TravelStream™ news feed for member lblack12 on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/lblack12 en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Thu, 02 Apr 2009 12:43:45 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/16/1238690160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/16/1238690160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/16/1238690160/tpod.html Thu, 02 Apr 2009 12:43:45 -0400 Hong Kong for the Year of the Ox

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Hong Kong, Hong Kong

Hong Kong is just as bizarre as I thought it would be. Bigger crowds than I have been in ever. Just crossing the street was pretty funny. Went to the big New Year's Flower Market in Victoria Park, which was right next to our hotel. Massive amounts of good-luck-flowers for the new year, plus loads of booths in the market, selling lots of strange junk, with guys standing on  someone's shoulders screaming at the crowd like it was the last episode of American Idol. Did the usual tourist crap, i.e., took the double decker buses, went to the world's largest outdoor sitting Buddha, ate great dim sum, took the Star Ferry, and went to the parade, where I saw a large group ( probably sixty people ) inline skating for world peace to the theme song from Bonanza. Really.
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Paris, Île-de-France, France

One year after my husband of twenty-six years left me ( for a boat, I like to tell people: it's a joke, although he DOES live on a boat in Key West now.) I was divorced, living in a new town, with a new job, not very many friends, and a birthday approaching. I knew I had to do something, celebrate somehow, go somewhere. I decided - big surprise - to go to Paris.     One thing I learned that year is a lesson that all of us get at some time in our lives : life can change in a heartbeat, when you don't expect it, and there's not a damned thing you can do about it. Life is challenging, capricious, intriguing. It is happy or sad, dynamic or stagnant - is there a life plan here, or are we just out there for the sport, waiting to catch the next wave? And what if the wave kills us?      I started thinking about whether I wanted life to happen to me, around me, or if I wanted to take a chance. I knew that one day, I did not want to wake up looking at a ceiling from a bed I could not move from, thinking to myself " Gee, I wish I would have done that, when I could still move my legs." Did I want ten thousand regrets for chances not taken, people never met? Or did I want to jump?     I figured that because all of us are just so much food for the universe, this was part of my life cycle.     I am comfortable in Paris, a stranger in a group of people that I love for no apparent reason. It's the best kind of love - it's unconditional. ( "You're French? I love you.") Everything in Paris makes me happy: the people, the food, the wine, the museums and the music, the nightclubs and the Metro - I love listening to people talk on the bus - because they're speaking French! I even love the weather. Yeah, it's fifty-five degrees and raining: so what? Buy an umbrella. There is nothing like crossing the Rue du Cloitre-Notre-Dame on a dark and stormy day, under your umbrella in the pouring rain, when the lightening cracks and the bells of the Cathedral begin to toll. ( I mean, come on, is this Hollywood, or what? ) So, if I want to be happy, I go to Paris.       So, even if you are not surprised that I headed to Paris. I surprised myself, getting on that plane alone. What was I thinking? I could be having dinner with my daughter, who had moved with me to Arizona, or, I could be sitting on the back patio of my new home in the desert, watching the moon, listening to coyotes howl, burning logs in the firepit, safely drinking an entire bottle or two of great champagne, smoking politically incorrect cigarettes, and listening to cheesy French music. I've often thought that we inherently know when something is good for us: we drink orange juice when we have a cold, we sleep when our bodies are tired; we eat bananas when we have muscle cramps. Is the mind any different than the body? The mind points us in a direction that may hold the answer to our questions - to a place that may offer a solution to our problems. A new perspective may be just what we need to get a handle on whatever it is that is bugging us : if you're not getting that fresh, minty outlook from your friends or your family, maybe you need to get on a plane and go to Greece.        I went to Paris.........................................................................................     I get off the plane, retrieve my little black suitcase from the baggage carousel, and move to the taxi line in front of Charles De Gaulle. I am standing behind a tall, dark man. He turns, regards me for a moment, and we begin a conversation that will last for several days.       Of course, I do not know this will happen: right now, we are just sharing a taxi into town.      Many men are put off by the independence of a woman who travels often, and by herself. I think it's the 'by herself' part that rattles them the most. Men really do love having a woman hanging on their arm, leaning on them, looking for direction, advice, guidance or assistance. What else could possibly explain the role of stupid shoes?      Every woman on the planet knows what stupid shoes are : some women call Dinner Shoes.      They're gorgeous, you can't walk in them, they make your feet hurt and your legs look great. You only wear them to walk from the house to the car, and from the car into the restaurant - and there had better be valet parking. Once you're inside the restaurant, you sit down and drink.      Dinner shoes.      My tall dark stranger does not have this reaction to a woman alone : on our short ride into the city, he is funny, quirky, full of questions, stories and laughs. He finds it interesting that I am in Paris by myself, for the weekend, to celebrate my birthday. He is also in Paris alone.      If someone has the cojones to get on a plane alone, with no one waiting at the other end of the line - well, that's an interesting person. This is an interesting man.     We are in front of my hotel - a new one for me, in Montparnasse, when Ron - it is his name - invites me to join him for dinner. He will be with French friends - Jeanne, " Patrick the Unreliable" and Jean Claude.     Surprised, and happy with an invitation to dine, I accept. He promises to call me later with a time and place, and I leave the street to check into my hotel.     It is a sweet little hotel, with small, clean rooms, a better bathroom than I have a right to expect, and large windows that open above the busy Montparnasse street . The hotel is a short walk from a nearby square, with a cluster of inviting cafes under shady trees.     I walk to the square after ditching my bag and setting out my travel candle. I am in Paris, the sun is shining, and I have - I think - a date for dinner? I have not dated since my divorce, which left me confused and unsure of myself. I did not expect to be alone at fifty-six. This is a pleasant surprise, this invitation to dine.      I think it's a date. Even if it isn't, I find it a bit exhilarating.     I am standing in line at a cafe, waitng for the host, when I hear "Linda?"     There, sitting at a table in the sun, are two old friends from Santa Fe.     Here's my theory on meeting people that you know in travel situations: it doesn't happen.      In all the years I've flown in and out of Chicago's O'Hare Airport, I have never seen one person that I know - even though I lived in Chicago for six years. Thousands of people pass through O'Hare every minute - and have I ever seen a familiar face? Someone I read about in a trashy magazine? Michael Jordan? Oprah Winfrey?      No.      So,when I hear my name called out at this new café in Paris, when I am expecting another round of travel solitude - well, slap me silly and call me Nancy, but I cannot believe it.     I join my old friends, Bonnie and Karen, and learn that Karen is now married to a Frenchman, has relatives in Bordeaux, and now spends a fair amount of time in Paris. She and Bonnie are driving to Bordeaux after the weekend. How am I, they ask, as we dawdle over lunch and sip wine?     We cover the divorce ground - they did not know that my husband and I had split - then move on to why I am in Paris. It's my birthday? We must celebrate!      Now, I have two offers for wine, companionship, and celebration. Bonnie and Karen are even staying at the same hotel that I am - if this wasn't turning out to be so great, it would be creepy.     I explain about Ron, and the three of us agree that if I don't hear from my new friend by seven o'clock, I will call them, and we will meet again for dinner. They wander off, and so do I, but we head in different directions. I want to hang out on the Champs-de-Mars, in the sunshine, and watch French kids play Frisbee in the dog shit; Bonnie and Karen are going shopping.     Later, I scrape the dog shit off my own flip flops as I lay in the grass below the Eiffel Tower, then wander slowly back to Montparnasse, going through a number of markets - perusing the food, the art, and second hand clothing. Back at the hotel, I finish unpacking my small suitcase and, at seven, with no word from Ron, I call Bonnie and Karen.      