Rachel panicked as she lay awake on the first night of her year-long honeymoonâa backpacking trip around the world. Though young and in love, she wasnât sure she actually believed in marriage, let alone the lofty Mormon ideal of eternal marriage. This unconventional honeymoon felt like a brief reprieve from the crushing expectations for a Mormon bride. But this trip also offered opportunities: the chance to study wedding traditions in other cultures and the space to confront what marriageâincluding her ownâmeant to her.
Along the way, she got kicked out of Peru, escaped rabid dogs in the Amazon, stumbled upon democracy protests in Hong Kong, launched an unlucky lantern in Thailand, and trekked five hundred miles across Spain in sandals. These experiences helped Rachel confront her tumultuous past, question her inherited relationship models, and embrace her restless natureâexchanging faith in certainty for faith in the day-to-day choice of partnership and faith in herself.
EAST WINDS is written in the tradition of Elizabeth Gilbertâs COMMITTED, Cheryl Strayedâs WILD, and Tara Westoverâs EDUCATED. Far more than a travelogue, this sweeping coming-of-age memoir offers timeless insights into this complex, universal institution. Too many love stories end with marriage. This one starts there instead.
Rachel panicked as she lay awake on the first night of her year-long honeymoonâa backpacking trip around the world. Though young and in love, she wasnât sure she actually believed in marriage, let alone the lofty Mormon ideal of eternal marriage. This unconventional honeymoon felt like a brief reprieve from the crushing expectations for a Mormon bride. But this trip also offered opportunities: the chance to study wedding traditions in other cultures and the space to confront what marriageâincluding her ownâmeant to her.
Along the way, she got kicked out of Peru, escaped rabid dogs in the Amazon, stumbled upon democracy protests in Hong Kong, launched an unlucky lantern in Thailand, and trekked five hundred miles across Spain in sandals. These experiences helped Rachel confront her tumultuous past, question her inherited relationship models, and embrace her restless natureâexchanging faith in certainty for faith in the day-to-day choice of partnership and faith in herself.
EAST WINDS is written in the tradition of Elizabeth Gilbertâs COMMITTED, Cheryl Strayedâs WILD, and Tara Westoverâs EDUCATED. Far more than a travelogue, this sweeping coming-of-age memoir offers timeless insights into this complex, universal institution. Too many love stories end with marriage. This one starts there instead.
I FACED THE BOLTED GATE of Hostel de Chocolate at 1:00 a.m. in BogotĂĄ. The weight of my travelerâs backpack, haphazardly stuffed with the possessions meant to last me a year, felt both reassuring and heavy as I stood in the darkness.
Austin, my husband of two weeks, searched for a notice or phone number through the curling barbed wire. I clutched the confirmation receipt from the reservation weâd made sometime between the dash to mail our wedding thank-you cards at the nearest post office and boarding the plane for Colombia.
âNow what?â I asked, ready to blame Austin for having clicked the âbookâ button on a reservation weâd both agreed to.
âWe find something else,â he said, unfazed.
Iâd never done well with permanent. Husband represented a commitment toward the stereotypical package Iâd spent most of my millennial life resisting: Mormon, Married, Mother. The End. Yet here I was, at step 2. I stared at Austin in his J.Crew collared shirt, a buttoned-up look that hid his wildness that I loved. We often debated who was The More Experienced Traveler: Austin had served a two-year Mormon mission to Ukraine and had a long history of outdoorsmanship; I had done anthropology fieldwork as an undergrad and held a more decorated passport. But all traces of my travel confidence had dissolved into anxiety.
Our taxi driver called us back. âPeligroso.â Dangerous. âI know another place,â he said in strained English.
We thanked him and piled into the car again. I gripped my backpack in my lap. Though I had fallen in love fair and squareâhad agreed to marry Austin of my own free will and had all the agency in the worldâsometimes I still felt as if some external wave of happenstance had carried me here.
