A student asked me the other day what I believe in the "mostest, more than anything else."

Following a quick grammar lesson, I realized I was thoroughly on the spot.

In haste, I thought about divulging my belief in Santa Claus, my admiration for cancer survivors, my faith in the First Amendment. Perhaps this was my chance to explain my conviction that pizza and Cheetos are the closest thing to a perfect couple.

Instead, I answered a more easily explainable combination: children and dreams.

If only you could have heard the chorus of grammar-school giggles that ensued.

I was a child and a dreamer once.

In fact, it was the ninth grade when I first saw my future--a career as a journalist, a fast, urban life on the West Coast, where creative energy rules and the Pacific swallows perfectly painted skies. No nine-to-five Cubicleville, no stuffy desk job; just an a.m. cup of chai, a keyboard at my fingertips and a notebook in my pocket.

Now that's a living.

For more than two years, that was my life.

I was twenty-four. I was a metro reporter for the Contra Costa Times, living out my plan, on the road to what I envisioned as a long career breaking stories, witnessing history. When I wasn't at work, I lived bayside in San Francisco, a city with so much soul. It was a place that fit my love for recreation and self-expression.

My life was everything I wanted--at least in my dreams.

In reality, I was unsure of my calculated path. Somehow everything between work and play had become clumped together in a frenzy of hurries, worries and Bay Bridge traffic jams. After two years of working full time, I needed a change. It wasn't frustration so much as curiosity that led me to sleepless nights full of questions.

The voice inside my head told me to go somewhere and live for a few years, a place you'll never be able to go again . . . Brasil? Italia? Japan?

An adventure abroad would mean pressing the pause button on my plan, the only one I ever really knew. What was I looking for? Something that would take me away from the treadmill of urban living, deadlines and late files. Heavy Internet research ensued. Phone queries followed.

Then, last September, the call came from a college friend.

When dreams take a detour

Redemption and the reservation

In the eyes of the eagle

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