Traveling Around the World:

Our Tales of Delights and Disasters

Shelley Row

Copyright © 2012 by Shelley J. Row

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

KINDLE ISBN: 9781621410676

PRINT ISBN: 9780984698912

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962151

First Published 2012 by Shelley Row & Associates LLC

EBOOK Published by BookLocker.com, Inc., 2012, First Edition

Cover design by Jackie Clements

Copyediting by Robin Quinn

Other Books by Shelley Row

Living Like a Local: Stories of Our Life in France

Exploring Europe: Our Experiences While Living Abroad

To learn more about the speaking and coaching programs that Shelley offers or to have Shelley speak at your event, please visit Shelley’s website or email her at:

www.shelleyrow.com

shelley@shelleyrow.com

This book is dedicated to my husband, Mike. He whole-heartedly embraced this crazy journey of ours. Some days were fun-filled adventures and other days were unnerving disasters – literally. Throughout it all, he was a supportive and loving partner. I couldn’t ask for anyone better with which to share my life.

In Memory of Skeeter

We lost our Persian cat, Skeeter a few months after returning home to Annapolis. He spent the year we were away living with our dear friends, Wil and Siena Scott. They took wonderful care of him, and we were thankful to have some time with him after we returned. We miss his sweet, fuzzy face.

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to our journey. Since you will be traveling around the world with us, we would like to tell you a little about ourselves, what we did, and why.

In short, our dream was to live in southern France for a year; to be immersed in the culture and lifestyle of Provence. We felt that was best accomplished by picking one place and living there. But there was also the lure of other wonderful places we wanted to visit. This sparked the idea of traveling around the world on our return trip home. After much discussion, we decided to live in France for ten months, followed by six weeks of round-the-world travel, and a few weeks at home before we resumed life as it was before (although life would never again be as it was before).

My husband Mike and I were living full and complete lives. Married for eleven years, we made our home in Annapolis, Maryland. Mike, a successful, small business person in Annapolis for twenty-five years, sold his business in 1998, taking an early retirement that lasted only three short years. With his extensive business background and education in economics, in 2001 he was appointed by the Mayor as Economic Development Director for the City. After eight successful years in that position, he retired when we moved to France in 2010.

In the meantime, I was immersed in my career as a transportation engineer for the United States Department of Transportation (U.S. DOT). As a member of the Senior Executive Service, I led an innovative research program with a staff of eighteen professionals. I loved my career, the contribution my office made, and the success I attained over years of hard work in the transportation industry. There was, however, the faint glimmer of a creative side of me waiting patiently to emerge. That opportunity came during our journey. With ten months of quiet walks, meditation, writing, drawing and painting, the stress of long commutes in heavy traffic, deadlines and budgets fell away. In its place, a more full and balanced person emerged.

At the beginning, we didn’t appreciate how long we would have to hold onto our dream; through what obstacles we would persevere; and the amount of planning that would be required. Mike successfully overcame his bout with cancer, we lost a chunk of our savings when the stock market dropped in 2008, and we encountered trepidation from some family members. Some days it felt daunting, but we held to our belief that eventually all the pieces would fall into place – with the help of focused planning.

In April of 2010, we made the move to France. We found a wonderful house in the tiny village of Cotignac, which is in the Var region of Provence midway between Nice and Marseilles. Cotignac has a resident population of 2500 people. The population soars during the summer months when crowds of tourists flock in from Europe and other parts of the world. We arrived in early April 2010 and lived in Cotignac until the end of January 2011. From our rented house, which overlooked a beautiful Cezanne-like painting of a valley, we oftentimes walked to town for Mike’s daily baguette, the Tuesday market, or just an occasional coffee and tea at the Café de Cours.

After ten months, it was time to leave, travel around the world, and finally return home to Annapolis. Our travel experience was completely different from our life in France. After ten months of living like a local, once again, we were tourists. We left France with a thorough, thoughtful plan and an impressive stack of papers – reservations for planes, trains, rental cars, boats, buses, hotels and tours. We were ready – or so we thought!

Our travels didn’t go as expected, to say the least. As disasters of one sort or another unfolded, we learned to adjust, be patient, and accept what was. And we learned about compassion, we received help from complete strangers, and we came to love and cherish our most unexpected experiences.

Before we left for our year abroad, Mike and I had a general sense that we would return with a lifetime of stories. And we did. We can regale you with stories for hours or days. There are so many that the two of us have trouble remembering where we were when a particular thing happened. We exchange puzzled glances, scratch our heads, and search our memories for the season, the village, and sometimes even the country. All of those shared experiences alone were worth the time, the money and the effort.

Along the way, no matter where in the world we were, I wrote. To my surprise, I came to love writing about our experiences and feelings through my blog. The blog was conceived as a way to communicate with my eighty-year-old mother and George (my honorary stepdad), but writing took on a life of its own and became a joy and creative outlet. Family, friends and strangers emailed me about their pleasure reading the blog. It wasn’t long before people began suggesting that we compile the blogs into a book. Now that we’re back in the United States and trying our best to adjust to the fast pace of life, working on this book has once again become a pleasure as we remember each experience.

The book you are reading is one of three in the trilogy that comprise our year abroad.

Living Like a Local: Stories of Our Life in France

Exploring Europe: Our Experiences While Living Abroad

Traveling Around the World: Our Tales of Delights and Disasters

It is our hope that you will find enjoyment and maybe some inspiration from our stories of traveling the world. Our year abroad marked the achievement of a major goal – our life dream. Now I have a new goal – a new dream. I wish to share our experiences and the process that we used to achieve this goal to help others achieve theirs. While these books share our stories, I also use presentations, seminars and workshops to discuss and teach others how to achieve their goals – whether the goals are personal or professional. You can find out more at my website: www.shelleyrow.com

Reflecting back, we can tell you without reservation – it was worth every minute. This experience changed our lives through the things we did, the people we met, and the people we became.

Now come along with us as we leave France to travel around the world!

Shelley

Annapolis, January 2012

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Istanbul – A Different World

After witnessing sunrise over the Mediterranean from the promenade in Nice, we delivered the car to be shipped back and lifted off from French soil. Tears ran down my face.

A few hours later, we landed in Istanbul. The uniqueness of Turkey was not immediately apparent as we were driven past large stores, car dealerships and shopping malls that – except for the different letters – might be in the U.S. But the next day, the differences came into view. Around 6 am, we woke to the sounds of chanting as the morning’s first call-to-prayers were sung from the mosque across the street. A few hours later, we met our guide, Yesim, for a day of exploring the city.

When we stepped outside into the brisk morning, the atmosphere immediately felt different. Gone were the shuttered stone buildings with quiet streets. Here a bustling energy pulsed. It felt hectic and scantily organized, even though everything we encountered functioned efficiently. We were in the heart of the old city, dense and tightly packed. Three-to-five-story buildings lined narrow streets with shops stacked one on top of the other, sometimes three high. Men busily rolled boxes along on delivery carts, delivered luggage, and readied shops for the crush of people on the streets. All around was a whirl of activity.

People jostled along as sidewalks inexplicably narrowed then widened along the also narrow, car-packed streets which were jammed with taxis, tour buses and autos vying for the same slim piece of pavement. Yesim and her driver escorted us around town in a mid-sized bus that had automatic sliding-doors. Due to the parking and traffic pressures, our driver would drop us off, circle the block, and come back down the street with the sliding door open for us to jump in as he coasted to a quick stop. He delivered us everywhere we wanted to visit and we were very thankful he was driving and not us.

The people, gracious and polite, also looked different with their uniformly dark coloring. The women were fashionably dressed, coiffed and made up to accentuate their thick, black hair and eyes the color of dark chocolate. A few women – maybe 25% – kept their hair covered with scarves. The shops seemed to be primarily run by men who waited by the door calling to passersby to coax them in. This was clearly a common practice – but it felt a bit aggressive for U.S. sensibilities. Both Mike and I, blonde and fair, seemed to be a particularly noticeable target for attention. They took one look at me and started guessing. If I didn’t respond to English, they called after me in other languages trying to guess my nationality – German? Scandinavian? When we ignored them, the shop keepers were good natured about it and recovered quickly. As we walked back from a lovely dinner along the waterfront, a man tried to get us into his restaurant. In one breath, he said as we passed, “Excuse me. Hello. Thank you. Bye-bye.” We laughed all the way back!

This was our first time to visit a primarily Muslim country. I was entranced by the mosques, the chanting at prayer times, the tall, slim minarets. The old city, as viewed from across the Golden Horn peninsula, is a landscape of minaret spires clustered around the large mosques – so different from the cathedrals to which we’d grown accustomed. The biggest mosques had a large central dome surrounded by half-domes of decreasing sizes. One complex looked like a mound of bubbles guarded by spires. Inside the complexes, the mosques became centers of activity and life. Schools, hospitals and soup kitchens accompanied the mosques.

The only functioning mosque we visited was the Sultanahmet Mosque or Blue Mosque. The base of the building was surrounded by water faucets for ritual washing of the body before prayers. Holding a plastic bag containing my shoes, I stepped into the mosque with Mike. I was overwhelmed by the spaciousness and simplicity. Unlike a European cathedral with its narrow naves and ornate sculptures stacked one on top of the other, the mosque was open with clear views across the entire building of domes. It felt like being inside a bubble – calming and ethereal, particularly since the interior was covered with predominantly blue tiles (hence the name Blue Mosque). The Moslem religion doesn’t allow ornamentation, except for calligraphy (prayers) or floral designs; consequently, the tiles had detailed, winding floral designs. The pattern changed with every wall. What sounds gaudy looked balanced and delicate. And the floor was covered – all of it – with red flowered carpeting embedded with subtle triangular patterns pointing toward Mecca. The design serves as markers for those praying.

No visit to Istanbul would be complete without a stroll through the Grand Bazaar and the spice market, both filled with colors, hookahs, samovars, jewelry, saffron, curries, lamps, rugs, Turkish towels, scarves and anything else you can imagine. Oranges and pomegranates were pressed as you watched into refreshing drinks. The air smelled of warm, roasting chestnuts and hot coffee.

While the shops were fun, my favorite thing was watching the man who shuttled Turkish tea to shop keepers. He zipped through the crowds with a silver tray held from chains while tulip-shaped glasses of warm tea crowded the tray waiting to be delivered.

Istanbul, unlike most of the other places we visited, has a layered history – first as Byzantium, then as Constantinople, and finally as Istanbul. Roman and Ottoman histories interweave in the landscape of religious sites, obelisks and palaces. For example, the old Roman hippodrome – where chariot races were held centuries ago – sits close to the Sultanahmet Mosque. The roads of the modern city occupy the ancient race-track but the center space retains the original obelisks. One obelisk clearly looked Egyptian and, oddly, new. I was right about the Egyptian part, but it was 600 years old – definitely not new. It was brought from Egypt to Istanbul by the Romans as a symbol of their conquest. Apparently, the Romans took obelisks to other locations around the world, too. It was like a mark of “Cesar was here” at a grand scale.

A short walk away was the Topkapi Palace, the home of the Sultans of the Ottoman Empire. The palace compound sprawled across a point of land next to the Bosphorus Sea. It was a beautiful spot. Part of the building complex (which housed more than 1,500 people) included the Sultan’s harem. The harem is the space where the women lived. What a life it was! Educated and pampered (including having their own huge swimming pool), these women had a world of their own – except when chosen by the Sultan. The more they were “chosen,” the higher their rank in the harem – second only to the official wife. Next to the harem was the chamber where the counsel of leaders from various parts of the empire gathered to discuss official business. The Sultan had a screened door overhead so that he could listen in without being seen. The visitors never knew if he was there or not – something like wiretapping for the Sultan.

We saw the treasury of fantastically jeweled stuff – pendants, flasks, jars, ornaments for the Sultan’s turban, thrones and swords. Noteworthy was the Topkapi dagger with its jeweled hilt of three golf-ball sized emeralds. And there was an eighty-six carat Kasikci diamond also to be worn in the Sultan’s turban. I hadn’t seen this much gold and jewels since the Vatican.

We stopped for lunch inside the Topkapi Palace and enjoyed a traditional meal of lamb, eggplant, grilled meat, and lentil soup. But the highlight was Mike’s coffee reading. After finishing his coffee, Yesim turned the cup upside down in the saucer and allowed it to cool. From the remnants in the bottom and along the sides, she told Mike’s fortune. He has at least five upcoming trips, there is a deep hurt in his heart, an eagle-like person is in his life, and he’s coming into a great deal of money. (Postscript: A week later, his first Social Security check arrived!)

While I’m at it, I should mention how different the Turkish food was. French patisseries were replaced by shops selling a beautiful array of candies concocted using pistachios, hazelnuts, apricots, filo pastry, halva, and of course, Mike’s favorite, Turkish Delight. Yogurt is also popular here. I tried yogurt drinks like ayran, a yogurt and water drink that looks like 2% milk but tastes like plain yogurt. My favorite was sapel – a hot, thick, yogurt-based drink with a creamy taste and texture. It is served warm and sprinkled with cinnamon. It may be better than hot chocolate!