Bonne Anniversaire!     That evening, in our outdoor cafe, in the warm air of September,  we sip aperitifs and catch up on life.      Still egocentric, I wonder how they could not have known about my divorce - didn't they hear my world when it hit the ground and smashed into a million pieces?      They fill me in on the business that is Santa Fe: who is sleeping with who, who is pregnant, who got a divorce ( the ones they know about ), which restaurants are closed, which restaurants are going to close, which restaurant is hot right now, and which chef is going to leave the hot restaurant to open his own place.      Life in Santa Fe has a tendency to circle around the sex and food campground. There is also a great devotion to art in Santa Fe, but it generally includes aspects of sex and food around it's presentation.      Ah - Santa Fe! Weird city of artistic light, collector of paintors, musicians, sculptors, psychics, massage therapists and body workers, actors and actresses!      Santa Fe is the Siren of the Rockies, luring people with a creative bent into her grip, never to let most of them go. Almost every waiter in Santa Fe has a Fine Arts Degree - sometimes two - but he or she will happily wait on tables for a decade or two, while figuring out what comes next.     Bonnie, Karen and I are now speaking French, and the evening is soft round us. We drink our Cotes du Rhone and nibble at duck and pommes long after the sun goes down.     Later, in my room, I light my candle and settle in to write in my journal. As I write, the phone rings; it's Ron. He apologizes for not calling sooner - something to do with Patrick the Unreliable - and we agree to meet in the morning, at the end of the Cligancourt Metro line.      That Ron didn't call when he said he would call, is, of course, a yellow flag on the play, but frankly, I don't care. I am alone in Paris for my birthday weekend - dinner with old friends and a phone call from a man are all bonus points. This is like getting picked for the cool kid's dodge ball team, instead of being the Fat Girl.      I go to sleep happy, with my window open to the street sounds of Paris.     After showering in the morning, I grab a grand crème at the café opposite my Metro station, then go underground to find my way to Cligancourt. When I emerge at the other end of town, I am surrounded by hundreds of people, more cafes, leafy trees and sunshine. The people in Cligancourt are different than the folks in Montparnasse - there is a huge ethnic population at this end of town, and everyone is on the streets for Le Puces de Cligancourt- an enormous collection of markets that only happens on the weekend.      I look for Ron, don't see him, so I take a seat at an outdoor café facing the metro steps, order another grand crème and ponder the French and their dogs. Everyone seems to have a dog in Paris, and those dogs go everywhere with them. The table next to me is occupied by a red-headed woman with a red-haired cocker spaniel seated across from her. They are both eating toast, and are apparently enjoying both the toast and their animated conversation.      I am watching a muscular young Frenchman with a black and white bulldog ('Pierre' ) when Ron emerges from the Metro station.     We meet and greet, then walk down the street - towards the entrance to the Marche, past the sneaker stores, the luggage shops, the pashmina tents and the Arabic and African CD booths; we see piles of 'leather' coats and jackets, carpets, underwear, scarves, old records and walls of African carvings. As we walk, we give each other brief biographic sketches, with the appropriate highlights:-  age ( 50,56 )-  city of residence ( Chicago, Scottsdale )-  marital status ( both divorced; him, twice, me, once). o- occupation ( him: " I do not suffer the indignities of gainful employment", and me: hotel concierge )   Of course, we list some of our interests. ( Him : cars, travel, France; Me: travel, France, wine. )     Ron, it turns out, keeps a car in France. He is driving down to the Cote d'Azur on Monday, where he has rented a villa for a month. He must pick up his car later in the day; perhaps I will come with him, and we can then go to dinner?      Snap!      As we enter the markets, Ron veers to the right, and we head into the Marche Brion, where he says there is a shop that he thinks I might enjoy.      Well, he is dead on with this one.     The shop is filled with old French posters - 'affiche' - that date back to the early part of the 20th century. The walls are covered with steamships, cars, adverts for a variety of French products - 'L'Oie d'Or' - the Golden Goose (a spokesbird for foie gras, if you will) and the Cunard Line of transatlantic steamships is well-represented, along with lots of pretty adverts for French produce. My immediate favorites are the large, old lithographs that hawk French wine.      It doesn't take long to hook me : I focus on "La Chablisienne," the woman designed to represent the fine wines of Chablis in 1926.      She is an impulse buy, to be sure, but I am a firm believer in going with my gut instincts. She stands tall, perched on an orange globe, wrapped in Grecian robes, her arms outstretched, wide open, the right arm high, offering a bottle of Chablis to the world from a bold blue sky. Her smile is large and genuine; her eyes sparkle. "Ses Chablis Authentique!" the poster declares! Grapes, leaves and tendrils swirl around her feet and spill over the globe. She is almost laughing, and seems to be pushing herself off of the world, jumping into the atmosphere.      Art, of course, chooses you, not the other way around. I plunk down the credit card and happily arrange for shipping back to the States.      In the alleys of Cligancourt, Ron and I spend our day, poking around silver shops, finding old water colors from fashion magazines in bins of art, admiring an endless display of the finest antique furniture I have ever seen. Ron tells me that he is shipping his car back to the States later this year, and has rented a container that is large enough to fill with more than the car - he's purchased an old stove, several tables, a mantel large enough to spit roast a cow in, and a couple of armoires.      We wander into an alley filled with politically incorrect artwork from the 20's: a life-size carving of a turbaned black man, dressed in proper servant attire, holding a tray high over his head - perhaps to receive calling cards? A painting of a large black woman, also wearing a turban, showing a large smile and carrying a huge bunch of bananas. Paintings of little black children - big smiles all around - plucking chickens?      Every shop in this alley is filled with one insulting piece of art after the other, and by the time we reach the end of it, we are helpless in the face of so much art that would condemn your social life back in the States; we are in tears, leaning on each other and laughing so hard that a young Arabic man, standing at the entrance to his shop, scowls at us : "Do not laugh! Eet is art!!"     Guess he's seen Americans react this way before.     The rains come late in the afternoon, and we sit under an awning at a café. As we continue to talk, Ron seems to think that I am the finest creature he's seen in years. My recently divorced ass and battered ego respond well to this gentle stroking, and I am smiling and laughing, for real.     We go to another print shop where Ron is picking up a 1954 Geo Ham sketch, and the shopkeeper takes Ron aside to tell him - " Your wife is very beautiful." We both laugh.     We finally leave Cligancourt and get a taxi; it's time to pick up the car.      Soon we are in the Marais, and the driver drops us off near the Bastille, at an auto mechanic shop that is jammed in between a florist and a boulanger. The sky is getting darker, and it's starting to rain again as we enter the shop.      There is only one car being worked on, and it's Ron's : a 1972 silver Maserati, and it is gorgeous.      Gleaming pipes wrap round the silver body of this magnificent machine, and I wonder: why didn't Ron mention that his car was a collector's item? While he speaks with the mechanics, I walk around the car, admiring the outside, and when I get to the passenger side, Ron opens the door for me. Inside the car, I am surrounded by dark blue velvet.      We pull onto the street into pouring rain. The new stereo system that the French techniques have installed is loud ( Ron has slipped in an old Ronettes CD ) and I begin to notice something: everyone stares at this car. They smile, they stare, they wave, they give the universal thumbs up sign, and wave again. I am really the center of attention now: I have never driven in Paris before, particularly in an old silver Maserati in mint condition. I have always been a Metro girl, a walking woman, and this is a new experience for me.      I wave and smile back, heady with the fun of it all.     We zip through the wet streets of Paris, singing along to the music, laughing at how lucky we are on this day.      Suddenly, Ron says "Hey - this isn't right." The temperature gauge is rising, and even I know this is not a good sign. We begin looking for a gas station - not easy ( at the best of times ) in Paris, and in this downpour, it seems to be impossible.     