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Austin and I met two years earlier at an interfaith discussion group between Latter-day Saints and Quakers. Iâd just moved from Utah to Boston for grad school and a job with Teach For America. He sat across from me in a small circle of folding chairs. He reminded me of a Ken dollâboyishly handsome, brown-blond hair, a square jaw, blue eyes. A Quaker woman asked about womenâs roles in Mormonism. âI heard women canât get to heaven unless they have a husband,â she said, leaning forward, barely hiding her contempt. âCan people get divorced?â
âDivorce happens,â I weighed in. âI donât think itâs any more stigmatized than in other religions in the US. My parents are divorced.â I wasnât ready to face, let alone answer, the first part of her question.
âItâs not encouraged,â Austin said, before explaining the orthodox stance: A temple marriage represents the pinnacle of choices to be made and, whether it happens here or in the afterlife, stands as a prerequisite to reach the highest degree of heaven. A temple marriage, also known as a sealing, binds people to their families forever. This is part of the plan of salvation, a name sometimes interchanged with the plan of happiness.
In other words, divorce may be commonplace for modern Mormons (a mere 5 to 10 percent lower than the national average of 50 percent), but theologically, itâs complicated.
I avoided Austin after that comment.
Months later, at a mutual friendâs party, we brushed shoulders on the threshold of a doorway. He paused. âYou and I should have a long, philosophical conversation,â he said with a smile, seemingly pleased with his line.
Before long, we were shrieking and leaping into half-frozen lakes in New England under a canopy of stars. He was biking with ice-frosted lashes through blizzards to surprise me at my doorstep, standing there in the spring with a fistful of flowers plucked from the neighborâs garden, and blowing off homework to take me on picnics at Walden Pond. I was salivating over his book collection and in love with laughing again and keeping a stash of ice cream at his apartment. He âknewâ within weeks. His flattering, swift confidence in our relationship exuded an intoxicating persuasion, softening the edges of my concerns.
Austin and I waved off our first impressions from the interfaith discussion and all it said about the different ways we inhabited Mormonismâall it said about how we each viewed marriage.
The taxi headlights and a lone streetlamp revealed a graffiti-lined street. A crowd of men surrounded a radio at a humming pizza stand.
âWeâll be fine,â Austin said, reading my emotions as he looked out the window. âWe wonât blow our budget by finding a safe place to stay tonight.â
I frowned. âWe may not have enough for the trip to start with.â Iâd spent the past two arduous years scrimping, saving twenty thousand dollars from a high school teaching salary to fund a solo trip so I could circumnavigate the globe.
Then, one of two things happened: my relationship with Austin became serious and we decided to make a honeymoon of it; or, as he tells it, I told Austin I would only marry him if he agreed to come. I no longer remember the truer story, just that my original vision morphed into something else. Iâd always believed that any trip longer than a few weeks required some sort of inquiry focus, a reason to get up in the morning. Though many subjects interested me (post-colonial literature, dream interpretations, international folktales, etc.), I planned to learn more about marriage and wedding symbolism around the world. I hoped other cultures might reveal some wisdom as I wrestled with the idea of marriage for myself, not realizing that living itâthat intensely personal experienceâwas perhaps the only way to find out. Austin, disillusioned with his MBA program and inspired by my project, wanted to do something similar and study health-care innovations in emerging markets.
Since my savings had not meant to cover two people, Austin had agreed to chip in by working odd jobs virtually whenever he could during our travels. Work hard, play hard. But for every good thing Iâd given up to save moneyâmovie tickets, a coat worthy of Boston winters, meals that didnât feature peanut butterâI felt Austin had indulged himself. He believed in what he called âthe good life,â this radical notion that life was to be enjoyed and not just endured. He had a pile of student debt and no savings to his name. Sharing money didnât sit well with me.
A few minutes later, the taxi rolled to a stop in front of a pale building with Colombian and Israeli flags. A sign read âCasa de Ari.â
The driver pushed a buzzer three times. I held my breath until the door cracked open. A squat woman with puffy gray hair appeared in a nightgown.
The woman unlocked a thick chain, then ushered us in as I offered apologies and gratitude in textbook Spanish. She and the driver stepped outside, speaking in hushed voices.