After a busy day of touring in the cold, we decided to try a Turkish bath or hamani at the Cagaloglu Hamani. Men and women have separate areas so Mike and I parted ways. I was led by a hefty woman to a changing room and given a towel and funky, wooden slippers. Wrapped in my towel and precariously perched on my slippers (think wooden clogs with only a thin strap across the toes), Fatima let me to the bath. It was a large, round, domed room – all in marble with columns around the perimeter. The room was almost empty. She sat me down by a marble basin with water running into it and showed me that I was to pour water all over myself, and she’d return shortly after my skin warmed.

So – there I sat, naked, trying not to feel self-conscious. I kept pouring warm water all over me and found myself relaxing into the experience. Once I got past thinking about it, it began to feel decadent and luxurious in a forbidden sort of way. Fatima returned, had me lay down on the warm marble, and proceeded to loofah my skin all over – like scouring a scorched pan! Then she washed my hair. It wasn’t an attentive washing like at Hudson Fouquet (my salon in Annapolis) where they massage my scalp and carefully keep water out of my eyes. Here, she suds-ed me up with soap, rubbed it over my face and through my hair, and dumped buckets of warm water over my head. It was so unexpected, I had to laugh as soap ran into my mouth. When she finished, I sat, pouring water over myself before drying off, dressing and returning to Mike. The two of us were warm, calm and relaxed as we walked to dinner. What a delightful experience!

Our next day was sunny but still cold. Yesim took us to more sites. Many of the major monuments are illustrations of Istanbul’s layers of history. Take, for example, the Kariye Museum, otherwise known as the Chora Church. This church was built in the 6th century in the byzantine era. Inside, the church is covered in mosaics of incredible detail. Tiny tiles of glass backed with gold and mini-squares of lapis are worked into scenes from Biblical times. Most of the depictions were of Mary’s history – her birth, childhood, marriage and motherhood. When the Ottomans took over, rather than destroying the mosaics, they covered them in plaster, which unintentionally preserved them.

The Hagia Sophia, from the Greek words Holy Wisdom, has a similarly varied past. It is a 6th century building, also with a large central dome. So large, in fact, that its size was not exceeded for 1,000 years after it was built (that’s not a typo… 1,000 years). It started as a Greek Orthodox Church, was converted to a mosque, then into a Christian church, and the building is now a museum open to the public so as to protect it and the art inside. The space is large and open inside – like the Blue Mosque – with mosaics of Christ and Mary (that’s the Christian history) and Arabic calligraphy (from its mosque heritage).

Across from the Hagia Sophia is an underground water reservoir. It’s an underground chamber of light and rhythm – column after column in all directions. It was constructed of used columns collected from monuments over the world that were rejects from the construction of the Hagia Sophia. It was an elegant reuse of materials. Two columns stand on used Medusa-head sculptures – one head sideways and the other upside down – just in case she could still turn workers to stone. You can’t be too careful when it comes to Medusa.

In Istanbul, it felt like we straddled two worlds. On one hand, the rich mosaics of the Chora Church represented scenes from the Bible – many of which occur in Turkey. Ephesus, for example, is in Turkey, as is the town where Mary reportedly lived and is buried. Mary’s hometown is, of course, legend, but it is enough of a legend that three Popes have visited the site. I remember reading passages from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. It takes on new life being a short distance from this place immortalized in history. Similarly, European history is entwined here. The Ottoman Empire, headquartered in Constantinople, stretched to Austria, where we saw some of its history. Slowly, the vast family relationships began to link together. Only in Istanbul, though, have we seen the dramatic shifts in cultures over the centuries. All left their marks here and it is fascinating to unpeel the layers.

Mike and I only glimpsed the layers of history in Istanbul, and we did not begin to be able to more fully appreciate the culture and the diversity of Turkey. That will have to be another visit. For now, all we can say to Istanbul is: “Excuse me. Hello. Thank you. Bye-bye.”

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Unexpected Cairo

Who knew? Who knew that Tunisia would spark unrest in peaceful Egypt? Who knew that riots would escalate quickly in the major Egyptian cities? Who knew that for the first time in my life, I would lie in my well-appointed hotel room and listen to automatic weapon fire while tanks blocked the street in front of the hotel? Who knew we would leave this uncomfortable experience feeling blessed and grateful?

We arrived in Cairo at 3:30 pm on January 28 with great expectations for our two week visit in Egypt. It was to be the highlight of our worldly travels. We were met at the airport by our guide, Mohamed Ali, tall, slender and smiling.

Mohamed Ali was with Fly Well Travel, the Cairo operator for Egypt Magic, our tour company in the U.S. Perfect, I thought. Then, not perfect. Unfortunately, we arrived just as the Egyptian government’s crisis escalated. Mohamed Ali politely informed us that none of the foreigners were allowed to leave the airport at the moment. All the roads in and out were closed. Plus, the cellular network and Internet were taken offline to prevent the organizers from organizing. Okay, we thought, we’ll wait a bit and then we’ll be off to our hotel. I mean, really, how long could this persist? It was bound to be just a minor inconvenience. Hours later, a curfew was declared until 7 am the next morning. We prepared to spend our first evening in Egypt at the airport. This was not in our plan!

And so, we sat, and walked, and napped as best we could. Planes continued to land, dumping more people into the airport. Thankfully, the local Egyptians were allowed to leave, which kept the airport from being completely filled. It became a study in contrasts. English (American, Australian and British) voices predominated, but there were many others as well. A Chinese tour group huddled in a corner propped against each other trying to sleep. Sheiks in flowing robes wandered the airport. Women with their heads covered with a hijab held sleepy toddlers. Children ran happily around until they collapsed in parents’ laps. All the chairs were filled by those like us who had arrived early in the afternoon. Late-comers lay on the floor, leaned against the wall, or sprawled wherever there was space.

Once everyone realized that we would be stuck here for hours, there was a run on the food. The convenience store had a long line of people buying armloads of bottled water. The Burger King was a madhouse. People crammed the counter as employees threw burgers into bags that were passed to grabbing hands. At one point, hot airplane food was distributed, but it went fast and there was not enough for everyone. About 4 am, boxed food was given out. While beggars can’t be choosers – cold beef and gravy with cold rice was difficult to choke down in the wee hours of the morning. Amazingly, everyone remained patient and in good humor. The airport was filled with Egyptian guides who had met their clients, and now they were stuck with everyone else because of the curfew. Mohamed, like the others, was worried that we would leave with a bad impression. Mike and I assured him that we were fine and understood people’s desire to create a better life. Sometimes that’s messy business. He was intensely interested in showing off his beautiful country to us, and he wasn’t the only one. A lone airport employee, also named Mohamed, worked a coffee stand behind us. He was there all night by himself. He introduced himself as I purchased some juice, and said that he hoped we enjoyed our stay in his country. Nice. Everyone we met was like that. As it turned out, we would not get to see his country, except for glimpses of the pyramids and beautiful mosques as we crossed the Nile. We would cross the Nile four times going back and forth to the airport.

After napping, me across a couple of chairs and Mike on top of our luggage, we woke cramped and exhausted. Thankfully, our tour guides transferred us to our hotel early in the morning after the curfew lifted. But another group, also with Fly Well Travel, was staying at a hotel in downtown Cairo and needed to be dropped off. With curtains pulled across the van windows, we were driven through the streets of Cairo (the erratic traffic is another story). Mohamed, who himself was exhausted from caring for us all night, was clearly agitated and nervous. We soon understood why. We drove past burned, overturned cars and lines of tanks. Debris from the previous night’s riots was strewn across the streets. At that moment, an eight-story burning building came into view – windows red with flames. It was the headquarters of the Democratic party – the party of Mubarak’s son. Approaching the others’ hotel, Mohamed, in strict, urgent tones, admonished us to stay in the van while he escorted the others inside their hotel. No problem.

After a short, anxious stop at the hotel, we were taken along the Nile, past more burned trucks, to our hotel in Giza – about forty-five minutes from downtown. We briefly glimpsed some of the reasons for the unrest. The city was littered with garbage, people walked the streets, old cars and the occasional donkey-drawn cart rumbled past. Half-completed buildings (taxes rise when construction is complete) created an atmosphere of interest lost. Even our first view of the great pyramids couldn’t compete with this backdrop.

As we discovered, our hotel was safe – comparatively. Tanks were parked outside and security gates limited access to guests. The hotel was lovely with a pool overlooked by the pyramids, which were a short walk away – a walk we would not take. Soft music was playing – a stark contrast from tanks and guns (and, later, the roar of fighter jets). Our room had plush beds and a marble shower, a welcome sight. From that point, we slept and waited, not allowed to leave the hotel. The pyramids were closed. We could only sit by the pool, look at the pyramids, and try to be calm as we thought about what to do.

In the end, the decision was clear but disappointing – leave Cairo as quickly as possible. That was easier said than done. Curfews were enacted each afternoon that prohibited all movement; the airport descended into chaos, and Internet service remained curtailed. Thankfully, cell service was reestablished allowing us to text and call. Plus, we had the cavalry on our side – Egypt Magic and Fly Well Travel staff. The staff with their supervisor, Amr Haggag, never left our side, not once, ever. They stayed overnight at the airport and at the hotel – dressed in their suits and ties. Keep in mind, these are local people with families in the affected areas. They left their wives, kids and parents to ensure the safety and comfort of strangers. One young man wiped a tear from his eye as he told of his frightened mother crying to him on the phone. She lived in one of the buildings threatened by looting. Despite these personal hardships, they checked on us several times a day to see if we were okay. Their manager called personally to ensure our satisfaction. We were more than satisfied. We can’t say enough good things about these people and this company. It went beyond good business practice, particularly as we talked to others stuck at the hotel who had not seen their tour company’s representative. Ironically, in talking with Amr, we learned that even though he is in the tourist industry specializing in U.S. and Australian visitors, he has never been to the U.S. because of the difficulty in obtaining a tourist visa. It takes years to get approval. How sad is that? Here is a young man, getting married this summer, who wants to take his new wife to the U.S. for a visit. Plus, it would help him provide better service to his American customers. But he isn’t allowed to visit the United States. I supposed he’s considered a threat. In spite of that, he gave his all to ensure our safety and comfort.

The next day, we attempted to leave Egypt and continue to our next destination, Bangkok. The Fly Well staff, Ahmed, Mohamed and our driver, Hussein, escorted us to the airport for our flight to Bangkok aboard Egypt Air. On the drive, we glimpsed life in Cairo. We passed vendors selling oranges and bananas from their donkey-drawn carts and men on camels. Women in their robes stood in line outside tiny markets. I was captivated by the people and their dress, particularly the men in long tunics with scarves draped around their neck.

It was smooth sailing on the roadways past rows of tanks. The curfew kept most cars off the road. Fortunately, tourists were allowed to pass through the streets accompanied by their guides. It was not, however, smooth sailing at the airport. Egypt Air was a mess – and that’s being gracious. At the last minute, they canceled all flights departing during the curfew period… or almost all flights. But they didn’t say which ones were going and which ones were not. All flights showed “canceled” on the screen, even when flights were called for boarding. As we were walking out the door, thinking all flights were canceled, they announced “immediate boarding” for the flight other tourists traveling with us were on. Their “canceled” flight ended up leaving three hours early! Mohamed literally ran with them through security to the gate and – with his help – they made their flight. We were not so lucky. We waited for hours for any information about the flight and were finally told it was canceled – really. It might go out the next morning. So, at 9:30 pm, we piled into the van for the drive back to the hotel – in the dark, during the curfew.

All I can say is thank goodness for Hussein – a retired military colonel who now enjoys showing tourists around his country. Because of the curfew, major roads were blocked by tanks and military personnel so that Hussein had to navigate his way along city streets and through neighborhoods. By this time in Egypt, there had been a prison break, and weapons had been stolen from the police (not the military) who abandoned their posts. Looting of museums and homes was reported. The Egyptian government advised citizens to protect themselves and their neighborhoods. They did.

Neighborhood groups patrolled local streets and guarded their homes from looters. We stopped at more than forty of these makeshift check points. It typically went like this: We drove a few yards down a local street until we came across a barricade. The barricade might be a row of soccer-ball sized rocks, an obstacle course of old logs and light poles, or just a group of men wielding bats, clubs or axes. I will confess that it was unnerving – each of the 40+ times. Mike and I sat quietly in the back, trying to look harmless and blonde.

Hussein rolled down his window, coasted to a stop, and gave a local greeting to the person who appeared to be the leader. He handed them his military card, showing his rank as colonel and his service time of twenty-seven years with the military. Their reaction was immediate. They would salute, step back, and wave us through – like magic. And here’s the other thing that quickly became clear– all of these people were polite, gracious and apologetic. They were not violent or vigilantes. They were regular people trying to protect themselves and their families. Many looked at me and Mike and said they were sorry but they had to check our van to ensure the safety of their families. They hoped we understood. We did – and they welcomed us to their country. I felt like I was in a one-van parade as everyone smiled and waved to us and we waved back. The atmosphere was such a contradiction. On one hand, the anxiety level was palpable, and yet there were boys playing, and old men sitting around fires drinking coffee while the younger adults watched the road. It was like a block party for the men. I experienced an internal conflict as I simultaneously felt worried and welcomed. It is this contradiction that will be one of the enduring memories of this drive. And it was a long drive. It took two and a half hours to make the normally forty-five minute trip. We arrived back at the hotel at midnight.

