’d see for two and a half years. Those black eyes and hair bent down from their towering 6’4” stature to bestow a good-bye kiss on Market Street.

I bought an umbrella and sunglasses, both on sale at the Emporium. There was no money for lunch. The Hotel California was red and unfamiliar. My roommate tall and timid—but reassuringly from Oregon. The conference room was filled predominantly with males. A bearded giant to my right said nothing as he held a strip of paper before my nose. I leaned backward to focus: “TOM”. You must be Tom?”; “Um”. I surveyed the room, my family for the coming two years.

Meals were no longer a problem—we received $9.00/day, free lodging. Belonging to a group felt awkward, yet conversations captivated me. I spent the days alone, not wanting to join the tourist routine. Impatiently awaiting departure. This so-called “Staging” was suffocating, like wading into an icey mountain lake, impulse called one to dive head-first and get it over with. November 10 arrived as even awaited days do. Luggage for 28 persons was to be moved to the airline office diagonally across the street. Defiantly I carried all three suitcases, returning to help others. (Someone had suggested that this whole affair must be quite a hardship on girls. I became determined to let myself be known as a strong person, indulging in every independence of my new experience. I would do anything the men did. There would come a time when this would prove infeasible and undesireable. But for the time being, it would be my guage of independence.)

Annotation 40 years later: While I spent my last two weeks stateside in Palo Alto and Sausalito with friends, I had spent almost eight months on the road (since graduating college in mid-March) , hitchhiking, couch surfing, living out of my back pack, sleeping in a tube tent, rock climbing in eastern Washington and Yosemite, hiking, writing poems, and picking fruit with migrant workers. I traveled sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. I stopped to help a friend with a broken leg in Aspen, Colorado. I counseled about three weeks of summer camp in the Cascade mountains. I relied at times upon the kindness of strangers, and at other times lived out of a seatless black VW van with a group of climbing buddies. I had been determined to live for a time without boundaries so that I could reflect upon what was most important in life.

November 7, 1974, I arrived at the Hotel California in San Francisco, ready to embark on a two year journey to the Philippines to become a “rural public health” U.S. Peace Corps Volunteer, or as I would be known in the village, a “fish corpse”.

There was no email or skype or Internet. I had no digital camera to capture selfies and a thousand gorgeous images. There were no cell phones or affordable long distance phone calling options. I knew it would be a long time before I received any letters, and two years before I saw any familiar faces or heard any familiar voices. That day, 40 years ago today, I met 27 other volunteers about to join me in this bold undertaking. These eighteen young men and nine women would become friends, some lifelong friends.

About three years ago, when the Peace Corps celebrated its 50th year, I unpacked my journals, poems and about a hundred letters I’d written to my sister, assorted photos, cassette tapes, and mementos from my Peace Corps days. As I read the journals and letters, I met a brave young woman who had grown up, become part of a Philippine family, and learned so much about life and humanity. The stories captivated me. While my memories are vivid, I half disbelieved them because they seemed too poignant, too raw, too colorful. But reading my own words, written in the clarity of the moment, opened my eyes to what an extraordinary time it was. It was hard and beautiful and funny and sad and spectacular and ordinary.

1. My plan is to share these stories, more or less chronologically, through this blog. The stories will feature the places and people in the words of my young self, with annotations tempered by 40 more years of living. During this time I intend to return to the Philippines and visit the people I love and the places that inspired and tested me. I will include my fresh insights in this blog.