We find nothing, as the skies let loose with more pounding rain, thunder and lightening. It is about this time that I notice that there is water dripping on my feet. ( Fortunately, I am still wearing my flip flops, sans dog shit. ) As we try to figure out where the water is coming from, Ron opens the glove box, and a gallon of cold rainwater pours over my legs. This causes us to then notice a hole in the hood of the car, above the glove box, where a mechanic has apparently removed a radio antenna and failed to plug the hole. Rain is pouring through it into the glove box/fish tank.     I find all of this pretty funny, and I start laughing. Ron is looking at me as if I am I am a crazy Metro person. The temperature gauge is still rising, and he figures that the mechanic has also nicked a radiator hose.     We need water, and we need it fast.     When I see that we are approaching the Place de La Madeleine, I tell Ron to turn right, park at the curb, and put the hood up; I am on familiar ground here. I tell him that I have the solution, that I will be back with water in a moment.     I hop out of the car into the pouring rain, and slither into Fauchon, a world class 'grocery store' : a soaking wet American in flip flops. ( At least I'm dressed in black. ) The marble floors are slippery from the rain, and I am hoping that I don't wipe out in front of the perfectly pink-suited shop girls at the front counter. Water is sold downstairs, they tell me, looking at me as though I might be considering sleeping there, to get out of the rain.     Down the circular staircase, I find another pink suit, and tell her that I need several large bottles of water. She excuses herself, and returns with a cute little six-pack of teensy bottles, shaped like precious pears. "Non, non!" I squeak ( I'm starting to get cold, and I am dripping all over the place. ) " Plus grand!"     Pink Suit shakes her head. I stare at her for a moment, and then -      "D'accord !- un case, s'il vous plait!"     Nodding, she asks, "gas, sans gas?"     Testy now, I reply:     "Sans gas, you fool! It's a Maserati!"     Her eyes widen, and take on a funny cast. She excuses herself once more, and returns, a moment later, with two large bottles of still Evian.     "Voila! Pour le Maserati! Sans Gas!"     I thank her, charge up the stairs, pay at the counter, bid the ladies "bonjour, merci" and trot back into the pouring rain.     Ron and the Maserati are at the center of a small crowd on the curb in front of Fauchon, hood up. Ron is not happy, but when he sees me and the Evian, his face lights up. We pour the water into the radiator and the temperature begins to fall.      The crowd offers a collective cheer, and we take off again, with that popping noise that Maseratis seem to make when they accelerate. ( I know about that now. )     Later, around midnight, after walking up and down the Champs d'Elysee, eating pizza in a café, running in and out of the Virgin Megastore, climbing to the top of the Arc d'Triomphe, and admiring the Eiffel Tower, we end up back in Montparnasse, sitting on the terrace of the Café du Lilas.      It is quiet in the garden - most people are inside, out of the mist, but we have been damp for hours, and it's peaceful out here. Ron looks at me across our table and begins to speak:     "I don't know what you are thinking right now, but here's what is on my mind. I have been married twice, divorced twice, and I am tired of being alone. I am fifty years old, financially stable, and I'm a good guy. I can't believe how you stepped up to the plate and got water for the Maser. I should have driven straight to Bulgari and shackled you to me for life right then. I want to see if there is a relationship here. I have to leave for Cap d'Antibes in the morning. Will you come with me?"     I look at this man who has stumbled into my life, and tell him that I cannot go to the south of France with him; I have a life back in Arizona; I have obligations.      He nods, we talk some more, and he drives me back to my hotel. I kiss his cheek, wish him "Bonne journee" and go up to my room.........................................................................     The next morning is my birthday.      I sit in the sun at the corner cafe, drink my coffee, go to an art fair in the square and buy myself a painting. It's a bright, cheerful painting of a view from an open window in Aubusson, a view that looks over the French countryside. No woman, no man, in this painting: just a warm summer's day, a basket of fresh fruit and some flowers sitting on a table in the window. The table is covered with a bright Provencal tablecloth. The artist agrees to ship the painting to me in the States.     I get on the Metro, go to the Louvre, then walk along the river to the I'le St. Louis, where I eat my birthday dinner - ice cream at Bertillion : two scoops, caramel and extra dark chocolate.      I walk to the tip of the I'le de la Cite and get on a tourist boat, buy a bottle of wine, and spend my afternoon floating on the Seine.     I spend the day alone.     The next morning I fly home to Arizona....................................................................................     My 56th birthday turned out to be one of my best birthdays ever. I was in a place that I love, expecting to be alone, expecting to spend my weekend in quiet, solitary, contemplation, thinking about my past and considering my questionable future.     Instead, I was in the company of friends, old and new, as soon as my feet hit the ground.     From Bonnie and Karen, I received a gift from my past: I was not forgotten, and I was still loved.     Ron gave me the sweetest possible gift that weekend, at the exact right time in my life. I was alone and afraid, watching myself get older as the hours ticked by.     Ron reminded me that love and hope can come into your life when you really don't expect it, and when you are not looking for it.      Love and hope can be waiting for you at a taxi stand, or at the curbside, in the rain.      Ron told me that I would never be alone unless I chose to be alone.............................................................................     Of course, he did not turn out to be The One. After I returned to Arizona, there were roses, many phone calls, lots of email.     Ron would turn out to be so irregular, so uncompromisingly odd, and would disappear so frequently, with such great secrecy ( and no real explanations ), that my friends started calling him The Hit Man. They jokingly wondered if he worked for the Mob, or the CIA.      It took me only a few months to figure out that his time in my life was never intended to last - he was in my life for a purpose, that weekend in Paris.     I got the message, as my old friend Richard used to say, and I got the lesson: there is love, and there is hope.    Thank you, Ron; you were my angel in Paris .
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116260640/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116260640/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116260640/tpod.html Sat, 24 May 2008 15:42:52 -0400 Trapped in Turkey : A Good Trip Gone Wrong

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Bodrum, Turkish Aegean Coast, Turkey

Bathing in Bodrum Cruising into the Bodrum Bay is quite an experience: you have the Castle of St, John on one side of you - ancient and mysterious, built during the Crusades - and the pretty little town of Bodrum ahead of you, with all it's bright flowers, white houses, restaurants and bars hugging the blue water, and a bowl of white buildings that hugs the hill in the middle of the city - the Old Town, with it's market, the maze of streets that hold everything you could ever hope to buy in Turkey, and of course, there are people everywhere. All around us, as we sail into the harbor, are boats - big boats, fishing boats, little boats, and yachts : multi-million dollar yachts, spectacular in their beauty, gleaming and shining in the Turkish sun. Everything here seems to be very well cared for: people, boats, buildings, statues. It's all good. As we glide past the Castle on the hill ( which is now a great museum ) Alan is sitting under our red and white Turkish flag, unfurled behind us, and he purposefully tugs down his Aussie Wanker Beer baseball cap: Alan's been here before, and he's getting ready, or at least it seems so, from the way he sets his body..............just so. We pull up to a dock just under the ramparts of the castle. Captain Hassan and Suat go through the re-entry-into-Turkey process with customs, and we motor deeper into the thousands of boats clustered and piled into the marina, which is huge. The Captain's usual 'parking spot' is taken, so we go further and further into the marina, finally settling for a spot between two other magnificent handmade-gulets. Suddenly, our one hundred footer doesn't seem so big. We are parked alongside some spectacular second home here. Once docked, we're all off the boat: we all head through the marina, into town, then up the hills, until some of us find a little teensy beauty shop for manicures and pedicures. I sit inside the shop by myself, getting the first nail-job, while Donna and Ruby