And we did it all again early the next morning – pulling out of the hotel the minute the curfew was lifted. Once again, chaos reigned at the airport. This time it was packed to overflowing with people and bags. We waited for our flight to be called – but to no avail. The rumor came that our flight was canceled – again – so we went to Plan B. The night before, my sister, Alison, found flights for us on Qatar Airlines to Bangkok, connecting through Doha. Qatar Airlines operated out of a different terminal with massive traffic congestion in between. Fly Well Travel staff were already in the other terminal and they found seats for us on the flight. Hussein drove us as close as he could, and Mohamed walked us through the streets to the terminal, weaving between traffic. We got the tickets – first class – very expensive – but it was a way out and, as it turned out, having first class seats was the only way we made our connection in Doha.

Mohamed led us to the ticketing area, literally shoved our bags over the mobs of people onto the scanning belt, and checked us in. Keep in mind, this sea of people was almost entirely Middle Eastern – flowing robes, women’s heads covered by hajibs, and traditional dress for men of long robes and scarves. We were an anomaly. We started our journey through the packed terminal to passport control – another sea of people packed together, shoving their way toward a customs official. Gone were the organized, serpentine lines where signs politely advise you to wait behind the yellow line. Here we faced a mass of people all shoving their way to the booth. Some held hands full of passports that they passed over the top of the booth to the official. Mohamed told us to push our way forward and keep pushing. With that, he left us. My eyes teared watching our knight in shining armor leave. We would not have gotten out of the country without Mohamed, Hussein, Amhed and Amr. They literally kept us safe and got us out. Never have I experienced such effort and dedication.

I should mention that as we sat for hours at the Cairo airport, we saw representatives from Great Britain, France, Australia, China, New Zealand and more. All were working to move their citizens out of Egypt. Notably absent was the U.S. We never – ever – saw anyone in the terminal from the U.S State Department.

It merits repeating that every single Egyptian we met was kind, polite, gracious and helpful. They insisted that we feel welcome in their country, and we did in spite of the circumstances. Mike and I were the recipients of numerous simple kindnesses – like the gentlemen who wheeled a chair to me in the airport, or the waiter who quietly asked me to please come back to his country, or the ten-year-old boy who smiled through the windows of our bus and shouted, “Hello!” in his best English. How sad it is that these people are the ones most impacted by this situation. Service staff at the hotel told us that they make barely enough to live on with the tourist industry. As the tourists leave in droves, these kind and polite people are the ones bearing the brunt of the economic impact. While I won’t pretend to grasp the political and social issues facing this country, I will leave with a great respect for the working people and their desire for a better life. We will watch the developments in Egypt with a deeper interest. They deserve a government that is worthy of them. We look forward to returning to see the sights, experience the rich culture, and meet our friends, Amr, Mohamed, Ahmed and Hussein again. In the meantime, we hold them in our thoughts.

As the wheels of our Qatar plane left Egyptian soil en route to Doha, we exhaled for the first time in three days. Two thoughts crossed my mind:

- Unspeakable gratitude for Amr, Mohamed, Hussein and Ahmed, and

- Where the heck is Doha?

Monday, February 7, 2011

Bangkok Sights and Massages

Sightseeing followed by a massage: That’s the prescription for our first few days in Bangkok after the turmoil in Egypt. What a pleasant change of pace – not to mention wearing shorts and sandals in February! Bangkok is like no place I’ve been– exotic, beautiful and more than a little chaotic.

We’re staying at a lovely hotel, Shangri-la, overlooking the Chao Phraya River. The hotel entrance is graced with two large, red elephants; an improvement over the tanks in Cairo. I emitted a little yelp of joy when we walked into the spacious room and saw the view. My yelp was followed by breakfast outside in the warmth and a luxurious shower. We hadn’t slept much in the last two nights or on the flight from Cairo. The shower was refreshing and energizing.

As it happened, we arrived on the first day of the three-day Chinese New Year celebration. We headed by boat to Chinatown, working on staying awake and recovering from jet lag. Chinatown is a helter-skelter area of Bangkok. Narrow alleys cut between the car-packed, exhaust-filled streets and every inch is lined with vendors. I have no idea what they were selling – most things were unrecognizable to our eyes. We identified dozens of types of dried fish, bags of puffed fried things, pickled cabbage, nuts, fruits (many types that we didn’t recognize), mushrooms, and so much more. I tried a couple of items that looked reasonably safe – some meatball thing on a stick, a chicken skewer, and a sweet, sticky rice treat cooked inside a piece of bamboo. But the odors are what I’ll remember – pungent and sweet smells of hot oil, peppers and unknown spices, sugar from sweets cooking on hot stoves, and incense mixed with exhaust. Many of the shops had family shrines set up for the New Year celebration. All the shrines were similar – several types of food like Peking duck and fruit, yellow marigolds strung together, burning incense, and folded gold paper like wreaths. We started to pick up one of the wreaths and they came running with: “No, no, no!” Oops. So sorry. We learned later that this was an offering to their ancestors.

On our way back, we walked past a small massage shop advertising Thai foot massage. The price was about $12 – yes, $12. We both relaxed while petite Thai girls massaged and poked our feet. It was heaven! And that’s how the pattern started… take in some sights and have a massage.

The next day was Chinese New Year – the Year of the Rabbit, which represents inspiration and family. The hotel hosted a traditional Chinese ceremony and dance. We had front-row seats… behind the government dignitaries, of course. Tiny men in elaborate costumes portrayed a lion awakening and searching for cabbage (I never knew lions liked cabbage). The dignitaries performed the “awakening” by painting the lion’s eye lids and tying pink bows on their heads. Everyone was entranced by the spectacle of color and noise – beating drums and clanging cymbals. Noise, we learned, is important for driving away evil spirits. After the dancing, long strings of fireworks hanging in the trees were set off adding even more noise. The evil spirits were definitely gone!

We took a boat to the Grand Palace the next day and were sucked into a scam. We were told that the Palace was closed for the Chinese New Year and we were diverted into a tuk-tuk. A tuk-tuk is like a motorized rickshaw that jostles through the heavy traffic between cars and buses. It cost us a grand total of $2 for three hours of touring. It may have been a scam, but it worked out fine. First stop was the Golden Mount. This had been the highest point in the city but now skyscrapers offer better views. The Golden Mount contains a Buddha image – the first of many we would see. After climbing the stairs, we gonged the gong and rang the bells before entering the chamber containing the image of the Buddha. Local people were everywhere. Paying respect to the Buddha is part of the New Year’s celebration. At the Golden Mount, monks in orange said prayers over small groups of people and sprinkled them with a small broom dipped in water. Others carefully held a small piece of white paper that contained an even smaller (1 cm) square of gold foil. People kneeled in front of the Buddha and carefully placed the gold square on the statute. The statue was covered with tiny gold squares of paper. It looked like the Buddha was made of paper maché. Others burned incense, hung small bells, or strung banners of paper money like pendants. All were different types of offerings to the Buddha. We would see more in coming days. After stops at more temples, we were back on the boat headed home – sticky with sweat and weary. Mike headed for the sauna at the hotel, and I headed back to the massage shop for a full-body massage (an extravagant $35).

We finally made it to the Grand Palace the next morning, hired a guide, and prepared to enter the Palace grounds. But first, we had to be appropriately attired, which we weren’t. We were in shorts, which were not acceptable. Fortunately, the guides are prepared with skirts and pants. Perfect – well, accept they weren’t the most stylish. My skirt was a tie-dyed rainbow. Mike had drawstring, balloon pants that, well, ballooned. The ensemble effect was rather unfortunate. There was nothing to do but laugh, put them on, and pose for fashion photos.

We entered the grounds to an explosion of color and glitter. The temple was covered in bits of blue, red and gold tiles that gleamed and sparkled in the sun. Roof lines ended with a graceful bird head while a serpent – the protector of the Thai King – wound down the eaves. We saw the emerald Buddha (it’s actually jade) which was wearing his winter outfit (he has an outfit for each season – winter, summer and rainy), a cloak of woven gold. Dazzling. We saw the Palace, which is a shocking contradiction. The building was constructed by King Rama V, who traveled in Europe and brought back European architecture. The first two floors were an understated English design but on top was a multi-colored Thai roof with its swooping, extravagant lines. A pavilion was in front where the King was carried after his coronation. Next to it was a place to tie up the elephants – an elephant hitching post.

Our next stop was Wat Pho. “Wat” means “temple,” and there are “wats” everywhere. Wat Pho is famous for the enormous reclining Buddha. Long and gold, he looks peaceful lying with his head on two ornate cushions. We snapped photos, and walked around the complex filled with giant statues sporting a variety of postures and expressions. Tiring from the heat, Mike and I caught the boat back to our hotel and yet another massage. This one was a foot and back massage. It was a perfect way to end a day of walking in the heat, humidity and smog.

The streets by the hotel were lined with tailor shops. Custom-made suits and dresses are a specialty and they were embarrassingly cheap. Mike took advantage of the opportunity and had a coat and trousers made. They gave him a custom-made shirt for the same price. They took measurements and asked for a deposit but we were short some of the cash and had to run over to the hotel. By the time we got back – fifteen minutes later – they had cut out the suit coat and did his first fitting. That was with no deposit and within minutes of the order. Crazy.

One thing that is remarkably common in Thailand, Egypt and Turkey is the recognition of Barak Obama. Taxi drivers, tour guides, tuk-tuk drivers and hotel staff ask where we’re from. We tell them that we live in the U.S. near Washington, D.C. “Oh,” they say, “Barak Obama! He a good president.” One taxi driver in Bangkok said, “His skin the same color as mine!” The level of recognition and respect that he commands in this part of the world is extraordinary.

While this sentiment may be shared by the people in Cairo and Bangkok, we were also struck by the contradictions between Bangkok and Cairo. In Cairo, the appearance of the people, their dark hair and eyes, and the wielding of clubs, presented an uncomfortable impression. Yet they were polite and kind. The Thai people – delicate, diminutive, and graceful – give an impression of graciousness, but put them behind the wheel of any motorized contraption and watch out! I’m not sure whether I felt more threatened by tanks in Giza or crossing the street in Bangkok. Both held equally deadly weapons. Cars and motorcycles zipped past with only occasional acknowledgment of a pedestrian. To cross the street, we congregated with others on the curb – preferably locals – and dashed when they dashed.

The other contradiction is the image of Thailand as green, peaceful and temple-filled. And it is. However, Bangkok is a hectic city with all the difficulties that accompany large, urban areas. Masses of electrical cables are strung along crowded streets, and sidewalks are filled with cart after cart of vendors selling any kind of food you can imagine and many you can’t imagine. Streets are packed with traffic – bumper to bumper –and the air pollution that accompanies them. At major intersections, dozens of motorcycles crowd the front of the queue while their tail pipes spout concentrated smoke. As I ran along these streets to reach the peace of a large park, I quickly learned to inhale as little as possible. The park was a welcome oasis in this huge city. I enjoyed practicing chi gong in the park knowing that no one would find it odd.

There have also been many small, pleasant things about the Thais. For example, they have a delightful custom of folding their hands and bowing slightly to speak a welcome, thank you, or whatever. It is charming. And it can be amusing, too. The tiny, young woman who cleans our room nearly dropped an armload of linens in order to fold hands and bow. Mike asked to take her picture. She and her co-worked reacted as thought they won the lottery. They were thrilled and said that no one had ever asked for their picture before. So cute.

I could do without the air pollution and the noise from the street, but I loved our introduction to Bangkok – its sparkling color, graceful beauty and Buddhas, and, of course, the massages.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Here a Monk, There a Monk

Of the population of Thailand, 95% are Buddhist but only a few practice strictly. In our short visit, we saw countless temples (there are 30,000 in Thailand) elaborately decorated and plentiful images of Buddha – all smiling and serene. For some reason, Mike and I were unprepared for the prevalence of the monks. We expected them to be tucked away and glimpsed fleetingly. We were wrong.

Everywhere there were orange robes against tan skin and bald heads. Some robes were bright orange with yellow sashes and others were burnt orange. We were told that some monks live in the forest and their robes are brown. We saw small robed boys, old men, stooped and small, and all ages in between.

It was explained that practicing Buddhists have five rules:

1. No killing

2. No stealing

3. No adultery

4. No lying

5. No alcohol

The monks, however, have 227 rules.

We saw monks at the temples and along the streets collecting their daily alms in the early morning (donations are their only way of surviving). In the temples, they offered blessings to small groups of barefoot, kneeling people by dipping a small, round wicker brush (like a round whisk) into water and sprinkling the people. Mike and I went to the large temple, Doi Suthep, on the hilltop in Chiang Mai, and we had the opportunity to be blessed by a monk sitting cross-legged in a chair. Afterward, with a donation, he tied a simple white yarn around the wrist of those blessed. I was passed to a helper as monks are not allowed to touch a woman (it is one of the 227 rules). He did, however, tie Mike’s string. It was a very nice experience, although, I have to say, we were on the front row and were drenched. That little brush held lots of water.

It’s an odd feeling to be a forbidden object. One of our tour guides shoved me to one side as a group of monks passed, explaining that I needed to give them plenty of room as they should not even brush up against a woman. Sure enough, I was walking along a narrow street behind two tiny Thai women who were browsing the inevitable row of vendors. Suddenly, they squished themselves to one side of the sidewalk – odd, I thought – and then I saw the oncoming monk. After he passed, far to our left, they moved over and continued browsing.

