I’ve never seen Big Brother. I watched the first episode of the first season of Survivor, and my only experience with American Idol was my mom and sister forcing me to watch during a visit home a few years ago. None of which is to say I’m not a TV person — I most definitely am a true-blooded American in the respect that the first thing I do when I come home at night is flip on the tube. When I’m making dinner? TV’s on. When I wake up on a Saturday morning? Let’s see what’s on. Often sports are my entertainment of choice, but I’m also quite satisfied with a bad movie here and there.

I don’t know if I’m missing out on some sort of cultural significance by skipping the more popular shows. While I may not be up-to-date with what qualifies as “Must See TV” (do they still call it that?) it occurred to me recently that I’ve still got a set of trusty fallbacks I know I can always count on to kill my brain cells in bulk.

For the past year, I’ve worked a compressed week — Tuesday through Friday. When I found out a few weeks ago that we would be going back to a five-day week, one of my first thoughts went something like this: How am I going to watch The Price is Right, followed immediately by Full House? It was a scary thought. I’ve become quite addicted to these shows that formed a large part of my childhood. Watching them as a 20-something should feel more…pathetic…but somehow it doesn’t, and I think I know why.

There’s a comforting notion about a cast of characters that you know inside and out. There’s something empowering about a storyline you’ve seen either once, twice or a million times before — so many times you know what happens next whether it’s the pilot, the third episode of the 8th season or the series finale. I’m that way with a number of shows. Within a few lines, I’m usually able to point out what happens in this episode of Seinfeld or Friends; I know the complicated back story of the show that ultimately became Saved by the Bell.

In fact, I love these shows so genuinely that I’m able to look past their flaws.

Of course Saved by the Bell started in Indiana as Good Morning Miss Bliss, then shifted to California. The cast grew up, graduated, mysteriously returned for another year of high school — and then went off to college at California University even though Zack had qualified for Yale with his 1502 ACT score.

I’m also at the age where I most of my favorites were originally seen in syndication, so my idea of timeline is completely screwed up. Until recently, I’d never see the last episode of The Cosby Show. Thank God for YouTube. My favorite series conclusion was The Wonder Years — one of the few shows that got it right and didn’t leave anything for speculation. One of my all-time favorite series, Roseanne, also has one of my all-time least favorite endings. It was all a dream? Really? Wow, talk about depressing.

I don’t know what this will all mean in 30 years. Will I still remember? If so, will I care? Surely the people around me won’t, so I’ll be left with my own memories of characters, people I felt like I knew. I’m OK with that. Until Nick at Night replaces MY shows with American Idol and Survivor, I guess. Then I’ll have to go out and, I don’t know, live in the real world.

Exactly three weeks ago — on my dad’s birthday  — I was laid off. I cried a lot that day. Once I got past the kind of crying where you gasp for air (I started freaking out about health insurance), I packed up my cubicle. Coworkers came by, so I distributed glowsticks and crap I had accumulated as door prizes. I offered autographed copies of layouts I had designed, but no one took up my offer. I was able to pawn off an embroidered fleece scarf and a cruise ship that made noises.

After I’d boxed up and labeled two and half years of care packages, letters and free table acquisitions, my coworkers took me out for drinks. At first I refused, insisting that I couldn’t miss my water running class (”I already paid $20 for it! No make up sessions!”). I realized that when I looked back on this day, I would not remember my water running class (even though it happens to be in a church), but the amazing people I’d worked with. I sporadically cried at the bar too, especially when i had to say goodnight to my cubemates. It may sound weird, but despite all the tears (and the cause for them), I had a wonderful night. I could not have felt more loved and supported, even by people I didn’t expect it from.

But as someone deeply rooted in routines and stability, my world didn’t seem like it was mine anymore. A job that had once seemed secure was now nonexistent. I went to barbecues and parties a few days later but didn’t know how to express my situation without a tinge of pain. My career was in limbo, and as a result, my identity was in limbo. I told myself that I would take this situation as an opportunity. One in which I’d really reflect on what I wanted to do in life and what I wanted out of it. I knew this would be a turning point, I just didn’t know where.

While I was reflecting (and watching the entire True Blood series), JetBlue announced a promotion for a month-long travel pass. A pass that already had my name on it since I didn’t have to worry about vacation days or deadlines anymore. A pass that would let me visit some of my favorite cities and discover new ones. I don’t know if the timing of this promotion was a matter of coincidence or me unconsciously willing something magical my way, but a few days later — the night before my birthday — I bought the ticket. I had a twinge of OMG what did I just do, but then I realized I hadn’t felt so happy or at peace since…well, I couldn’t even remember. I knew I did the right thing. I knew it was what I needed.