go in search of beads and a camera store. They promise the owner that they will return in half an hour or so. It's hilarious to walk behind Donna on the streets of these little Turkish towns. She has been coming to Turkey for thirty years; her husband is a Turk, and her children hold dual citizenship. But the guy on the street doesn't know this - and they are mostly guys on the streets. They see a tiny, very pretty, American dressed a little crazy - she's a boat person, after all - who walks with a very purposeful stride. Personally, I think this is a Big Clue to the way Donna is going to interact: she's not going to be taking anything but names on this promenade. Many men ignore this signal, enter her personal space from the front of their shops, and pitch her on whatever it is they are selling. Donna gazes up at them through her sea-colored eyes, opens her mouth, and for a split second, the guy looks like he's seeing Linda Blair spin her head and spit pea soup in The Exorcist. She's back at them in perfect Turkish, idioms and all, and suddenly they are on shaky ground. I love to watch it every time. Now, I'm crammed into a small, hot room, maybe twelve feet deep and ten feet wide, along with nine other people. Women and children, operators and customers - it's Saturday, and they are dressing up in Bodrum! Hair is being sprayed, makeup is being applied, nails are being painted. Even the kids are getting the treatment. A little girl of about seven gets me a tiny cup of thick Turkish coffee ('half-sugar') while my toes are worked on. Almost every person in the room is smoking, so I'm getting a little of a buzz from that, too. They have me tucked in a corner, on a tiny stool, and the woman doing my toes sits on a very small low bench. Every time a ahead gets a coat of spray - more like varnish, there's so much of it - my lungs contract in defiance. A couple of women getting their mustaches waxed look at me and smile, and we manage to communicate a few pleasantries over the next thirty minutes. ( "Hollandaise? Aleman? Ah - American! Very good. George Bush - very bad man! " ) I do a lot of smiling and nodding. When Donna and I change places, I head down the street to find Ruby and The Princess, who are trying on beaded bracelets with silver charms strung in between the beads and eating doner kebab - the Turkish wrap, delicious, juicy, and spicy. We walk the streets until dark, peeking over walls of vines and flowers into courtyards, people watching every foot of the way. What is it about tourists that makes them lose all sense of decency in a beach town? Both men and women walk round us in various stages of undress, in bras and short, shirtless, dirty and disheveled, dressed like their teenaged children. Men go unshaven, with huge bellies hanging over ill-fitting swimwear, roasted to a lovely shade of red by the hot sun. I am surprised by the large number of pregnant women, bellies exposed to that same sun, who are dressed like thirteen year olds in heat, wearing fancy bras and low-slung Brittany jeans. Walking through the bazaar, I get the feeling that this is very much like some other tourist towns I have recently seen - Chiang Mai, in northern Thailand, really strikes me as a match. Does every country in the world make silk pillow cases by the thousands? As we wander back to the Blue Booze Cruise,( which it is starting to become ) I hear the call to prayer from a seaside mosque. That night, Donna takes us in to the hamam - the traditional Turkish bathhouse. Neither The Princess nor I have ever been in the hamam, as we don't know quite what to expect. We are a bit suspicious, as we are noticing a discrepancy between what we have been led to expect on this trip, and the actual experience. This is going to be true of any human experience, I realize, but that gap is widening here, and neither one of us is particularly happy about it. We approach the Bodrum Hamam, on a small hill overlooking the old city, set in a quiet cul-de-sac. We are invited to sit and drink some cold water or apple tea before we go in - which we happily accept. Donna starts to tell us what to expect as we enter the solid marble building. She is speaking quietly, and I'll soon see why. " We change up here. Take off all your clothes and put on these rubber slippers. The floors get really slippery, especially with the water and the oil." The oil? In a few minutes, we are all wrapped in cotton sarongs, carefully making our way down marble steps into what I call the Slab Room. The center of the downstairs room is filled with an enormous slab of thick white marble. The air is hot, filled with steam, and the marble is hot to the touch. In a circle around the Slab Room are running faucets that spill into bowls set over a gutter. If we get too hot, Donna whispers to us, we should go to one of the faucets and pour cold water over our heads. Right. We are all laying down on the hot marble, staking out our spots, starting to sweat out a week of boat grit and booze. Time begins to blur in the heat, and before too long, we are sweaty naked babes, stretched out on the sarongs, which are now sopping wet. No one is hiding boobs any more, folding arms over poochy tummies, or worrying about a zit any more : there's flesh everywhere, from a Mom with her two little girls, to Grandma's with ancient bellies. There are middle-aged women, teen-agers, singles and families. Our nakedness is not important any more: we have become part of the process. Women have been coming to this hamam for centuries; it's neighborly, it's relaxing, it's cleansing, and it's a bonding ritual. Once you've been through the hamam with a friend, you have no secrets. I close my eyes, sweat, and feel like I am regressing through time, going back through my years, and it's an oddly cathartic feeling. The Princess and I both raise our heads as The Washer comes into the hot room. She is short, thick, and dressed in a bikini. Right there, she's set apart, as the rest of us are stark naked. Her powerful arms hang at her sides as she surveys the slab of bodies, checking us, like so much meat on a grill, for signs of readiness. When the muscles are relaxed and the pours are open, and have released their toxins, it's time for her to go to work. Her eyes rest on a large Turkish woman to our left. She nods at the woman, and flicks her head, almost imperceptibly, to the right. The woman rises, and lays down like supplicant in front of The Washer, no cotton sarong beneath her. With a coarse mitt, The Washer begins to scrub every inch of the woman's flesh, head to toe - am I'm talking scrubbing like I've never seen before, except maybe on a three-day old lasagna pan. In moments, the woman's top layer of skin is coming off, like the sludge on the surface of that Turkish coffee. The Princess and I , still hanging on to our American ideas of anti-bacterial gets and Lysol, are looking at each other, horrified, as the stuff continues to slough off, in clumps, as the demonstration continues: legs, arms, stomach, butt, armpits, neck, hands, feet. The Washer nods again, the woman sits up, and buckets of warm water are poured over her head to rinse her off. ( I think the water is warm; my powers of perception have changed in the last hour. ) The sludge goes into the ancient marble gutters that criss-cross the floor. The woman lies down again, and The Washer takes a long filmy piece of gauze from a bucket of soapy water. It's a magic pillow case, that suddenly balloons with air, and as The Washer stretches it over the body before her, clouds of foam are squeezed onto flesh. After a thorough washing with this olive oil soap ( that smells like the leaves of a lemon tree ) the woman is rinsed again, and she is suddenly gone. The Washer is looking at me, hands on her plump hips. It's Showtime! I lay face down on the hot marble, wondering just how much humiliating crap is going to come off my own skin, and all of a sudden - it just doesn't matter. I am being washed, really scrubbed, by a woman - mid-wife?- who is giving me a fresh look, a new chance. She is my guide, my deliverance from a recently murky and unpleasant past, full of tears, anguish, pain and confusion. I am laying on this hot marble, being cleansed, and thinking: why am I here? Why am I in this fertile valley of the planet, climbing ancient hills, touching ancient statues, seeing lessons offered to men and women for centuries, lessons that could guide them through murky darkness into the light? Am I here to clean up my act? Two hours later, after several glasses of apple tea, and an olive oil massage in a dark room, open to the sound of night birds and murmurs of conversation drifting up the hill from the bazaar below, my newly exposed layer of skin glows, reveling in the soft Turkish night, the breeze off the water cooling my skin as I sit on the front porch of the hamam and sip more apple tea. No make-up, no shampoo, no shower - please! I don't want this feeling to go away down some shower drain. Women birth each other. Over the last year, my dear friends have listened to my pain, have held my hand and rubbed my shoulders when I cried, and now, I feel like I've had a ritual cleansing. I'm hoping this can be the start of a new part of my life. .........................................................................