Austin and I placed our backpacks on the checkered linoleum peeling at the corners of the lobby. There was a faint smell of rotten produce. Framed collages with pictures of tourists covered the walls. We stared at the open door and waited for direction. Dust coated the sun-bleached couches and cobwebs clung to the ceiling. Austin scanned the dim room with curiosity. His lack of distress annoyed me.
The hostel manager pulled a set of faded floral sheets and a mop from a closet, muttered, then walked away.
âIâm going to get some pizza from that place we saw down the road,â Austin said. âIâm hungry.â
âUh, this is BogotĂĄ. You canât wander around at night. You donât even know Spanish.â On the plane, Iâd been reading Juan Gabriel VĂĄsquezâs novel, The Sound of Things Falling, set in BogotĂĄâthe gunshot scenes fresh in my mind.
âItâs only a few blocks away,â Austin said. âAnd I didnât know you were such an expert on BogotĂĄ.â
He was right. Despite my belief in the importance of studying a culture before visiting a new place, weâd done little research before booking our one-way tickets to Colombia days earlier. Our time and energy had been spent on wrapping up our jobs and wedding planning. Weâd settled on BogotĂĄ because it was the cheapest flight to enter South America from the States.
Austin paused at the doorway, his hair a mess. âWant to come?â
âNo. Iâll check us in.â
âI donât think sheâs coming back anytime soon. What did she say to you?â
I had no idea. âHurry back.â
Standing in the lobby, I heard a crash on the floor above. Then, a large white dog bounded down the stairs. She sat at my feet, panting. A lacy, zebra-striped thong hung from her mouth.
âHello there.â I crouched to pet the fluffy dog, careful to avoid touching the underwear. I looked up, hoping to see the hostel manager. The dog then fetched a bottle of opened mascara. She cracked the plastic tube with her back teeth. Black goop smeared through her fur as she played.
I tried to get the mascara away from the dog when Austin returned. He held out a parcel of tinfoil. âThey called it âAmerican pizza,ââ he said. âI got the cheapest one. I knew thatâs what youâd want.â He paused for my reaction. âWhereâd the dog come from?â
The hostel manager, hearing the front door open, reappeared. She led us through a maze of concrete steps to a room on the top floor. The dog trailed us, its bushy tail thwacking the door as we entered. Twin beds flanked each wall. It wasnât much, but considering our unexpected arrival, we were lucky she could offer us anything. The hostel manager smiled and said something in Spanish, then disappeared again with the dog prancing after her. Austin perched on the edge of one of the mattresses and opened the tinfoil package to examine our dinner.
The room reeked of mildew. Austin watched as I wrinkled my nose while investigating the sheets, finding brown stains on the pillows.
âWhat?â I asked, my voice strained.
âThis pizza has corn on it. Thatâs what makes it âAmerican.ââ
I managed a genuine grin, letting go of my backpack with a loud thud.
âIâm not sleeping in these sheets,â I said, pressing my hands to my hair. âI doubt I can sleep at all.â
âItâs going to be okay.â He stood and hugged me with one arm as he cradled a slice in his other hand. I leaned into him.
âSome first night of our honeymoon,â I said.
He offered me a square piece of pizza. A hunk of pineapple slid off in a cascade of rubbery cheese as I took a bite. The crust was crunchy and perfect, but I wasnât sure I wanted to show too much gratitude after his recklessness.
âAt least we have each other,â he said, raising an eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes. âI am not having sex with you here.â Austin huffed, then laughed, and I couldnât help but laugh too, relieved weâd had a few nights together before leaving home.
After devouring the pizza, we pushed the twin beds together and pulled out one of the few wedding gifts weâd brought on the trip: sheets sewed into thin sleeping bags. I held the clean linen up to my nose, the smell of fresh detergent lingering in my nostrils. I knew it would be a long time before Iâd smell that powdery scent again.
I flipped off the lights, kicked off my Chaco sandals, and crawled into my linen sleeping bag with my clothes still on. The bedsprings squeaked. Austin cozied up to me in an awkward sleeping-bag cuddle. âIâm glad to be here with you,â he whispered. I nuzzled into him, thankful we could cope with Casa de Ari together despite my perennial fantasies of solo travel. Soon Austinâs breathing slowed. I felt his warm chest rise and fall against my back. I lay awake.