Two weeks from now I’ll be in Portland. Then I’m off to Puerto Rico where I’ll visit a rain forest. Followed by San Diego to see my sister and San Francisco to see an old room mate. I don’t know much about the Dominican Republic, but I’ll be in Santo Domingo for three nights (ole!). For my two-month mark, I’ll be in Houston to see Sam. Followed by a night in Orlando to catch a flight to meet an old friend in Costa Rica.

Though I’ve always found comfort in the sense of security, right now I’m finding strength in possibility. In the unknown. In realizing that I should do something, even if I don’t know where it will lead me. Being laid off has given me the ability to embrace that uncertainty. And while it’s not the life I’d planned, it’s one I’m now content to live.

The night had been terrible. My little boy was waking up every hour, insisting on sleeping in my bed, but unwilling to give me any room in it. As soon as he’d close his eyes — with his feet, knees and elbows rested uncomfortably on and around my body — his unborn sister would start kicking me big time, and, oh yeah, did I mention the feeling of starvation I experience in the mornings?

What a great holiday, I thought. Just what I needed. No sleep, everyone wanting something from me, while I just want to be left alone. Immediately, I felt guilt creeping up on me. This was not good. Finally, after what felt like hours, I ventured out of bed, luckily not waking up anyone, got myself a hot tea and breakfast, and sat down at the window looking out on the Baltic, wrapped in a blanket. It was 5:30 in the morning, I was ridiculously tired and not a little bit grumpy, but the swans were waking up out on the bay, slowly gliding on the glistening water toward the open sea, majestically carrying their heads on their long, slender necks, bright white against the dawn, greeting me on their way past our house, appeasing my aching body and angry soul.

In hindsight, it could only have been a couple of minutes before everyone else was waking up, but this time looking out on nature, just being, not doing, felt like hours. It replenished my reservoir, regardless of what time it was, how little sleep I’d gotten, what expectations I had brought and been forced to bury.

Life doesn’t go the way you plan it. It simply is your life, at this moment, in this place. You decide what you make of it.

The bus dropped us off at a small dairy farm 30 miles outside of Brussels. I have heard that memory is most closely linked to smell, and certainly the smell of dairy farms has left an indelible impression on my memory. I turned to Lauran and told her, “It smells like Wisconsin.” The village was Corroy Le Grand, Belgium, a small community where my great-great-great-grandfather was born just a few years before his family immigrated to Wisconsin. Almost all of my dad’s ancestors lived in similar Belgian farming towns in the area just south and east of Brussels.

My family moved from Wisconsin when I was almost five, and aside from occasional visits for one or two weeks, I have not spent much time there. In fact, it has almost been 10 years since I last visited the small Wisconsin farming town where most of my dad’s family still lives. Small towns in Texas are not all that different from small towns in Wisconsin, but over the years, I lost connections to my Wisconsin/Belgian roots. I don’t speak with a Midwestern accent. I don’t frequent taverns, and I usually barely even notice St. Nicholas Day. Still somehow I found myself traveling 5,000 miles to find some connection with my heritage.

Corroy Le Grand is mostly a typical small farming town. It has a small school, one church, two main streets and a restaurant. The livestock may outnumber the people. There are no shops or tourist attractions. Surely the residents must have found it strange that two Americans were walking through their village, taking pictures of insignificant objects like houses, street signs, fields and mailboxes. To me these details were not insignificant. Each one was a symbol, a connection, or a memento. I had to take a picture of the street sign that said Rue d’Eglise (Church Street in French) because my grandparents live on Church Street in a small hilly Wisconsin farming town that bore an uncanny resemblance to this one. I took pictures of the small dairy farm because some of my Wisconsin relatives have also owned small dairy farms. I took pictures of the hills covered in barley fields because they reminded me of the Wisconsin landscapes. I took pictures of the old cobblestone road because it is possible that my ancestors walked that same road.

We walked through the entire town in about 30 minutes and waited a few more minutes by the dairy farm for the bus to pick us up. I didn’t meet any distant relatives or see any definitive traces of my ancestors, but the evidence of my heritage was abundant. I felt a deep connection to this tiny village that no tourist would ever think to visit. It reminded me of my other homeland back in America, the place where my ancestors finally settled after the treacherous journey across the Atlantic, a place I have not seen in years. It’s funny how a mailbox shaped like a beer barrel can become more than just an amusing piece of home décor, or how a rundown Catholic church can become a historical monument, or how an insignificant village can become a window.