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116260340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116260340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116260340/tpod.html Sat, 24 May 2008 15:42:18 -0400 Trapped in Turkey : A Good Trip Gone Wrong

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Samos, Leros, Patmos, Greece

Troy and I sit on deck while everyone else still sleeps; apparently, as drunk as I had been the night before, everyone else was drunker. Who knew? We talk for hours as we sail across deep blue water. Troy is a young guy who has spent his entire life growing up in two cultures, and two - or maybe even three - continents. He is one of those young people who is as comfortable on an airplane as he is on skis back home in Durango; h speaks two languages, and is figuring out his cultural place in the world as he turns into, I believe, a spectacular young man. How many seventeen year olds do you know who are interesting enough to carry on a running conversation for a month? Or, who even care enough to talk to a person who is older than their parents? I came to think a lot of Troy, and was proud to make his acquaintance during my month in Turkey. We cross the waters that divide Turkey and Greece, and Troy tells me how he wishes we were staying in Turkey. He's not particularly fond of Greece, and he loves Turkey. I have never visited either country, so I don't understand what he means yet. I have always heard people wax eloquent about the Greek islands, and I have high expectations for tonight's port. Troy doesn't; his frame of reference is different than mine. Blue water surrounds us, clouds hang high in the mountains on islands we pass. I am trying to figure out how to move around the boat when she is sailing without falling overboard. I have never spent any time on a boat, so this is new to me. It's not as warm as I thought it would be, and I put on a sweater for the sail to Samos. As we pull closer to Greece, the islands change, almost as though they know they belong to two different countries. Where the Turkish shores are green, steep, and rolling, scattered with small towns and a variety of ruins, the Greek islands have white rocky shores, and the hills are browner. Tiny white chapels dot the countryside - they stand out, like little white Christmas ornaments. Ruby comes up on deck, dressed in a swimming suit wrapped in a pareo, wearing a pink wig. She throws herself onto the blue cushions and we soon we are all on deck, as we put in to the port of Samos. Low white buildings line the shore as we approach the harbor. We can't get off the boat until Captain Hassan has all of our passports stamped and cleared with Greek immigration, and we're all chomping at the bit. Little streets rise from the water, lined with shops, restaurants, tavernas. Captain Hassan has to park the boat, something that I never tire of watching. How someone can back a one hundred foot sailboat into a narrow parking space at a cement dock without taking out either the dock or the boat is beyond me - but he does it every time, and never breaks a sweat. Once we are attached to the shore, the gangplank goes down and the Captain and _____ head to the immigration office, leaving us to begin the cocktail hour, on the back of the boat. People are staring at us, and I think it's because the boat is so beautiful, such a marvelous piece of craftsmanship, until Troy points out to me that it is the Turkish flag they are looking at - not the boat. I start watching faces, and he is right - it's the flag that they are contemplating. I look in the distance at red tiled roofs atop white houses built like condos that climb the hills. Cypress and olive trees abound, as do ropes - with lots of clothing hanging from them, along with - octopus? ( This is how Greeks in the northern Aegean kill their octopus catch : they hang it, still alive, on clotheslines, and let the critter die. The Turks all insist that this is another example of Greek cruelty, that the Turkish method of killing octopus - banging it's head against a rock, slapping it repeatedly against the hard surface - is more humane. I think it's a mute point. ) Cats roam the streets of Samos, dodging motor scooters, young people stroll hand in hand, Grandmas and Grandpas are walking their grandbabies in the soft evening lights. Taverna signs are lighting up and music is playing from a dozen different spots as the Captain and _____ come back onboard. "You can go!" _____ tells us, and we pour on shore as though we have been at sea for weeks, not hours. Ruby and _______, go-cups in hand, head for the center of town, arms, ankles and necks already loaded down with beads. The Princess and I follow as they head up the street, passing priests in flat hats, folks from other boats, and crowds of people sitting in little courtyards covered with grape arbors, and filled with trees that sparkle with tiny twinkling lights. The grills for some of these restaurants are on the street, and we pass a guy grilling fish and lamb, smoke filling the air around him, the clothesline behind him loaded with dead - or dying - octopus. Shops are all open, and their goods spill out into the streets, with big displays of baskets, hats, clothing, groceries, fish and sponges, creating mini-roadblocks as we climb the hill. We stop in a few places, cruise the merchandise, and then _____ and Ruby get down to the business at hand : vodka-shopping. I guess we went through a lot more booze than I though we did last night, because they are shopping for vodka as though we are out. All the stuff that Alan, our elected purser for the voyage, had stocked yesterday in Kusadasi is gone. A little liquor store is found, prices are compared, and vodka is purchased, to be delivered to the boat. All of these port-side shops are used to making boat deliveries: little delivery scooters with boxes wired onto the front and back of the bike pull up to the mooring, and spry guys bounce up the gangplank while balancing heavy boxes filled with food and booze. ( I'm jealous; my balance sucks, and I hate the gangplank. ) I'm enjoying scoping out the wine section of the liquor store: I love dry Greek roses, and of course, there are lots of them here that I have never seen or heard of in the States. I pick a few bottles to add to the boxes and we move back into the street, which is even more crowded now, in the dusk. Walking though the streets of these little towns with the Princess is a trip: she is six feet tall, slim, blond, and pretty. The local men go nuts - and they all think she's Dutch. I didn't think Dutch girls ever grew that tall, but what do I know? Wherever we go, calls of "Hollandaise? Aleman? " follow us. The Princess arrived in Turkey a few days before we did, and has been through the streets of Istanbul by herself. She has already learned how to ignore the cat calls, and she strides alongside the quay with her head high and her posture tall. When people find out that we are Americans, the reactions are pretty much the same, wherever we go. First, they smile and nod. Then, they say" George Bush, very bad man!" and shake their heads. I happen to agree with them, so it doesn't bother me, but we have a couple of strong Republicans onboard who get into it with the locals in a few places. We head back to the boat, but the guys have to drag me onboard. I want to stay on shore and eat in one of the tavernas, but dinner is waiting: Mahmet has been slaving over that hot galley stove, and we don't want to hurt his feelings, do we? Thinking I'll get another shot at the taverna food, I agree, and get onboard. The spread is a repeat of last night's: my God, these people eat well! More gorgeous food, beautiful food, lots of clinking glasses and toasting - "Cerife!"( "Cheers!" ) as we eat and drink into the night, again, this time against a Greek shoreline. I wonder at my luck and realize how blessed I am to be living this life. Scores of people watch us, as we are right there in the middle of town ( rock-star boat parking ) and we stay up late again. And, while things get a little nuts, Freddie and Ahmed aren't there, so the general tenor of the evening is a bit quieter than the night before. At least we go to bed before dawn. And, I don't buy any rugs. Fourni, Patmos, and Leros Our week in the Greek Islands flies by. We sail, we climb hills, we visit monasteries, and smell the jasmine and bougainvillea hanging from every wall and house. [PHOTO_ID_R=view-frm-the-top-of-patmos.jpg After leaving a monastery high in the mountains one afternoon, we cross a field and watch a herd of goats approach us at a slow pace. Suddenly, we hear a sound that raises the hair on everyone's neck : it's other worldly, a combination of screeching and warbling, combined with guttural grunts and noises that none of us can explain. A beat up old motorcycle slams to a halt beside the herd, and a figure climbs off the bike, draped all in black, looking like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, or a Sicilian movie extra from The Godfather. The noise we are hearing is coming from the creature's mouth. This, we will find out after asking around town, is how Greek goat herders communicate with their animals. And it works, apparently. She - we think it's a 'she' - warbles, they turn. She screeches, and they stop moving. Warble, screech, warble, screech. It's odd, but it's effective. The weather is turning on us, here in the northern Aegean - it's cool, misty, and starting to rain. Those light clouds hanging off the mountains are getting heavier, thicker, and more ominous. That night, for the first time, we dine indoors, snug in the ships' main cabin, listening to thunder and lightening, as the boat rocks a tad more violently from side to side. In the morning, the storm has moved on, the sun is out, the wind is once again soft and gentle. As we set sail for Patmos, cards and dominoes are brought out on deck, and we start games and tournaments that will continue for three more weeks. At this stage of the game, everyone is still on First Date behavior. The twelve of us laugh, play games, read books, drink wine during the daylight hours ( this is a vacation, after all ) and we are still behaving with a modicum of good form. When you think about it, this is a brave undertaking - a reality show without the cameras. Twelve people, on a one hundred foot sailboat for a month, in a foreign country. To me, they are all strangers, with the exception of Ruby and Alan, her Aussie husband. I