We saw many ways for people to offer their offerings or pay their respects. Many times, people bring a white or pink lotus flower; others light small yellow candles or pots of burning oil. One can buy a small gold bell, write your name on the clapper, and hang it in the temple. There are also packages of materials to buy for the monks. Some contain food, a few orange marigolds, and others even toilet paper. We saw people selling bags of fish and small cages of tiny birds outside the temples, too. People buy them to set free, representing their troubles swimming or flying away.

In Thailand, there is great concern about the spirit world. Each home has a small house on a pole in the backyard. It looks like an ornate bird house but it is for the spirits of ancestors. Each day, an offering of water, food, incense or flowers is made to keep the spirits happy. As we drove along the highway outside of the city, we passed outdoor centers with plants and pots and these colorful little houses. It was like a Garden Ridge Pottery store for spirit houses. We also saw people sitting in the temples shaking containers of sticks. Our guide had me try it. The round cylinder holds many plastic sticks with numbers. I shook the container until one stick – only one – fell out. It was an eleven. Small papers stacked on the side of the temple gave information for each number. For me, my “desires are accomplished.” That works for me.

Whatever the offering, people bring it to the temples or buy it outside. They remove their shoes before entering (as a result, shoes are piled outside), walk across the cool, smooth entrance, and step inside to the soft carpeted interior. They kneel in front of the Buddha, bow and deliver their offering.

We saw this play out at temple after temple. For some reason, at the temple Doi Suthep, the offerings were particularly compelling. I was struck by the atmosphere of reverence that pervaded the temple grounds, even in the midst of clueless tourists, inappropriately dressed, staring and snapping photos. Imagine trying to conduct a church service with camera-totting tourists wandering about.

But for all the devotion, it was startling to see monks in the street, walking about, doing regular things and even sight-seeing. We chuckled at a group of four young monks who posed for their photo with the guard at the Grand Palace. The monks live in small rooms surrounding many of the temples. Their laundry, orange robes, hangs outside drying like large orange blankets. But it’s the little activities so common for us that seem out of place for them. We watched a monk line up to use the ATM. Another was talking on his cell phone. A group of ten- to twelve-year-old boys in their orange and yellow robes browsed the aisles of a convenience store, puzzling over chips and candy. A monk on our flight from Chiang Mai to Bangkok scrambled along with everyone else to retrieve his bag from the overhead bin.

One of the experiences I planned for Thailand was to participate in a Buddhist meditation session. There is a temple in Bangkok that conducts three sessions a day in English. We located it across from the Grand Palace, and I made plans to return for the 7-10 am session. Dressed all in white, I took the boat with the local workers early in the morning while it was still dark outside. No one was at the center except a young woman cleaning the floor. I sat outside and waited with my shoes neatly in the rack. As I waited, I watched the monks returning from collecting their alms. Old men, middle-aged men and gangly teenagers with feet still too big for their bodies walked past holding their alms bowls and carrying bags of provisions that were given to them. Some had two bags; others had six. Eventually, a kindly monk invited me inside. I was apparently the only tourist visiting that morning. Meditating at 7 am is not a top tourist attraction. I signed in and waited for the “master.” Soon young women emerged from the back in long dresses of palest lavender. They were well versed in the ceremony. They grabbed a cushion, so I grabbed a cushion. They sat on the floor, so I sat on the floor. An old monk with a smiling face arrived and stood on the raised platform along with the other men (men and women were separated). He chatted with the women and was apparently telling jokes as he had everyone laughing. After the stand-up routine, he sat in the front with a crackling microphone and everyone started chanting and bowing to touch their foreheads to the floor. I followed as best I could. Then they all stood and started walking very slowly across the floor. I copied and wondered if this was the process for the next three hours. I had the door in sight.

Then I noticed another monk sitting at the information desk. He motioned to me to come sit. He welcomed me to the session and told me about Vipassana or Insight Meditation – meditating to simply acknowledge what is happening in the body or mind in that moment. Frankly, he startled me. Since I had been coached to stay away from the monks, he was not what I expected. He was a few years older than I with sparkling eyes and freckles across his nose. He looked me directly in the eye with an unwavering gaze. I struggled to maintain eye contact, feeling somehow vulnerable, exposed and forbidden, but he never faltered. He led me to another room while the others continued their walking. Our room was long and narrow with white tile walls and a grey tiled floor. A pile of cushions sat at one end with a simple, metal folding-table at the other holding the image of Buddha. Three fans provided the only cooling in the room on a sticky, humid morning.

First there was walking meditation. All I needed to do was maintain focus on my body as I slowly walked, stood, turned and repeated – over and over. He chanted for me, “Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, standing, standing, turning, turning, turning, right foot, left foot...” His voice was soft and comforting. After several passes, he had me continue saying the words to myself. Nothing could be so simple, and yet when he stopped chanting, I felt that the training wheels had been removed.

After my short stint of walking meditation, he instructed me on seated meditation. The principle was the same except to say, “Rising, falling, rising, falling” with every breath. And if my foot went to sleep, I was to focus my attention on it until “it passes.” Hmmmm. He showed me how to get onto the mat, sit, and fold my hands with intention. Here was the first problem. My legs are not flexible enough to sit in a yoga pose like this. He rallied and had me pile up several more cushions until it was more like a chair. There we sat – rising, falling. He told me to continue with thirty minutes seated meditation and thirty minutes walking meditation. And he left.

sat as comfortably as possible and focused on breathing. The only sound was the whir of the fans and an occasional bell or barking dog. I don’t know how long I sat before I lost touch with my foot. I tried focusing on it, but wasn’t willing to wait it out. Shaking and stomping brought it back. I was thankful to be the only one in the room.

You’d think it would be easier to focus while walking and talking to yourself and yet I still found myself thinking about things – wondering what time it was, what Mike was doing, realizing that I might be hungry. On one pass, I noticed the table at the end of the room. The metal feet had been wrapped in orange fabric. I wondered how many bare toes had bumped it. Ouch! But then I zoned out and could only feel my feet. It’s amazing how much feeling is in the bottom of your foot. I felt the heel touch the cool surface first, the ball, and the side with the toes – each one of them – following. I could feel the gaps between the tiles as I progressed slowly. It was good. It was peaceful. And it was only a glimpse into the calm peace.

With one more seated meditation, the time was up. I can’t say that the time flew by but it didn’t feel like three hours either. I thanked the kind monk, left a donation, retrieved my shoes, and left to meet Mike. As I walked out of the temple complex, I could still feel the bottoms of my feet. They were unusually sensitive as I felt the cushion of my shoes under me. The rest of me, however, was still in a daze and overly sensitive to the noise and bustle of the street. I sat for a while before Mike and I continued with our day… another temple.

As for the life of monks, I wish I understood more and maybe I’ll learn in time. For now, the monks here, there and everywhere will remain an inspiration and a mystery.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Magic Carpet Ride

Ahhh – Chiang Mai. This is a smaller city northwest of Bangkok. It is slower paced, with less traffic, less pollution, more walkable and a more complete Thai experience. And it’s easier to get out into the countryside, which we did.

Mike and I booked a one-day trek. In this case, our “magic carpet” came in the form of a covered pick-up truck with bench seats along the sides and an open back – no seat belts or airbags. It whisked us away to the hills and jungle outside of the city, along with seven others who were from either Austria, Germany or Israel.

Our first stop was an orchid farm. It was beautiful with bursts of colorful orchids floating in the air. Next, we were off to see traditional villages. For me, it generated conflicting feelings. The “village” was actually a collection of huts for several tribes, such as the Hmong and Karen tribes. We learned that this protected area helped preserve the tribes’ cultures – a worthy goal. Nonetheless it felt like a zoo for people. When we arrived, an eighty-five-year-old woman rose from her seat. She demonstrated how rice grains are separated from the hull by beating them with a lever operated by her foot. I tried it and discovered it took considerable strength! She could probably out-run me! Kids ran and played in traditional clothing, placidly posing for photos as they’ve done many times before.

One of the most notable tribes was the Karen Long Necks. These women wear metal rings around their necks, legs and arms starting at a young age. One ring is added per year until age thirteen. They could choose whether or not to wear the rings. They were beautiful women. They sat quietly while tourists photographed them in their rings, their hair wrapped in colorful fabrics.

The church and school were at the far end of the village. The school was an outdoor pavilion with a roof and one wall. The wall held a huge blackboard from which they appeared to be teaching Thai and English. Throughout the community, villagers were selling their locally-made, traditional products. We skipped the products and donated to the school. It’s sad to think these people’s history and traditions may eventually end. But I’m not sure this is the lifestyle they envisioned for their future.

Back into the magic carpet truck and on towards an elephant camp. On the way, we saw several other elephant camps with the animals standing under trees. We arrived to a dusty spot under the coconut trees littered with a few bamboo huts. We could buy bananas or sugar cane to feed the elephants. Mike apparently didn’t hear that part, so as I went back for bananas, he yelled, “But they’re not ripe yet!” They’re not for us – silly!

With no preamble, we walked to a small bluff with a planked area. I was intently watching the elephants all around and was taken by surprise by a long brown snake-like thing curling up and around searching. Silly me – it was an elephant trunk! And it was searching for the bananas I held in my hand. After tearing apart one banana off, the trunk – seemingly disconnected from the head below – curled around the banana and zipped it into the waiting mouth below. Fabulous!

The elephants had a type of saddle on their backs. It was a metal frame seat for two people resting on a pile of thick pads and strapped to the elephant’s back. But there was a problem. One elephant had a baby last week and another was pregnant. With two elephants out of commission, they needed volunteers to ride behind the driver on the neck of the elephant while two others sat in the seat behind.

Pick me! Pick me! No worries. I was the only one clamoring to get directly on the elephant’s back. With a little juggling, we got all three of us on board with the driver. But our elephant was one of the smallest and it was carrying four people. And the elephant wasn’t happy about it. No amount of coaxing could get more than a grudging few steps. All the others soon passed us. With a brief discussion in Thai, the solution apparently was for the driver to slide down the wide face of the elephant. He would lead from the ground – leaving me perched happily behind the elephant’s ears and looking down over the broad head. It seemed odd to not see his eyes which were well below.

This worked better. I talked and coaxed with my legs while the trainer coaxed in front. We made “good” progress. In forty minutes, we went about 200 yards. Not exactly zipping along. The elephant stopped periodically and raised his trunk to me looking for more bananas. Nope – not until we finish. He accepted that and we eased forward again. It was a strange ride as he slowly placed one big, round foot in front of the other. His large legs hinged just under my butt creating an uncomfortable back and forth rocking motion.

It was a messy business – sitting on an elephant. The wiry hairs prickled and dust swirled. The end of the trunk was moist and slimy. They also use their trunks to throw dirt on themselves to keep away bugs. Moist and slimy combined with dirt made mud. Every touch left a broad smudge of elephant snot/mud – snud – on my arm. As we plodded along, we heard a loud blast. The trainer giggled as we realized it was an elephant fart. I was glad to be on top. But that was nothing compared to the dismount. When we arrived at the dismounting platform, I wanted to see his eye so I bent over to say hello. A big, wide, strong trunk wrapped over my head – as though I was a large banana. Was this elephant happy or mad? Hard to tell but the staff quickly disentangled me and led our elephant away. I left with snud across my neck, back and arm. I wouldn’t trade it for anything!

After our lunch of rice and melon under a bamboo shelter, we were back in the truck to our next event – hiking to a waterfall. From another dusty parking lot, the group set off at a breakneck pace – or the twenty-somethings did. Me, Mike and a couple from Great Britain – the only other middle-aged people – enjoyed a more leisurely pace, took photos, and were subsequently left behind. No problem.

The trail led through the jungle-covered hills. Huge trees towered against a clear blue sky in the fresh air. The trail soon became rocky as it ran alongside a small boulder-strewn stream. Banana trees covered the hillside; teak trees with their plate-size leaves grew straight and tall; bamboo, four-stories tall, bent over the trail like a green sunlit canopy. In some places, the trail crossed streams that we traversed across big and small stones. Other times, bamboo ladders lay horizontally across rocks and streams, making for a precarious but fun balancing act. After an hour, we came to the waterfall where the others were lounging on rocks by the falls. It was a beautiful and cool spot, filled with the sound of the falls. It reminded us of our smaller waterfall in Cotignac, minus the bamboo and bananas.

Always looking for opportunities to sell to tourists, two women – one very old – were selling cool drinks to the dusty crowd. The old woman, skin leathery from decades in the sun, head wrapped in fabric, entranced with her sparkling eyes and distant gaze. These were eyes like my grandmother, set in the high-check-boned face of this Thai woman. Through our guide, I told her that she reminded me of my grandmother. I hope it touched her as it did me.

After our walk back, we were off for white-water rafting. I was already weary and not excited. Without shoes, but with life jackets and helmets, we boarded the raft with our guide. The river was filled with round boulders as the water swooshed between. It was a thrilling ride that refreshed and revived me. Between rapids, we enjoyed the scenery of hills, huts and trees. As we neared the end, the river became wide and shallow. A mother with her naked baby played. The baby lay on its belly and kicked its feet in the shallow water, naked butt popping up.

The last experience of the day was bamboo rafting. Five people on a bamboo raft are not a good plan. We floated – sort of – with the raft submerged just below the surface. Any shifting weight caused it to tip slowly side-to-side. We were drenched. The guide explained, “No wet, no fun!” We scrambled to shore, changed clothes, and started the hour-plus drive home.