Iâd spent nights with sheets far worse than these in other countries without a second thought. But here I was, caught between the ideal, liberating trip Iâd built up for years and the unknown world of commitment Iâd entered into. Past travels had offered me some freedom from expectations back home, a chance to revel in the sweet sensation of losing and getting lost, to strip away excess, untether, and immerse myself in the marvelous presentâthe instant calm of incense, the texture of a moss-eaten wall, the hushed conversation between old women on neighboring balconies. In other words, to continually remember and witness the infinite ways people can live.
But I worried this trip might feel more like an ending, a last hurrah, a fun way to delay the impending death blow to my sense of self. Unlike my other travels, now there seemed something to lose and expectations I could no longer outrun. I felt happy to be with Austinâthat wasnât the problem. I didnât know if I believed in marriage, let alone eternal marriage.
The night before my wedding, Iâd stayed up late trimming babyâs breath bouquets while listening to my dad and stepmom yell at each other behind their closed bedroom doorâsomething about her being late to the rehearsal dinner, regrets about moving back in together. I tightened the aqua ribbons and snipped off the stems. My hands shook. The cheap bouquets smelled like body odor. I spent the night in the twin-size bed from my teenage days, which did not feel that long ago, the bedroom walls bare because I always thought of my dadâs house as temporary.
I arrived late to the Salt Lake Temple, the iconic Mormon venue: a white granite fortress with six Gothic spires. My ancestors, whoâd endured the exodus across the desolate plains of the United States to escape religious persecution in the East, helped build this dazzling temple in the middle of a desert. They determined its location a mere four days after their arrival on July 24, 1847. The temple represented a cornerstone of the faith, an urgent project to undertake despite fleeing one temple in Ohio and watching another in Illinois be swallowed up in flames. The Salt Lake Temple required forty years of construction and unimaginable sacrifice. This is where my family members had married for generations, sealed together for eternity. My bagged wedding dress bounced on my shoulder as I ran. I did not like the dress but had not told anyone. As I sprinted for the door, I had time to think:
Iâm only twenty-five.
Itâs not too late to call it off.
I wonder if my mom will come.
East Winds by Rachel Rueckert tracks the journey of the author and her husband, Austin, as they traverse their initial year of marriage, particularly the journey to figure out if she wanted to be married at all. After their wedding, they embark on a global trek to South America, and Asia and hike their way to Santiago de Compostela. The authorâs motivation was to study marital relationships from all over the world. On this tour, Rachel seeks out the advice of diverse people to identify their takes on marital rites. She discovers views on wedlock vary widely on the culture and location. The author discusses how her upbringing has influenced her internal conflict toward the need to be a "good girl" and do what is expected of her. The turmoil is extremely prevalent for her throughout this book as she juggles her views towards her union and feelings of needing to be independent.
A pervasive theme in the book is the concept of wind. Rachel describes the origins of the East Winds, which emerge from Wyoming into Utah. She struggles with the external conflict that dictates certain conditions to be accepted in her community. She finds herself needing to be free from attachment to another person, feeling her wanderer spirit.
The author reconciles marriage patterns with her formal ceremony to elaborate rituals including a horoscope consultation in the Kannada area of India. She discovered observances similar to a trial marriage, in which couples live together prior to official marriage and customs whereupon married people participate in a traditional dance. If a male dances with another woman, that female becomes his new wife, and his former wife receives a new husband.
The genre of the book is autobiographical while incorporating aspects of interpersonal stories and experiences through sharing the narratives of various individuals. This story has a slight religious slant given Rachelâs background, although the author's anthropological training allows her narratives to be balanced overall. Her conclusions are well-constructed and sound.
Author Rachel Rueckert establishes a compelling case for women's empowerment and provides a significant amount of information about various backgrounds of marriage throughout the globe. Due to its comprehensive and thorough nature, this book is strongly recommended. Those interested in anthropology and women's studies will benefit from the information and stories told within.