don't even know them all that well; I met them when I moved to Arizona, and that's only been a little over a year, so for all intents and purposes, they are new on my friendship scale. My eye is getting blacker, and I have quite a shiner going on as we pull into Patmos. Chef Chad, on the boat with his wife and daughter ( Helen and Sarah ) says I look like a real bruiser. Our week in the Greek Islands is wearing down; we're focused on Turkey - it's why we are here. So, that night, when Ruby comes back to the boat and suggests something that will keep us in Greece for one more day, the idea is met with skepticism and suspicion - but it's tempting : do we want to work as movie extras in a Hollywood movie, staring Mathew Modine? The movie, with the working title "Opa! Life Is For Living!" has been filming in Patmos for several months. Ruby met the casting director at the Blue Moon internet café, and tomorrow, he needs some American-English looking tourists for ferry boat scenes. When Ruby told him there were twelve of us, he practically wet himself with joy. During the cocktail hour, we discuss the idea at great length. What throws us over the edge is the promise of earning thirty Euros for the day. What an opportunity! ( This may help me recoup my rug expenses. ) There is also the Chance-For-Some-Fun element, so, as dinner is served, Ruby calls the casting director on her cell phone and tells him we'll be there : seven A.M. at the Astoria Café, across from the ferry landing. He tells Ruby what colors we are allowed to wear, encourages us to get a good night's sleep ( is he kidding? ), and the deal is done. Earlier that afternoon , returning to the boat after a long walk in the more rural areas of Patmos, The Princess and I were surprised, along with everyone else, to find strangers on our boat, sitting at OUR table, on OUR back deck, drinking OUR booze and talking to ______ and ______. Turns out they are old college pseudo-friends of _____ and _____; they ran onto them at the market in town, and have been invited aboard for drinks. Mature adults that the Princes and I both are, we immediately take an intense dislike to this couple and their two kids. What is it about them that triggers the brat inside me to rise to the surface like so much flotsam? Is it the way Miss Piggy brags and rubs her diamond-clad fingers in the air ( indicating the universal sign for money ) when she talks about their hotel? Is it the way she sits with her white Chanel bag proudly on her shoulder, rather than setting it on the deck as she stuffs her face? Could it be the way she relentlessly plays the who-do-you-know game, checking her diamond-studded Rolex every five minutes? I think it's when she starts talking about her shar-pei's eye lift that I decide that she is too stupid to live. In any case, I feel like Harry Potter, with his nasty Aunt and Uncle. ( An appropriate comparison, considering that Richard Griffith - Harry Potter's movie Uncle - is a co-star in our movie shoot the next day. ) The deck table is rounded out with a pair of Dudley's: the couple's spoiled little pudgy cheeked kids with dead-pan expressions who are bored with their Greek Island vacation. This is not their boat, therefore they are not interested in it; they would rather talk about their home in Miami, and who their parents know. Troy and I play a round of dominoes with them and watch as they totter in their pretentious parents' footsteps.` The Miami contingent is invited to stay for dinner; they are also invited to join us on the set tomorrow. Over eggplant, Miss Piggy joins our conversation about Cypress with the comment " Is there anything good there?" meaning, I guess, are there any designer boutiques? Suffering pretentious people is not my strong suit, and I end up drinking too much wine ( quel surprise! ) and taking occasional pot-shots at her, like a child. ......................................................................................................... We rise at six the next morning, and walk along the quay to the Astoria Café in bright sunshine, accompanied by scooters and cats. Arriving at the café, we take over the patio, order coffees and fresh orange juice, and wait. This becomes the operative word of the day : wait. I have played an extra in the movies before, so I know what to expect. I am set for the day : IPod, hat, a variety of clothing in my bag to accommodate changing temperatures as the sun rises and sets, an excellent new book on the history of Paris, and a notebook to write in. I settle in for the long haul. And a long haul it is, as we perform take after take, walking off of the Patmos inter-island ferry, point at the monastery on the hill and recite: " Look! There's the monastery! " before walking to the ferry building. We repeatedly watch as Mathew Modine, the true actor in our midst, dressed in a seersucker suit and jaunty Panama hat, with perfect skin and hair, rolls his empty suitcase off the ferry and is greeted by Mr. Griffith. ( I have a friend from New York City who says he admires a man who has the nuts to wear a seersucker suit. ) We watch as a hat blows off Mr. Griffith's head, as close-ups are shot, and as different angles are filmed. By lunch time, I've made some pretty good headway in my book. After lunch, which is served to us in a dockside taverna, Ruby and I grab some ice cream at a quay-side bar before re-boarding the ferry. Then we sail, and dock. Sail, dock. Sail, dock. Over and over again, until the director is satisfied. "Katrina" - the love interest in our movie - is being played by an English actress that all the production assistants think we should recognize, but we don't. "Katrina" rides her bike up to the sailing ferry and waves at MM, over and over again, looking quite fetching in a full brown skirt and Greek-inspired Missoni top. Late in the afternoon, the ferry heads out into the Aegean. The director, a rather pleasant Indian gentleman with a British accent, pulls Ruby, The Princess and I out from the crowd of extras and seats us behind Mr. Modine on the upper deck. Final scenes for the movie are to be shot this afternoon, along with a stunt that Matt will perform himself - jumping off the second story of the ferry into the cold and wavy Aegean forty feet below us. Seated near us are three very old Greek women, swathed in traditional black widow's clothing; i.e, black from head to toe. The three crones provide commentary throughout the movie, and we figure that if this film makes it to the big screen, we have a chance at being seen - this could be either good or bad - because we're close to them. We are directed to move our lips to look as though we are speaking ( but are not; it conflicts with the actual sound ) then to sit, stand, look over the side of the ferry, look surprised, point at the water, and watch as Matt Modine begins to take his clothes off for the big jump. I was losing my motivation until this part. Matt Modine is a big, good-looking guy; my motivation has now returned. The action picks up : scaffolding is hung over the side of the boat, for cameras to film the big jump. Guys in wet-suits sit in a rubber dinghy sit at the side of the boat, ready to pull Mr. Modine's highly paid fine ass out of the cold Aegean. Getting on and off the ferry this morning was pretty boring - but this is more like the Real Deal : stardom by association. I can see how bit players get hooked on the proximity to fame. It's fun, and we're having a blast, particularly after _____ and Ruby haul out water bottles filled with Crystal Light and vodka. MM is running around between takes with a red t-shirt wrapped around his head ( he's quite fair, and sun-burns easily. Isn't that a smug comment for me to make? ) and as the sun sinks to it's mark, the rays streaming across the water, there's Katrina! She's sitting on top of the cabin on a little Greek fishing boat that is racing across the waves towards us, her curls bouncing in the light ( and there are waves: it's getting pretty choppy out there. ) She shakes her arms at the ferry and screams MM's name - and a giant wave comes out of nowhere and drenches her. She screams for real, as a guy comes out of the boat's cabin and wraps her in a blanket. The little boat turns around and they head back to shore for hair and makeup. Forty-five minutes later, she's baaaaaack! MM is stripped down to his neatly pressed boxers ( pin-striped ) and the sun is still at a good angle - but the Aegean is not co-operating. The waves are too big by now, the stunt is deemed too dangerous, and the ferry heads back to the dock. We are disappointed. After all that waiting, no Hollywood star is going to throw himself into the sea before us. The three hags walk slowly to the back of the boat and are heartily congratulated by the director and the star for their fine performances. I am stunned when the tallest, most-wrinkled, and nastiest-looking witch pulls off her black head wrap - and a massive head of blond curls springs out, transforming her into a beautiful, blue-eyed woman with full red lips and flawless skin. Ah, the magic of the silver screen : in Hollywood, you even have to be beautiful to play a hag. ........................................................................................... As we sail back to the port, _______ walks up to MM and asks if the four of us can get a picture with him. Graciously, he not only accepts, but directs us, facing us into the setting sun, telling us that "everyone looks good in this light!" He hugs us, laughs, tells a few jokes, and we take a number of pictures with him. Considering that he has been 'on' since seven this morning, and it's now approaching nine P.M., I'm impressed by both his generous behavior and by how good he still looks. I suppose that's why his paycheck is a direct deposit in the millions and we have to stand in line at the production office to collect our thirty Euros. By the way, when you see the movie - "Opa!" - I'm the one with the big straw hat and the black eye. ............................................................................................................. I lose the next two days to some strange virus that I picked up on the set. I sleep like a dead woman for forty-eight hours, and when I wake up, we are sailing into Bodrum.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116259560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116259560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lblack12/1/1116259560/tpod.html Sat, 24 May 2008 14:47:17 -0400 Trapped in Turkey : A Good Trip Gone Wrong