Exhausted and caked with layers of life – truck exhaust, snud, and dust cemented to our bodies with river water – it was a perfect day. I’ll gladly snuggle into the folds of this magic carpet and let it take me back to Chiang Mai.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Aladdin’s Garden

Forget the Garden of Eden. Thailand is like Aladdin’s Garden, whose cup runneth over with flowers and food – particularly fruits of the most extraordinary kinds.

To get outside of Bangkok, we took an excursion to the floating markets. The farther we drove, the more greenery we saw. Skyscrapers turned into low buildings; small parks became large fields. We nearly jumped from the moving van when we saw our first large rice paddy, complete with a worker in the field wearing a conical bamboo hat. Our astute guide and driver found a rice field where we could stop for photos. Amused, driver happily accommodated the crazy American tourists. It’s like tourists taking pictures of a corn field in Texas. No matter – we were thrilled.

And Mike and I remained thrilled as we boarded a long boat for the trip through narrow canals to the floating market. Bangkok is known as the “Venice of the East.”

The canals wound through coconut groves, bamboo huts, and green mangoes hanging heavy on the trees. The floating market is a series of piers where shoppers walk by perusing the vendors who are floating in long, narrow boats like canoes. The boats are lined up side-by-side, several deep, and goods and money are exchanged via a small net at the end of a long pole. Food, food and more food. Old women had boats overloaded with mangoes, pineapple, tangerines and papaya – the most familiar items – that they would slice on the spot. Then there were guava, rambutan, mangosteen and rose apple. Other women cooked inside their tiny boats and dished up foods to waiting hands. Tiny “monkey” bananas (half the size of the bananas we typically see) were fried and served hot. What looked like tiny custard pies, slightly bigger than a silver dollar, were actually fabulous coconut pancakes. And my favorite, coconut ice cream, was served inside a freshly cracked coconut and on a bed of the coconut meat scraped from the sides. All was prepared while we watched. Yummy! An old man made soup on his boat, heating it on the spot with a small burner.

On our way back, our driver took us the scenic route through fields and orchards. We saw mango and papaya trees, coconut groves and guava trees. There was even a grove of dragon fruit that looked like yucca plants gone astray. Fruits of all sorts are sold in carts all over Bangkok and Chiang Mai. Fruit drinks, made fresh, were on every corner. Coconuts seemed to be the workhorse. We stopped at a coconut facility where they showed us how coconuts are used. The long, thin coconut blooms (they look like overgrown ears of corn) are whacked at the bottom so the juice drains. The bloom is left on the tree to develop into the coconut. Meanwhile the juice is cooked for ninety minutes in a large vat until it caramelizes into coconut sugar. It tasted like… caramelized sugar. It’s used in Thai cooking as we experienced later. The coconuts are harvested, cracked and drained, and the meat is scraped using a small bench with sharp teeth on the end.

While fruits are a star in Thailand, the flowers are not far behind. Shrubs of hibiscus and bougainvillea grow in the highway median. Tree-sized dracena line country roads, as do shrubs of croton in many varieties. Lotus flowers float in decorative bowls placed around temples, hotels and more.

We literally walked past cart after cart of prepared foods, dried fish, and fruits on every street and alley. And much of it goes into the traditional Thai dishes which we love. It was only natural that, with no plans for the weekend, we took a Thai cooking class at Silom Thai Cooking School with Sanusi Mareh. The class included only me, Mike, and a young, newly married couple from Sweden. We met Sanusi on the street and he took us to the market to do our shopping. It was great fun to finally learn about the unknown vegetables and the essential Thai spices (for example, they have three types of basil and four types of ginger). After our shopping spree – vegetables and herbs for four cost about $3.50 – Sanusi led us to the cooking school down a long alley.

A quick side note. One of the delightful things I’ve come to love about Thailand is the custom of removing your shoes before going inside. It’s primarily a cleanliness thing. In the temples, people kneel and bow to the Buddha so a clean floor is essential. In a traditional Thai home, meals are eaten while sitting on mats on the floor. Keeping the floor clean is a priority – so shoes are removed and left at the entrance. But I love the sensual feel of it. There’s something about walking around in bare feet on a smooth, cool surface that feels great. At the cooking school, our shoes were left outside and we padded around prepping food, cooking and eating in bare feet. How great is that?

In the span of three hours, we prepared five Thai dishes – tom yum soup, pad thai, chicken salad with sticky rice, green curry paste for chicken curry, and a dessert of rubies in coconut milk (the “rubies” were actually turnips – that’s right, turnips – soaked in flavored syrups). We prepped the veggies, sliced and diced the herbs, and even pounded out green curry paste from scratch (we’ll use a food processor at home, even though they insist it isn’t as good). We stood outside on a narrow terrace with a row of woks in front and sautéed, boiled or stir-fried each dish. The instruction was great and everything tasted fabulous. Mike’s favorite was the tom yum soup and I can’t decide between the pad thai and chicken curry. The chicken salad with sticky rice was a delightful and yummy surprise. We have the cookbook and are ready to try it all again from our indoor kitchen in Annapolis. And – maybe, just maybe – we’ll cook barefooted.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Rocking Along on the Orient Express

The Orient Express conjures up images of old-world luxury, and, of course, Agatha Christie. For years, we dreamed about taking the Orient Express. Mike loves trains and this one is supposedly the best. We were so intent on riding the Orient Express that we scheduled all of our return travel plans around the train dates from Bangkok to Singapore. We planned four days and three nights aboard the Eastern and Orient Express.

Over our months in France, we had many memorable experiences. And yet, occasionally there are special moments that seem unreal. Walking along the train platform next to the dark green and gold train bearing the gleaming brass letters, “Eastern and Orient Express,” was one of those “pinch me” moments. We stepped carefully along green and gold carpet walking past impeccably attired staff in deep green and red Thai silk dresses and vests. They stood alongside the train to welcome us aboard.

I knew Mike would love this trip but, I admit, it caught me by surprise. I was captivated the moment we stepped on board. We boarded the “G” car to find a picture-perfect train – long, narrow hallway, frilly lights overhead, and wood parquet walls and doors. We searched for our cabin as though in a movie. The glass-fronted door opened into our compartment. It was a calming, comforting feast. The parquet walls had inlaid designs behind the cushy upholstered sofa and chair. Two large fringed and curtained windows faced the train station. It was small (although we somehow ended up with a larger cabin than we expected – a blessing) but wonderfully appointed. The tiny bathroom had thick white towels that bore the E&O emblem.

We like others hurried to the open-air observation car to watch as we pulled out of the station. Even now, I feel the excitement of that moment. People on the platform waved and smiled as we – those most fortunate – rode away in our green and gold carriages. It was an auspicious beginning.

We boarded late in the afternoon so soon it was time to dress for dinner. Guests are encouraged to dress up, so Mike donned his new custom-made suit and I a little black dress. Off we went to our reserved table in the dining car. This train car had large windows opening to Bangkok as it receded away. White clad tables with graceful lamps and vases of orchids, held crystal, silver and the E&O china. Service was attentive – the best I ever experienced. And the French chef ensured excellent food! After dinner, there was a cup of coffee and tea in the piano bar before turning in for our first night on the train. Our cabin had been made into two twin beds with crisp white sheets carefully turned down so that the E&O emblem was on top in the center. Delightful. We snuggled into the cool linens. Then, fantasy met reality.

The Eastern and Orient Express starts in Thailand, then passes through Malaysia into the Republic of Singapore – that’s travel through three countries. Importantly, the train tracks were built and maintained by these three countries. We quickly discovered that track standards here are not what they are – say, in France – for the TGV. We rocked and rolled, jerked and jolted through the night. I finally fell asleep when the train stopped for several hours only to wake with a start when it jerked to life again. Neither of us – or anyone else on the train, including the staff – slept much that evening. Plus, we got up early to see the train cross the 300 meter wooden trestle bridge hugging a rock cliff. The trestle was build as part of the Thai-Burma Railway in World War II. This was the so called “Death Railway” because it was built by prisoners of war and the local Thai and Malay people desperate for jobs.

Bleary-eyed, Mike and I disembarked from the train, which was parked partially on the bridge over the river Kwai (yes, the one from the movie). After boarding a large raft that would be towed up the Kwai River, we were given a talk about the war and the construction of the railroad. Soon we were at the railroad museum that clearly described the deplorable conditions for the workers. More than 80,000 Malay and Thai workers died during construction. Prisoners died too but not in those numbers. Across the street from the museum was the cemetery for British and Dutch soldiers. It was beautifully maintained. A Thai woman was on her hands and knees scrubbing individual grave stones. The train staff gave each of us a handmade flower wreath to place on a grave – a lovely gesture.

Time grows long on a three-day train journey so there were entertainment options. There was a piano player in the evenings in the saloon car, a reading car with an astrologer, a tropical-fruit tasting event, and Thai music and dancing. We tried it all. Since Mike had his fortune told in Istanbul, I chose the astrologer. She read my palm and predicted a long and happy life. She said that I’m responsible and organized, sometimes too much so. And Mike's favorite: I have a good-looking husband. How’d she know?!

The afternoon of our second day, we stopped at Penang, Malaysia. We saw the Khoo Kongsi Chinese temple and had a trishaw (a three-wheeled bicycle pedaled by a tiny old man) ride through the streets to the historic Eastern & Oriental Hotel (not affiliated with the train).

Back on the train, the service was exceptional. Beautiful women wore outfits typical of each country – Thailand (dark green and red silks), Malaysia (pink silks) and Singapore (bright red silks). Our steward served breakfast and afternoon tea in our cabin, made the room for day and night, and fulfilled every request. He was polite, kind and deferential. I was “Madam-ed” at every turn – “Excuse me, Madam,” “Thank you, Madam,” “You’re welcome, Madam.”

Even with all the pampering, my main memories will be of the evolving scenery as we traversed from Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore. Everything changed as we traveled – the scenery, the agriculture and the lifestyles.

Initially, Thailand was filled with vast swaths of green rice fields with white cranes flying low overhead, and we passed tapioca and coconut trees. The trees changed to rubber and banana in the southern part of the country. People here were poor. The landscape was dotted with skinny Brahma cattle lying on the side of the road, under a coconut tree, or next to a ramshackled trash-strewn house. For us, pampered and well cared for, it was a jolt to see barefoot children run from hovels to laugh and wave at the train. Their joy was invigorating but the differences in our circumstances were stark. Our train fare was more than they would make in a year. Stopped at a station, eating breakfast in our private car with a silver tea and coffee pot on the table, it was difficult to look out at the people gazing in awe at the train. It felt shockingly unequal and unfair.

In southern Thailand and Malaysia, craggy limestone cliffs rose abruptly from the flat farmland. At the narrowest part of the peninsula, we glimpsed the South China Sea with its white beaches and waves washing ashore. It was beautiful but frustrating since photography from the back of the open-air observation car at the end of the moving train is iffy at best. Sometimes branches brushed our hands as we held tightly to the brass railings. Leaning out was definitely not a good idea. Agriculture changed first to rubber trees then to palm trees for palm oil production. There was hill after rolling hill of palm trees. Houses in Malaysia seemed to improve and the debris decreased. Dark-skinned workers toiled in the perpetual sunshine. Most people traveled on motorbikes – some had sidecars for hauling equipment. Other times, whole families were piled on the narrow motorbike seat. I saw a young woman riding a motorbike with her toddler standing in a compartment between the handle bars and holding on with a grin.

The second night of the train trip, the tracks were still rough. It felt like we were bouncing along a gravel road. Sleep was marginal again. The last night traveling through Malaysia was better but still difficult. Mike tucked the sheets around him like a sleeping bag to keep from rolling out of bed. And then we reached Singapore. All trash disappeared, roads improved, agricultural production ceased, and skyscrapers soared. It was as though we entered a tropical garden with elephant ear plants the size of umbrellas. The difference was dramatic.

Whenever I think of the Orient Express, I remember the rocking train. While still on the three-day journey, Mike and I walked the length of the train to the wood-lined observation car. We bounced and jostled from wall to wall like a pin ball as we walked down the narrow corridors with the train swaying and jerking along. Everyone good naturedly waited at the end of cars so that others could pass. We hung off the back of the train watching the scenery go by in the warm, humid breeze that left our skin slightly sticky as our hair whipped around in the wind.

Even though beautifully appointed, our cabin began to feel confining after thirty-six hours. It was certainly possible to live, shower and dress in the small compartment but difficult after a couple of days. The small shower was challenging as I was tossed from side to side. Mike repeatedly hit his head on the mirror as he leaned forward to brush his teeth. The waiters were gifted at pouring water, wine and coffee while moving to and fro. I’d like to see them try putting on mascara.

It was a wonderful experience. Yet I was ready to get off when we arrived in Singapore. Mike and I rejoiced when we reached our spacious hotel room in Singapore. The bed didn’t move and I could open my arms and not touch the walls of the bathroom. What joy!

Our burl-wood-paneled room, the attentive, impeccably clad staff, the ambiance of care and luxury while zipping through ever-changing tropical landscapes all add up to the Orient Express; that, and bouncing along the narrow corridors.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Singapore: Like Another Country

Singapore isn’t like another country, it is another country. And what a country! I never experienced anything quite like Singapore. It is a tropical paradise that feels like living inside an immaculately kept garden – a garden that sprouted skyscrapers. As we rode in the taxi to our regal hotel, the Fullerton, we could hardly believe our eyes. Glass and steel skyscrapers, each one of a more extraordinary design than the next, were packed shoulder to shoulder. More were under construction.

The first thing that struck me about Singapore was the vegetation. Lush greenery was everywhere. Palm trees lined the streets, flowers such as bird-of-paradise grew along walkways. Bougainvillea-filled planters sat at the sides of bridges. But here’s the most amazing part…There was not a piece of litter anywhere – not one scrap. As Mike and I walked around the city, we counted the number of individual pieces of litter that we saw. We never needed more than two hands to count for the entire day’s walk. A plastic bottle in the grass looked so out of place that we picked it up to throw into the nearest can.

The other dominate feature of Singapore was the water – both the river that runs through the center of the city and the ocean. Unlike, say, Baltimore Harbor, there was not one piece of debris floating in the water. Our hotel faced onto a large inlet where the river joined the ocean. Two boats cleaned the water by sucking up debris, except there wasn’t anything to suck up. An old man swept a public sidewalk with a dust pan and broom and, in the course of the morning, had amassed a few leaves and a couple of cigarette butts. Workers pressure-washed already clean sidewalks. During my first morning run, I saw a small group of people meditating underneath a highway overpass. It was pristine and clean – no trash, no graffiti. A Starbucks operated under the same bridge on the opposite side. We were told that there is a substantial fine ($300) for littering so people simply don’t do it. It’s amazing how pleasant it felt to stroll through such a clean place. It makes you care more.

The other thing I didn’t realize about Singapore is how multi-cultural it is. The city seems to be a mixture of Chinese (the predominant culture), Malay, Thai and East Indian, with others thrown in for even more variety. There were Chinese temples, Buddhist temples, mosques and Christian cathedrals. It was a sophisticated urban environment filled with young people lapping up culture, food and drink from all over the world. We saw every type of ethnic food you can think of. For example, there was a restaurant, O’Gambino’s, which was advertised as an Irish Italian bistro bar. Figure that one out! And it was situated between Australian and German restaurants. We tried to stick to “local” foods, although I was never quite clear what was considered “local.” Would that be Malay, Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean or East Indian?

We went to a “hawker” market for lunch. These markets are clusters of vendors selling all types of local cuisines – mostly in the open air. I watched a tiny man grill my chicken satay over charcoal that he fanned with a banana leaf. Mike came away with freshly steamed prawn dumplings. Awesome. One of my favorites was a dessert of fresh mango served with sticky rice and coconut milk. So yummy! Like a flavorful rice pudding. And there’s the ubiquitous Singapore Sling which originated at the Long Bar of the Raffles Hotel. We made the trek over to Raffles and discovered a charming, old hotel that reeked of old-world British culture with a top-note of Indian. So civilized. So civilized, in fact, that it felt cold and pretentious. We tried to have lunch at their outdoor café and never got service. The Long Bar was better with its dark wood interior, bamboo-leaf ceiling fans, and peanut shells on the floor. Mike watched as I nursed my Singapore Sling (they serve 800 per day on average) as we shared a tender beef kabob for lunch.

Singapore is a mecca for shopping, but that was the last thing we needed to do as our luggage was already brimming over. So we walked and walked through this beautiful city. Each morning, I ran around the waterfront or through lush, spotless parks. This is the perfect place for walking. Pedestrians – unlike in Bangkok – are treated with great care. No matter the circumstances, if a pedestrian is hit it is automatically the fault of the driver. Crosswalks are meticulously signed and large urban streets have underground tunnels for pedestrian access. You could eat off the floor inside these tunnels. All the bridges have large, flower-encrusted pedestrian walkways.

The weather was just as I like it – warm and humid. It was quiet in the heat of the afternoon but the riverfront came alive with activity at night. A large marina development was across from our hotel. It is connected across water by a free-standing pedestrian bridge that is wrapped in a spiral truss. The bridge springs to life at night with twinkling colored lights. All the bridges, in fact, are beautifully lit. We took an evening boat ride under a full moon, and enjoyed the lights of the towering skyscrapers and the ornamented bridges. The marina development was celebrating its grand opening, and we happened to be on the boat in front of it as they shot off fireworks. Very fun. Oh – and the boats are all electric so that cruising along the river is quiet and pollution free. Impressive.

Since we weren’t shopping, what else do you do in a tropical paradise? You go to the botanical gardens. The park was huge and filled with walking trails around lakes and through a rain forest. The plant life was lush and exotic, like walking through a scene in Avatar. One section of the park contains a ginger garden. Ginger, as it turns out, blooms in the most delightful ways. Some are odd, spiky flowers and others look like variations on a bird-of-paradise. The unopened blooms are bright and festive, like candy waiting to be licked. The National Orchid Garden is the jewel of the park. Orchids bloomed at every turn – large, small or tiny; yellow, white, pink, purple, orange; solid-colored or speckled. There were masses of blooms tumbling off of rocks and tree branches. But as spectacular as the orchids were, I was captivated by the palm trees. Some of the palm fronds were close to five feet in diameter. They were spectacular! And there was a “cool house” with plants that typically grow in the mountains of the tropics. The most notable were the carnivorous plants like pitcher plants that entice bugs inside only to be absorbed as plant food.

There’s much that we didn’t see of Singapore. As we lifted off on yet another long plane flight, Mike and I watched the lights of this small country grow dim. Yet Singapore will remain a bright light in our memories.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

What a Difference a Day Makes

We’re two for two. First Cairo and now Christchurch. We feel like “disasters r us.” We landed in Christchurch, New Zealand after a long flight from Singapore to discover a charming, small city with a British ancestry. Christchurch looked jubilant with mounds of colorful flowers blooming their hearts out – roses, hydrangeas, geraniums, and an array of bedding plants. The city had the feel of a distinguished college campus – similar to Duke University – as people walked and biked past brownstone, Tudor-style buildings of high-pitched roofs, Gothic windows, and intricate spires. In the center of the city, the historic cathedral dominated Cathedral Square. We arrived during the annual flower show. The front of the cathedral was decorated with an archway of flowers, and there was a carpet of flowers down the middle of the nave inside. As we approached Cathedral Square, the carillons in the tall spire chimed their tune filling the air with ringing. The city loves its British roots. (According to our local tour guide, the British settlers arrived over 200 years ago in a “wee” boat.) The Avon River meandered slowly through the center city, its banks draped with green grass and graceful willow trees. The Bard pub held down one corner and The Oxford on the Avon restaurant occupied another. We spent a stunning, blue-sky day walking all over the city – through the historic, Tudor-style Arts Center directly across the street from our hotel, visiting the Canterbury Museum, and strolling along the river for coffee at the historic Antigua Boat Shed.

Our highlight was punting on the Avon. The Avon River is shallow and clear. Punting is accomplished by boarding canoe-like boats that are very shallow. A punter uses a long pole to push the boat along the river. We floated – or punted – under arched bridges with decorative scroll-work railings, under willow branches, and past old brown-stone buildings from the 1800s. Our punter kept up a running commentary which included discussion of the 7.1 earthquake that hit Christchurch last September. It caused substantial damage to many buildings in the city, but, he told us, another “big one” was predicted sometime soon. Prophetic words.

The next morning, Mike and I left for the small coastal village of Akaroa to swim with the dolphins. As we sat in a tiny café having lunch before the boat ride, we felt quivering and heard low rumbling. It’s amazing how quickly thoughts flit through your head. Later Mike and I realized we thought the same things. Our first thought was – are we still on the Orient Express with all this rocking? Next thought: No, this is an earthquake. Next thought: It can’t be that bad or last long. Wrong. Very wrong. For us, the thirty to forty seconds of shaking were not enough time to act. Mike noticed the cars moving in the parking lot. I fixated on a rocking bookcase and wondered if it would hit Mike if it toppled over. About the time my brain engaged to say – “let’s move” – the shaking stopped and the power went out. Everyone inside looked at each other as if to say, “Was that what I think it was?” But all seemed to be okay, at least initially. A shopkeeper was the first to say that what we experienced was small, but Christchurch was hit by a significant quake. Hummm. Crowds of people clustered into groups outside. Some listened to a car radio, and others gathered around a battery-powered radio outside the visitor center. The grim picture began to emerge.

The quake was 6.3 – smaller than the September quake – but it was closer and, importantly, near the surface. Rumors emerged that significant damage had occurred to many buildings in downtown Christchurch, such as the Cathedral and office buildings. Roads were closed and people were being evacuated.

It’s the strangest feeling – all the thoughts that converge at once – some noble and some not. Unfortunately, we’re beginning to become experienced at travel during emergency conditions. We focused first on practicalities like buying water and snacks – a good lesson from Cairo – particularly since we heard reports of broken waterlines and water quality problems in Christchurch. Next, we wondered about transportation. Would we be able to return to Christchurch on the bus that afternoon or would all the roads be closed? And if we made it back to Christchurch, would our hotel still be standing? Visions of sleeping in the tour van or in the park (the emergency center) flashed through our minds. We slept in the Cairo airport, why not a van or a tent? Even as we were sorting out our predicament, Mike and I were increasingly conscious of the depth of destruction. Buildings in Christchurch had collapsed on top of tour buses, and people were trapped inside damaged buildings. Phones were down so that locals (like our bus driver) could not reach family members. In the face of such serious problems, it felt trivial to spend a moment worrying about our issues, but we needed to deal with our practicalities even while being sensitive to the troubles of others.

The atmosphere was grave and uncertainty hung over the huddled crowd. No one knew what to do or what to expect. We boarded our bus (our bus driver finally reached his wife to find that she and their home were safe) and started for Christchurch, not knowing how close we could get or even if the hotels would be there. We drove past beautiful coves and over hills dotted with black and white dairy cows and fluffy sheep. The calm beauty was not enough to divert troubled thoughts from crowding our minds. About six kilometers from Christchurch, we began to see damage.

Cracks appeared in the roadway, and muddy humps like large ant hills splayed out alongside the road. This was liquefaction. The normally stable fine-grained soils turned to quick sand when moist and shaken. The material oozed to the surface leaving empty space under sidewalks and roadways that then caved in. Water ran down streets from waterline breaks. Buildings already boarded up from the first earthquake were turned to piles of rumble. Brick walls tumbled into the street. Cars lined up at any open gas station to fill their tanks before the damaged Lyttleton port was closed. For the second time in two weeks, we saw a convoy of army vehicles rolling down city streets.

After much maneuvering, our driver got us close to downtown. We walked from there. Our hotel, the Classic Villa, was literally three blocks from Cathedral Square in the heart of the damaged area. Mike and I hoped that we could get close. The more we walked, the more the damage escalated. Huge cracks in the pavement were encircled by orange cones. The large willow trees were missing branches two feet in diameter. The previously quiet, clear river was swollen and muddy. It was unnerving. But it was nothing compared to what was coming. First was the sight of the Canterbury Museum. The façade had broken stones, and the statue in front was toppled off its base smashing the head. We turned the corner of our street to face the Arts Center directly across from our hotel. We ate dinner at a charming restaurant there on our first night. The façade was in shambles. Stones from the tall gabled roof shattered on the pavement below covering tables, chairs and umbrellas. Gabled ends were completely gone, exposing rooms with clothes hanging inside. Farther along, the side of an adjacent building collapsed. These were 1800-era buildings that added to the charm of Christchurch. The two of us walked past army vehicles as far as we could but then were stopped at the river where the day before we’d gone punting. From there, we could see the Cathedral. The gabled end with its rose window seemed fine until we realized that the tall spire was quite simply missing. Gone. Yesterday, its bells chimed over the crowd and today it was rubble. I can only imagine the horror of those who were in the square as it fell. Mike remembered that he took a video of the chiming bells less than forty-eight hours earlier. We replayed that video and listened with sadness while struggling to comprehend that these sounds and the happy buzz of people were now silent.

Feeling oddly empty and stunned, we returned to our hotel. Cracks ran alongside the exterior and we stepped over brick rubble from the collapsed chimney of the next door building. But – joy! – the hotel was open, people were inside, and our room was largely unharmed (tilted mirror, plaster dust from cracked walls, dislocated shower door). And we could stay there overnight. There would be no sleeping in the makeshift tents erected in the park.

And so began a most unusual evening. Others arrived and gathered in the large living room. Our proprietor, Peter, was there and was more concerned about caring for us than attending to his damaged, but still safe, house. Decorative items inside and outside the hotel were in pieces, bottles of alcohol were thrown onto the floor and smashed. Most of it had been cleaned up by the time we had arrived. There was no power so Peter was busily placing candles on the floor all around the dark house. The only other lights were from flashlights and camera flashes. No restaurants were open nor were there operable cooking facilities in the house. Everyone pitched in. We’d bought trail mix, Peter and his wife, Jan, put out cheese and crackers. Someone else made a salad with smoked mushrooms, and, thankfully, Peter provided wine. I was very happy for a glass – or two – of wine. Everyone had a story and everyone was uneasy. One couple was in the Arts Center as it began to come apart. I was glad we had been outside of Christchurch when the earthquake struck. We’d surely have been downtown like so many others.