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Ephesus, Turkish Aegean Coast, Turkey

The week before we left, my life became even more complicated. A good friend got sick - not the flu, not a cold, but the Real Sick: she went to see her Rolfer, who found a mass on her spine. She then went to her doctor, who then sent her to the lab, and when they opened her up, the doctors took out a kidney, half of her spleen, and eight inches of her colon. I flew to Albuquerque, rented a car and drove north to Santa Fe, where I spent two days sitting in the hospital with someone who I didn't think was going to make it. I never thought I would see Judith walk out of that hospital alive. At one point, sitting next to her, holding her hand, watching her breathe, watching the nurses walk away when she was in pain, smelling the smell of death, Judith opened her eyes, looked up at me, and said "if I make it, I want you to go to New Zealand with me." She closed her eyes, went back to healing, and I went back to Phoenix. ............................................................................ On Turkey Day, the car service picked me up at six in the morning. I had packed and unpacked, hoping to get it right: I thought I had all the stuff I needed. Ruby said : " You'll need a bunch of swimming suits - that's all we wear. And flip-flops. Pack everything in a cooler - we need the coolers on deck during the day." It sounded pretty simple. We drove to Ruby and Alan's' house, and I called on my cell just before we turned into the driveway. There was no answer. I thought that was strange. After the third call, she answered : they were not ready. The driver and I talked about India while we waited for the next twenty minutes. He is from the north of India - even had his high school yearbook in the car Finally, they came out of the house. Alan, sweating, Ruby, scattered. We loaded the rest of the luggage in the SUV and drove to the airport. All of the long distance trips I have been on this last year have run together in my mind. What stands out about this flight was that I got bumped to first class for a portion of the trip. The rest is all the same - movies, bad food, marginal drinks, valium, airport security, and smelly people who haven't had the chance to bathe for too long. One strange thing happened to me at the Frankfurt Airport while we were in between flights - I ran into an old friend from Santa Fe, who is now living in Greece with his wife and baby. We chatted, exchanged cards, and promised to keep in touch. At the end of the long flight there was Kusadasi and the boat: long, sleek, gleaming in the darkness, bobbing alongside the dock. Tiny lights twinkled in the night; food, wine, and the staff ( Captain Hassan, Mahmet the Chef, and Jahmal the Cabin Boy ) waited for us, laughing and happy, welcoming us onboard. But, like in a Greek drama, as I unpacked my things before dinner, I received an omen of things to come: I turned and smacked my eye into the side of an open closet door. I would get a black eye that lasted for two weeks. Up on deck, in the cool night air, we ate, we drank, then passed out in our gently bobbing cabins and slept the sleep of the transatlantic flyer: deep and solid. In the morning, breakfast was set on the deck, under the royal blue awning. Coffee, juice, bread, the best feta cheese I have ever tasted, dark black olives to die for, alongside plates of fried Turkish sausage, eggs with spicy sauce, ripe tomatoes, and watermelon that dripped with juice and rolled down our chins. A guide soon picked us up to take us to Ephesus, an ancient port that is being painstakingly restored, rock by rock, building by building. Every guide book talks about this old site, so I'm not going to bore you with it. Read the Eye Witness Guide.We had a great time climbing in the old ruins; welcome to Turkey. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a ruin in Turkey. We leave Ephesus and head to a little restaurant in the country, where a meal awaits us - it's called lunch, but who knows what time it is - I've been sitting on an airplane for so long that my butt still hurts, and I'm getting 'boat legs' already, so my senses are even more skewed. We eat outside in the shade, under beautiful trees in a light breeze, happy that we are in this beautiful place. After lunch, we are invited into the main building for a Turkish coffee. A couple of people ( who have been in Turkey before ) glance at each other and groan. I want the coffee and I don't get the looks or the groans, so I head into the building a little ahead of the others. It turns out that this is a cooperative for Turkish arts - rugs, mainly. Before we get our coffee, which I now realize is being dangled before us like a piece of bacon in front of a crab in a stream - we watch the exact same silkworm demonstration that I witnessed in Thailand six weeks before - the boiling water, the threads, etc, etc. In search of caffeine, I start to search the surrounding rooms, which are all lined with wooden benches. The rooms are also filled with stacks and rolls of carpets: spectacular colors, coiled, ready to strike. When we are all in one room, the doors are closed behind us. The show is about to start. Rugs are unfurled and flung into the air, twisted and turned, allowed to float down and land on top of each other. The pile grows, the carpets fly, and soon, I have my shoes off to walk on the hand-knotted beauties. My new 'friends' are laughing, teasing me - asking : do I know what I am getting into? Well, I don't think it's much, so I keep on walking on the rugs, crawling around, looking at the knotting and marveling at how tiny the knots are on these things. Then I spot a tiny sage green carpet, rolled up, standing on it's end in the corner of the room. I love green, and I ask to see the carpet. " No, don't!" everyone cries - but it's too late: the rug is held up in the light before me - first one direction, then spun in another - do I see how the fabric changes with each turn of the silken threads? Well, hell yes, I do! I love this rug! I want this rug! How much is this rug, anyway? Three thousand dollars? Whoa - wait a minute! I thought rugs in Turkey were supposed to be cheap! Ah - but this rug is not just a rug - it's a work of art; it's hand-knotted, pure silk, in an ancient pattern. It is the only one of it's kind - there is not another like it! While I tell the salesman ( Freddie ) that I had no idea how much money this rug was, I can't buy this ( especially on my very first day in Turkey: one, I'm still jet-lagged and not myself - i.e., not capable of making a rational decision - and two, I know how much I love to shop - if I start this way, I'm gonna big in deep shit by the end of the month. ) Another salesman - Paul - swirls another silken beauty in the air, and it floats down to lay beside the pale green and gold wonder. This one is slightly larger, and is primarily turquoise, with red and teal blue accent colors woven into the patterns. It is a stunning carpet, and I momentarily lose my breath. NOW they bring me the Turkish coffee - gotta get me all fueled up for the final stretch, so to speak. The rest of the group is enjoying my squirming enormously. It is about this time, sipping the thick, dark coffee, that I notice Freddie staring at my feet. That's just too weird, and I decide to take the bull by the horns - I finish my sludge, put on my flip-flops, and make for the door. Skeptically, everyone rises and follows me, moving slowly - they know that a break for the outdoors is not happening real soon. Twenty minutes later, I am almost there. I repeatedly decline the offer of either silk rug. I need a nap. Finally, I make it to the van waiting for us. Freddie grabs my hand, hands me his card, gaze soulfully into my eyes, and tells me to call him "anytime." Back on our gulet, everyone crashes in the shade under the back deck awning. We're like a heap of puppies in the midday heat. We have an invitation to dinner tonight, at a resort that is owned by a friend of our boat's owner. He also owns the boat parked next-door - another traditional Turkish gulet, made by hand in Bodhrum. It lies in restful repose beside us, accented by tasteful dark green cushions. The boat doesn't get used very often, but a crew of three maintains it beautifully, just in case. We nap until the early evening, then shower and dress for dinner. Drinks and appetizers ( more of those great olives, cheese, tiny little crispy burek ( cheese wrapped in a filo-like dough, then fried ) are served on deck, and we are happy again, watching the town lights twinkle on as the sun goes down over the hills. After a few hours of gentle pre-tuning, we load up into a van, and our driver takes us through the town of Kusadasi, where the streets are crowded, music is playing, and people are waving to each other and laughing, eating, drinking, shopping. The stores stay open all night in these little port towns, and things are just getting started. We drive through the crowds, everyone laughing and excited. Go cups are in hand for several of our group. It seems that we are on the upside of a party roll, so I don't think too much about it. This will later haunt me, and I will realize that this was yet another yellow flag that I chose to ignore. Driving over rolling hills, we gaze at the vast expanse of water below us, and at the receding lights of the city below us. Arriving at the resort, we are escorted through the main lobby - quite modest, considering the expanse of the place. We begin a walk down the hill to the ocean, past lighted swimming pools, tiled turquoise that glows in the dark, traipsing over foot bridges that take us through bars and restaurants, rambling through fragrant gardens. Finally, we descend to the final restaurant, where our host await us. A long table is set with crystal and white linen on a veranda over-looking the bay, with warm breezes blowing while the music plays on. Our host - I'll call him Ahmed - is quite the character. First, there is his voice: deep and loud, it booms, it takes you over, commands your attention. Secondly, there is his demeanor: right away, you understand that this is a guy who takes chances, lots of them, and that he generally wins. ( He either has great luck or great karma. ) Ahmed is expansive, bigger than his body, and, as I once heard in a comedy routine during the late 60's ( David somebody? ) ' the glory of his manhood fills the