We shared stories, ate what we had, drank wine, and Peter played the piano. It was almost enough to distract from the aftershocks. Peter and Jan waited for other guests to arrive and settled them in as much as possible. Before going to bed, he played one last tune on the piano and Jan sang while candles burned peacefully on the floor even as aftershocks shook the house. How hopeful to hear a cheery, “Que sera, sera; whatever will be will be,” fill the living room as the floor quivered and windows vibrated.

Mike and I went to bed, but with the first strong aftershock, the room rocked, the window rattled, and, afterward, the coat hangers in the closet jangled a high-pitched, tinkling sound. Eerie. The next aftershock shot me out of bed. I felt more stable in the new part of the house than in our room in the original section. So I curled up on the sofa under a fuzzy blanket, wearing my robe and shoes, and holding a flashlight. Candles glowed, rain splattered outside, and I tried to sleep. But each aftershock racked my nerves. They came every quarter to half-hour throughout the night. Five times they were so strong that I jumped up and ran into the center of the room away from the windows. Needless to say, sleep was elusive. But that’s okay. Mike and I were better off than many. People – perhaps hundreds – were buried under rubble a few blocks away (the final death toll was 181). Thousands were in the makeshift camp across the street in the park – shivering in cold, crowded tents in the rain. We heard stories the next day of residents bringing clothes and offering spare bedrooms to stranded tourists who were unable to return to their hotel rooms even to get luggage. We met three people on our bus the next morning who were traveling with only the clothes they were wearing as their hotel in the city center was inaccessible.

I’ll take Cairo over this. At least in Cairo, we were not the target of violence or anger. No one wanted to see tourists hurt. Tanks were there to keep peace but also to ensure protection. Even though we could hear gunshots, none of it was directed at us. As long as we stayed out of the way, the chances were good that we’d be okay. This earthquake was a completely different situation. It did not discriminate, nor could we get out of the way. It would hit when and where it chose. All Mike and I could do was hope that we weren’t in the way.

Between Cairo and Christchurch, we learned several things about being in crisis situations. The first is patience. You just don’t know – nor does anyone else – what will happen in the situation. There’s no point getting excited or frustrated. Everyone is doing their best. And that’s the next thing. You have to rely on the kindness of complete strangers. How many times have we seen unfortunate things in the newspaper, thought, “Oh, so sad,” and turned the page? But it’s real – very real. And many of those people will get through their day because of the stranger who stops on the street to help them. And finally, I learned that you can only take one step at a time – and that’s sufficient. Crisis situations are filled with unknowns – so many that you can’t sort out the future direction. Sometimes, all that’s possible is to do what seems right at that moment; get to the next place; evaluate; and make the next choice. Advance planning is a nice idea but it doesn’t work when the situation is a complete unknown.

Mike and I also learned that true customer service shines through in a crisis. We experienced it in Cairo and we saw it again here. Peter and his family suffered damage in their personal home; Peter’s daughter burst into tears when she found him safe at the Classic Villa; and yet they stayed in the Villa with us that night. Food, wine, song and words of comfort are not on their brochure, but that’s what we received. And, you know, it helped.

We are now safely away in Queenstown but the impact of this earthquake remains with us in many ways. Each rumble or creak makes us fear another quake. But more importantly, we are touched by the immensity of what happened to so many people. It took several hundred years for Christchurch to become the charming town we experienced. It took a few seconds to turn it to rubble and destroy lives, families and livelihoods. The people of Christchurch, along with others from around the world, are already clearing away the debris and moving on. It will be day by day, but – what a difference a day can make.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

A “Wee” Mob of Sheep

Since we left Christchurch after the earthquake, Mike and I have been in awe of the New Zealand landscape. As we traveled our way south to Queenstown, we passed rolling green hills and towering craggy mountains with green slopes. There was a gentle dusting of white sheep on the slopes. Some sheep were recently sheared; they looked skinny and naked. Others were fluffy with curly wool. Still others had so much wool that their stick legs and faces stuck out from a round ball of fluff. The sheep were everywhere – field after field of them. It had a peaceful feel – the white dots against the green fields. The fields of sheep were captivating. I wanted to know more about the sheep and this industry that is so important to New Zealand.

We stopped by the Queenstown tourist office to inquire. The tourist office is swimming in activity brochures. There’s rafting, jet boating, bungee jumping, hiking, mountain biking, hand gliding, parasailing and more. The staff seemed a bit perplexed with an inquiry about sheep shearing. They only knew of one place – in Glenorchy – a small town up the road. There was no colorful brochure; just a phone number scribbled on a scrap of paper.

The man on the phone told me that he runs a morning and afternoon “tour.” He still had room on the morning tour so all we had to do was drive along the lake to the village (250 population) of Glenorchy and meet him at 10 am. How do we find the meeting place, we inquired. Well, he explained, Glenorchy is very small. Turn left at the roundabout and there will be a “wee shed” on the right. He’d meet us there. And, there was, and he did.

We drove quickly up the road from Queenstown past stunning scenery to make it by 10 am (we found out later that this is one of the top ten scenic drives in the world). We didn’t want to miss the tour. The “wee shed” was called The Wool Shed and was definitely “wee” at only a few feet square and filled with wool garments for sale. John, the owner, operator and tour guide, was inside. When I told him we were there for the 10 am tour, he said great and let’s go. It seemed that I and Mike were the tour! We followed him – like sheep – to his truck. “Hop in,” he said. It was his farm truck, just like one from back home in Texas. The floor was covered in mud and dust, and various tools and garments were scattered about. I immediately felt at home. This was going to be a special event!

John drove about ten minutes up the road to part of his farm. We pulled up to a gate and he scampered out to unlatch it. Mike and I took in the scene. There were truck and tractor parts lying under a tree lounging next to scraps of lumber from old fences. Just past the gate was a three-sided barn assembled from sheets of corrugated tin – some silver and some red – whatever was handy. Junk was everywhere. As the three of us climbed out of the truck, a welcoming party of one sheep and six chickens came trotting (with the chickens clucking). The lot of them followed John through the barnyard. It seems that this particular sheep had been bottle-raised and was now a pet – and it knew the routine. John found an old, red, plastic bucket and got a scoop of feed from a tin shed. Soon, with the help of the feed, we had the sheep literally eating out of our hands. There was no hand sanitizer, no napkins… just sheep slobber between my fingers. It was just like Texas, except that sheep drool less than cows. And there was a pig, too. The small, spotted pig was in a muddy pen next to the barn. John told Mike to feed him from the bucket of mealy pears by the fence. The pig turned up its little, pink nose with interest as Mike held a pear. With a toss, the pig was after it and woofed it down with a little mud and straw.

According to the tour “program,” John was to show a film to us about sheep shearing, so we walked to the barn trailing a string of sheep and chickens behind. This was definitely not your typical, choreographed tourist experience. We walked into the open end of the tin barn to find yet more junk. John – completely unconcerned – said, “Take a seat.” We looked around and at each other. Finally, I said, “Where should we sit?” There, on the ground in front of us, was an old bench seat from a truck with a couple of sheep skins thrown over it. Okay. We’ll sit there. As we settled in for the movie, there was an old, faded sheet covering something on a stand in front of us. John whisked the sheet away to reveal a shiny, new, forty-seven-inch flat-screen television! It was all we could do to stifle a belly-laugh (that came later). To make the scene even more unlikely, the pet sheep wandered in to block our view of the movie. John kept shooing it out so it wouldn’t “baa” while we listened to the program. We watched two films – one about rounding up sheep in the mountains for the yearly shearing and the other about the men who shear sheep for sport. The world record is 843 sheep in ten hours (non-stop from 7 am – 5 pm). This includes reaching inside the pen and hauling out a full-grown sheep. It takes forty-six passes to completely shear the sheep. Then the wool is collected by women working the floor. They throw the fleece in one fling onto a bed and sort it within seconds so they’re ready when the next sheep is finished. It’s a choreographed ballet where each person’s timing is exact. It was impressive and extremely hard work.

We got a small taste of it. John has been raising merino sheep for thirty years and clearly loved telling us about the different breeds and how they are used. Merino sheep are raised for wool and live high on the mountain slopes. They are rounded up twice a year using people and dogs – the dogs being the more important of the two. Crossbred sheep are raised for meat, and they are generally penned in the lower elevations, which make it easier to herd them up for shearing – this is what we were going to do.

John had a few crossbred sheep in the field, and our job was to herd them into the pen by the barn. We paid money for this activity (amazing, isn’t it!), so we headed off through the field tramping through high, green grass and more than a little sheep s---. Sheep s--- comes in much smaller piles than cow s---, which made it more difficult to spot. The good thing about these sheep is that they are largely wild and afraid of people. As soon as we started walking toward the small herd of about twenty sheep, they moved away, staying in a tight pack with their buddies. Walking and shooing, we got the sheep to the barn where John opened the gate to a rickety pen and herded them inside.

Next, we had to move them up a chute into a smaller holding pen for shearing. So there we were – me and Mike – inside a pen with a bunch of sheep. Frightened and panting, they ran around us as we moved avoiding the chute. There was nothing to do but shove. We pushed and shoved and prodded. Eventually, with John’s help, the lead sheep reluctantly headed up the chute and the rest followed.

Inside the shed, we took photos with the six plus sheep waiting to be sheared. Some had curly, oily wool (this is where lanolin comes from) and others had dense, thick, soft wool that made me want to snuggle up next to these fuzzy animals. Plus, sheep have great faces, framed by their big, soft, warm ears. They didn’t have a lot of choice, so they let us pat them, feel their fur, and take countless photos. By this time, my hands were covered with sheep slobber, dirt, oil from the wool, and the charming smell of farm animals. No time to worry about that – it was time to try shearing.

John plugged in the electric shearer (it looks like a larger version of the shears we have for our cat), which was suspended from the wall of the barn. He went into the pen and grabbed one of the sheep and dragged her out by her front legs on her butt. There’s something about this posture that keeps the sheep calm. She just sat there on her “bum” while he held her by her front legs. Her skinny, stick-thin legs stuck straight out as though she was pointing her toes. We each got to try holding her and she cooperated very well. John demonstrated how to shear her and then had me – and then Mike – try it. I carefully ran the shearer down her side as the wool curled up and peeled away. It was so cool! John said I was a “natural.” I’m not sure the sheep thought so.

Mike took his turn on the same sheep. After we finished, we let her go and surveyed our handiwork. Poor sheep! All her sheep buddies are laughing and calling her names. She had a very bad hair day!

With her on the outside and all her buddies on the inside, she was very unhappy and wouldn’t leave. Much “baa-ing” ensued so we let them all out. They were a little slow to catch on, so I had to get back in the pen and shove them to the open gate. John instructed me to grab a sheep’s head and physically turn it in the direction I wanted her to go. Once again, when one started moving, the others followed. Soon all the sheep were headed back out to their pasture for more peaceful grazing – before the next “tour” of uninformed city-slickers arrived.

After shearing, John showed us how to see the difference in wool quality by the number of wrinkles in the fibers. Merino wool is filled with tiny crinkles and the fiber is very fine. It’s perfect for high-quality, soft garments. There was a memorable moment as John described how merino wool was prized by the fashion industry for its drape – as he tipped his body to one side to demonstrate the drape of the fabric.

With the flat-screen television re-covered, and us back in the truck, we said good-bye to the chickens, the pig and the pet sheep. What a morning! We thanked John for a most memorable experience. After leaving the wee shed, we stopped for lunch at the Glenorchy café. Thankfully, they had a sink and hand sanitizer!

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Blue Skies – Undoubtedly!

The natural beauty of New Zealand inspires. We saw vistas across the South Island from Mt. Cook, The Remarkables in Queenstown, and Doubtful Sound; each place with its own beauty. I found myself wondering, how can a place like this exist, and why aren’t we all living here?

Mt. Cook was our first stop after leaving Christchurch with the trauma of the earthquake. We took a bus for the four-hour ride from the plains of Christchurch to the mountains surrounding Mt. Cook, the highest point in the South Island. When Mike and I arrived, the peaks of the mountains were obscured by clouds. I took a walk through the valley to stretch my legs and was greeted by tall, purple lupine which reminded me of Texas bluebonnets. The valley floor was covered with scrubby, golden grasses that whispered in the breeze. There were large boulders sprinkled about that had been carelessly dropped by the glacier as it passed through thousands of years before. The mountains rose up in the distance. I walked across glacial-fed streams with waters gushing past, filled with fine silt from the melting ice. The water, minus the silt, was 99% pure. Across New Zealand, we would drink water directly from mountain streams.

Our room faced Mt. Cook – or so we were told. It would be a stunning view, if only we could see the mountain (the Maori word for Mt. Cook translates as “cloud piercer”). The mountain is only visible one out of three days. And the next morning, there it was. I woke to sunlight streaming into the room with clear, blue sky filling the window. It took a minute to register that there was a soaring mountain peak there – just there. Beautiful. I photographed it every few minutes as the light changed the snow-covered peak from white to orange to pink. Clouds roll in quickly so we soaked up the view for as long as it lasted. It was invisible by noon. But the weather was beautiful for our boat excursion to the Tasman Glacier. After a walk through an adjacent valley, we came to the lake that was created – only 30+ years ago – by the retreating glacier. The water was the same murky gray from silt as the streams. But we were in luck. When the earthquake rocked Christchurch, the tremors also shook loose a chunk of the glacier. In fact, 30 million tons of ice calved that day and all of it was floating in the lake. It was the perfect time to see Mother Nature up close. Our guide took us through the small pieces of floating ice – like giant slush. We pried off an ice crystal to taste the perfectly pure, 300-year-old water. She took us as close to the new, large icebergs as was safe. They were still fragile and unpredictable. These fresh bergs were turquoise-blue from the densely compacted water. It was remarkable.