room.' ( I will come to understand that this is a common attitude and demeanor for rich Turkish men. ) Tonight, Ahmed is to be is our host, and he does this like he does everything else: full on, no holding back. The wine flows, first drinks are poured, and after another hour or so spent cocktailing, food begins to arrive. Food in Turkey is spectacular; each meal is an occasion, another opportunity for celebration. The flavors are true, and vibrant, the spices are wide and varied. During my entire month in Turkey, the only time I am disappointed in the food served to me is when someone is trying to serve his or her version of 'American' food. ( This has always mystified me : why would you serve something that is a weak imitation of something you really don't know that well, when your own cuisine is so good? ) Our long table for fourteen is swamped with plates, glasses, bowls and platters. There are salads of eggplant, white cheeses, onions, olives, cucumbers, roasted peppers, mussels, bulgur wheat and chickpeas. The air - even in the night's ocean breeze - is alive with the smells of dill, mint, garlic, lemon and chili paste. Baskets of bread are passed around as more and more wine is poured, and we can always nibble on an olive if we need a break. And we haven't even really started yet - these are just the appetizers! We are served chilled bowls of cacik, the delicate and refreshing soup of Turkish yogurt and cucumbers, before we move on to the main course - fish, fresh from the evening's catch, lobster, lamb dishes, shrimp wrapped in sole, served in a lobster sauce, and eggplant done, it seems, in at least ten different ways. By the time dessert rolls around - we've been eating for hours - it is the middle of the night, everyone is deeply and truly hammered, and all we can do is stare at the beautifully plated sweets in front of us. Three different desserts, elaborately garnished with gold leaf and flowers, are proudly set before each one of us. Another thing I have noticed this year, from Thailand to Turkey, to Kenya, is that everybody loves pastry. Everybody. No exceptions. The Turks do have a sweet tooth, so there is no shortage of goodies to be had along the Aegean or Mediterranean coast. I love the baklava shops in every town; Turks make their baklava light, flaky, and filled with whatever the regional nut is - hazelnut, walnut, or pistachio - my personal favorite. They all taste differently, and are unique in their own way. On this trip, there will always be a couple of boxes of baklava from the last port sitting in the main salon, on the sideboard. It goes fast. The Turks onboard - Hassan, Jahmal, Mahmet - don't like to eat baklava unless it is fresh, so they watch us, and laugh. Coffee and after-dinner drinks come next - that thick, sludgy Turkish coffee with gritty foam on top - and as I sip the blend, from the end of the table comes Ahmed's booming laugh and ______'s voice: "Hey, do you want that carpet? We sail in the morning! We can get them for you!" ( Both these guys speak in exclamation marks, all the time. ) I think - sort of - through a hazy mixture of way too much wine and food, now given a little shove from the caffeine: "Yeah! I love that green one!" Cell phones are brought out, numbers are punched in, and I go back to laughing and drinking with my new acquaintances, and forget about the whole thing. In a bit, we all decide that the walk up the hill will do us good, so we embark on a twisted ( both us and the pathway ) route back up to the lobby and the van. There is much laughter and noise, back-slapping, ducking and weaving. We stop at a variety of bars going up the hill, languish a while in each, then proceed to the next. This is like Milwaukee, only better : instead of a bar on every corner, there's a bar on every hillock - and, it's not snowing. As we emerge into the main lobby, the lights are bright - and there's Freddie! He is spinning carpets in the air, they twirl and float down to the ground. Suddenly, I am in the middle of a circle of drunks - everyone in the lobby is cheering - a pretty good-sized crowd has collected, so it's not just our group - and I am confronted by not just the green carpet I had asked for, but the turquoise one as well . Freddie looks at me adoringly and winks: " I knew you would call, and I brought them both, because I know you love them!" I gaze down at the artistry before me, thinking in a pattern that has gotten me into so much trouble over the years, and do what I do best: I buy them both. I give my Visa card to the traveling accountant who is with Freddie. ( In all fairness to myself, this going-with-my-gut-pattern has also shown me the world, and has given me wonderful experiences, so I'm trying to stop beating myself up for it. The rugs are efficiently folded and packed into a small black suitcase, which, I am assured, will fit perfectly under my seat on the flight that takes me back home to the United States next month. In the blink of an eye, I have ( once again ) spent six thousand dollars and am back on the van, heading back to the boat. Ahmed leaps on his Harley, and roars off into the night. There is a certain, sick kind of high that I get from spending that much money in a heartbeat - just ask my ex-husband - and I feel pretty good as we head over the hills to the marina. Again, much laughter, conversation, back-slapping, and congratulations on my fresh kill. Imagine my surprise, when, thirty minutes later, I climb the gangplank onto the back of the boat, and there are my new rugs, thrown on the teak table that is our all-purpose back-deck-meeting place-dining room-game table-bar. There are my new rugs, out of their little black bag, not folded, but gleaming in their splendor under the lantern lights. I am drunkenly puzzled: how did they get here? Why are they here? Didn't I pay for them? Shouldn't they be in my cabin, delivered as promised? But, wait, there's more! Heeeeere's Freddie! Standing with a drink in his hand, looking at me proudly, is my friend Freddie the Carpet Salesman. He greets me adoringly, and my first thought is that there's not a lot of room to maneuver on this boat - I don't care how many feet long it is - but isn't he standing a little too close to me? I flop down on the blue cushioned seat beside the gangplank and try to figure out what's going on. At the opposite end of the table, away from my carpets, are ______ and Ahmed, playing backgammon and drinking scotch. There is music playing, cigars are being smoked, and the party is continuing. Corks are being pulled from wine bottles, cigarette smoke is filling the air - not an easy thing to do on a boat, but that's how many people are drunk-smoking. Everyone is occupied with one thing or another - my carpet purchase has moved down a notch in the night's roster of excitement - and the backgammon game has taken first place: stakes are a thousand dollars a round. Freddie sits down next to me and gazes again into my eyes. I am starting to panic, because it seems that I am on my own here, I look across the deck and meet eyes with Helen, from Durango, who is looking at Freddie the same way I did a few minutes ago. She's thinking : "why is he here, and what is he doing?" I suddenly excuse myself, and bolt for the front of the boat, where I find my new friend, Carol ( aka Princess Kusadasa ) , ______, the wife of the boat's owner, and Troy, their seventeen year-old son. They all want to know why I am looking like a deer in the headlights. I quickly explain what's going on, and they surround me like wagons in the old west. We talk, and plot what to do if Freddie appears in the front of the boat. ( When alcohol is involved in massive quantities like it has been tonight, reason goes out the window, or overboard, if you will. I mean, come on - I'm fifty-six years old! How about 'No thanks, Freddie.' Bit, noooooooooo - I have to start acting like a sixteen year old, plotting with my friends and hiding like a school girl. How embarrassing. ) The next hour is filled with sneaky trips to the bar for more wine, while avoiding the back deck, where Freddie is getting drunker and drunker, ( catching up with the rest of us, I presume. ) We send Troy on scouting trips for cigarettes, which apparently only Ahmed has, and he reports on Freddie's whereabouts and demeanor , i.e," he's trashed.". ( This is perfect for Troy: he's seventeen! The rest of us are behaving like fools. ) Ruby and _____ decide to take off for a test drive in Ahmed's new Jaguar ( which will lose a side mirror that night ) and the rest of us let our guard down; we are soon laughing and telling stories again. Suddenly, that booming voice that belongs to Ahmed comes around the side of the boat, echoing over the water: " Liiiiinda! Liiiiinda! Where are you? Freddie is looking for you!" Damn! Without ____, the backgammon game is over, and now, Ahmed is helping Freddie seek me out. We hear footsteps alongside the cabin, and Troy pushes my head down on the blue cushions that line the front deck, and says to me " You're passed out. Now." I close my eyes, and listen to footsteps draw closer. They seem to be uneven - stumbling? Freddie is trashed to the gills. He is swaying in the wind, the boat is rocking ( I think )and Troy and the Princess are telling him, that, yes, they understand that he loves me, but I am passed out, drunk. And have been, for quite sometime. He is confused : did I not know that he was waiting for me? I swear I hear him call me ' his flower' and it's a good thing Troy's hand in holding my head down on the blue mats so I don't flinch and start retching, or get up and punch him. Troy takes charge, calls Captain Hussan, and ask him to escort Freddie off the boat, and put him in a taxi. Once this is accomplished, I sit up. We all look at each other, and agree : this was weird. But, I got some great rugs out of it. In the morning, I wake up to boat movement; we are sailing out of the Kusadasi harbor, and are beginning our sail across the Aegean, to Samos.
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Phoenix, Arizona, United States

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Nairobi, Nairobi, Kenya

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Masai Mara National Reserve, Masai Mara National Reserve, Kenya

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Lake Nakuru, Kenya

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Aberdare National Park, Aberdare National Park, Kenya

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