And speaking of remarkable, we left that afternoon for a five-hour bus ride into Queenstown. This charming small city is the epicenter for outdoor activities in New Zealand. It’s situated on a large, deep-blue lake and ringed by the Remarkables. The Remarkables are a range of mountains that form a ragged, green wall protecting the lake and Queenstown. I look forward to hiking in those mountains on my next visit. This time, we were content to watch as the light and clouds morphed them from green to blue to purple. And we also enjoyed a boat ride on a hundred-year-old steam ship, TSS Earnslaw. We watched the crew shovel coal below decks as we motored along the blue water with mountains on all sides.

One of the excursions Mike and I were particularly excited about was an overnight boat trip to Doubtful Sound in Fjordland National Park. We held our breath for good weather as conditions are notoriously changeable in the fjords. Weather karma struck and we were greeted with blue skies and puffy clouds when we arrived at the village of Te Anau. Milford Sound is the best known of the tourist destinations in the Park, consequently it is packed with bus-loads of tourists and airplanes buzzing overhead for scenic flights. We opted for the less trafficked Doubtful Sound. There’s a reason it has fewer tourists. Arriving at Doubtful Sound entailed a fifty-five-minute ferry ride and a forty-minute drive over a pass on a steep, narrow gravel road. That brought us to the boat dock. We were in awe as mountains sprang up from the lake and lush vegetation blanketed the slopes.

Our boat was custom-made for this tour and held sleeping berths for six couples plus the crew (captain and first mate). We boarded at noon and set off through the Sound. Doubtful Sound is actually a fjord, we learned, as fjords are carved by glaciers. The day was ideal and our first treat was a pod of dolphins playing alongside the boat. They swam, jumped and spurted water so close we could hear their breath – an inhale and sharp exhale that shot water into the air. They rolled around under the bow of the boat eyeing us as cameras snapped frantically.

Vistas were ever changing as we motored though narrow passages with valleys cutting dramatically into the water. After lunch of fresh crayfish (they looked like large lobsters) caught from the Sound, we sat back and enjoyed the ride. We went through the Sound to where it opens into the Tasman Sea. When we arrived, several giant albatross (or Mallymawk, perhaps) swooped and soared behind the boat. They had round, compact bodies attached to long, slender wings and bright-orange striped beaks. They nonchalantly shifted their bodies into graceful turns. We had a close-up view from the back of the boat.

As we turned back into the Sound, I overheard Captain Chris talking on the radio to another boat captain. Chris remarked on what a beautiful day it was to which the other captain exclaimed, “It’s a cracka of a day.” I couldn’t have said it better! Eventually, Captain Chris got out the fishing gear and Mike was in heaven. He caught fish after fish, including some that we had for dinner that evening. A young man from Germany was traveling with us who had never fished before, so Mike became a teacher. His student caught the biggest fish of the trip!

While Mike fished, I kayaked. So peaceful. The only sounds were the splash of the paddles and the drip of water running down my arms. Every now and again, a bird chirped from the dense trees and ferns. The sun was warm and I felt like I could float there all day.

With a glass of wine and a seat on the back deck, we watched the water and the mountains turn dusty colors as the sun dropped. Dinner was fresh fish and venison, with a variety of vegetables. But the main event was to follow. Everyone stayed awake until 10 pm to watch the darkening sky serve up the Milky Way. There are few things as astounding as a sky full of stars. I remembered standing in the backyard as a little girl as my dad showed me that same vast swath of tiny lights. And now, there we stood on the upper deck of the boat, barely able to see each other in the blackness. We oohed and aahed at the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere: the Southern Cross and the upside down zodiac configurations like Orion, standing on his head.

I wish I could say we had a restful night, but we didn’t. The berths were not the most comfortable. Still, we woke in the middle of the Sound to quiet, peace and beauty. Chris started our trip back in the early morning hours. But this day was not full of blue sky. Rain sprinkled as we traveled, making the previous day all the more perfect. Chris returned us to the ferry dock and waved good-bye as his next guests arrived.

Doubtful Sound was all we could have hoped for, and, as for New Zealand, well, it’s a cracka!

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Tramping Through Gales, Mountains and Mud

The Routeburn Trek in Fjordland National Park is considered one of the “Great Walks” of New Zealand. It involves three days and two nights on the trail. Mike and I walked it as part of a guided tour with Ultimate Hikes. The scenery was spectacular and we had spectacularly bad weather. We walked – or tramped, as the Kiwis say – through rain, snow, hail and gale-force winds. And it was still stunning.

We showed up at the Ultimate Hikes Center in Queenstown for our pre-trek briefing and listened with increasingly sweaty palms as a perky, young woman told us how much we were going to enjoy the trek – even in the bad weather that was forecast. Prepare for the rain and cold, she advised. Hmmmm. It was the middle of the summer in New Zealand and the day had been beautiful and sunny. It couldn’t be that bad – could it?

With borrowed backpacks and rain slickers, Mike and I showed up at dawn the next day. We met the others on our hike – twenty-four in all – and boarded the bus to the starting point of the trek outside of Te Anau. Buckled up and strapped into our backpacks (which suddenly felt heavier than they had the night before), the two of us dropped into line behind the guides – Hillary, Gina and Masa (our Japanese speaking guide) – and off we went. This would be Mike’s first overnight hike carrying a backpack – and he was doing it through the mountains of New Zealand. Lucky guy… although I’m not sure he always saw it that way. He never once complained!

The entire first day, we hiked, gradually climbing, through mountain rainforests. A light mist hung in the air and the sky was overcast. There would be no mountain views that day, but it was okay as trees stole the show. The trees – small and huge – were encased in green moss and lichens. Rocks were blanketed with green and the ground between the trees was a mass of ferns. One of the women said it was like walking inside a terrarium. For me, it felt like fairy land. Any moment, I expected to round a bend and surprise a flock of fairies (do fairies travel in flocks?) hovering in the ferns and moss. Once we left the roadway behind, the forest was surprisingly quiet. Every so often, the chirp or twitter of a bird would sparkle in the distance. New Zealand is rejuvenating its native bird population, which was decimated by non-native predators like cats and stoats (small, vicious weasel-like animals). Consequently, birds are surprisingly scarce. Each sighting was a highlight. We walked along trying to take it all in. Photos can’t capture the moist, magical greenness that surrounded us. The air was so refreshing that I simply wanted to breathe deeply and let it clean the staleness inside. We walked past small waterfalls that had sprung up with the recent rains, and we scampered through the spray of a large waterfall tumbling down the mountainside. The only sounds were hiking poles clicking against rocks, the distance rush of falling water, and the occasional plunk of water dropping from moss and fern. It was beautiful, the pack was heavy, and we were excited to see the lodge late that afternoon.

That’s when we discovered a big benefit of a guided hike. The tour company provided and staffed the lodge. Two happy people welcomed us to the glass-fronted lodge with drinks and snacks. We were assigned a room with a Japanese couple who were part of the Japanese tour group hiking with us. They were nice and unbelievably quiet. There was not a lot of pillow talk that night or the next! The lodge had clothes washing facilities (hand-washing and a wringer dryer) and even a heated room so that our hiking clothes were refreshed the next morning. A hot shower did wonders, not to mention the glass of wine. Dinner was hot – baked chicken and veggies – and freshly prepared. Food and supplies are flown in by helicopter. After dinner, the guides prepared us for the next day and we provided our breakfast order. The Australians were the only other hikers who did not have to translate something. The first breakfast option was “porridge.” Mike and I exchanged puzzled looks until we realized that porridge was oatmeal. The next option was Eggs Benedict. We laughed as we watched Masa explain Eggs Benedict to the Japanese group. He held out his hand and pantomimed an English muffin with a flurry of Japanese in between.

After that, the guides gave a presentation on the next day’s hike. Despite their best attempts to assure us how great it would be in any weather, there was bad news. The weather was getting worse. Already rain was starting to fall and the wind was picking up. I confess to feeling some trepidation. Those feelings didn’t let up as the wind howled ferociously throughout the night. In fact, the guides delayed our start the next morning due to high winds. But, finally, it was time to set off. Mike read the weather forecast before we left. It said, “Heavy rain, hail, snow at lower altitudes, periodic gale-force winds; becoming fine.” Becoming fine?

With all of our layers of clothes on (I was wearing everything but my pajamas), rain coat and hood in place, rain cover on the backpack, and gloves, we started on our all-day hike along a high mountain ridge. Walking in the rain, we climbed rocky boulders through the rain forest until we cleared the tree line to emerge on the mountainside covered with low, golden grasses. The views were obscured by clouds so we pressed on. The rain continued as we climbed, the trail like a river coursing around slivered blue rocks glistening in the rain. I was hiking in my running shoes which are mostly mesh. Consequently, I tried to step stone to stone along the trail as though it were a stream crossing; to no avail. It wasn’t long before my feet were soaked through. We climbed slowly and the rain became slush and then snow and hail. Mike was such a trooper. He kept hiking as the wind blew the hail into our face with stinging, prickly barbs. I was fighting the hood on my raincoat to keep it in place. We looked at the sky watching for it to “become fine.”

Most of the group was ahead of us and we found ourselves alone on the mountainside. A stiff wind blew that tried to toss my backpack off the mountain with me attached. The exposed trail opened to ghosts of distant mountains visible across the valley. They were beautiful, high peaks teasing in the distance. Finally, we reached the hut where the rest of the group was already gathered for a welcome lunch.

The afternoon was more of the same as we cleared the highest point on the trail at 4000 feet. The clouds lifted a little; the hail became a fine mist. Waterfalls, mountain lakes, and newly snow-dusted peaks made us pause and stare – even as the rain pelted and water ran over wet feet. The weather was not becoming fine. Hillary pointed out tiny carnivorous plants with sticky fingers to catch bugs – the only source of nourishment in this harsh, mountain environment. We finally made it to the next lodge where our hosts handed us the best gift ever – a warm towel. This, we were told later, was the worst weather they had experienced since Christmas. But, Hillary added, if you’re going to have bad weather, it’s better to have “proper” bad weather than just a mist. She added that we had “proper” bad weather.

Another warm shower, washed clothes and a glass of wine made the wet, cold day take on a remarkable shimmer of accomplishment. The difficulties were quickly forgotten. Dinner was great – grilled salmon – and dessert was pancakes – and ones with a history. The original owner of the hiking company and the man who first built a lodge at this site apparently became frustrated with unruly hikers who impatiently wanted their pancakes (one of the only foods that could be easily prepared at that time). Out of frustration, he threw the pancakes at them. The tradition continues today. The guides made pancakes and while still hot in the skillet threw them overhead to a hiker holding a plate. The trick was to catch the pancake without dropping it. Shockingly, I caught my pancake between my plate and my shoulder. Mike, however, was not so lucky. He jumped and dodged but missed the pancake. No worries – he ate it anyway – with the assortment of toppings (peaches, bananas, whipped cream, chocolate and syrup) provided.

The last day was still drizzling but it seemed to be becoming fine. We hiked downhill over rocks and along an easy gravel path through more forests. Birds flitted past too quickly to identify. It was a pleasant walk and the heavy trees kept the rain off so that we no longer needed hoods and heavy clothes. Thankfully. By noon, the final hut was in view. With a tremendous sigh of relief, the backpack was removed. It is amazing how good that feels. We sat in the sun (it had finally become fine) and ate our sandwiches. As we ate, the Japanese group walked up the trail toward the hut. Our roomies came rushing forward repeating, “Roommates!” They wanted our picture together!

We snoozed on the bus back into town with a short stop in Glenorchy for a celebratory drink, French fries, and presentation of certificates. It was a festive time in a country pub, but everyone was ready to be back and take a shower. We met many nice people in our group. Kathy and Erik from Minnesota were the only other Americans. There was a group from Australia, the tour group from Japan, and a couple of blokes, Mick and Peter, who were sheep and dairy ranchers in Australia. We shared good laughs with them and swapped sheep stories – now that we were experienced sheep shearers!

I loved the peace and quiet of the mountains and the stunning scenery along the Routeburn Track. I’m glad for the chance to experience the wildness of New Zealand, the magic of the rainforest, and the craggy mountain tops. And I’m glad to have done it with Michael. We’ll always have this memory together as our last event before returning to the U.S. Now we turn our attention toward home with mixed emotions. But you know – it’s becoming fine.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Rainbows and a Tsunami

Hawaii. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. It’s been almost thirty years since either Mike or I were here. Tall rugged mountains covered with lush, dense, tropical vegetation dropped precipitously to white sand beaches fringed by palm trees. There the beach met a tapestry of blue waters. Mike laughed at me as I turned first one way and then the other uttering, “Stunning. Simply stunning.” And it was. My friend, Barbara, has lived here for the last sixteen years. She was the perfect reason to stop over for a few days. And Mike and I were glad that we did, in spite of the tsunami. Yes – of course – we were there for the tsunami. This made the third and hopefully the last disaster.

But first, more about Hawaii. I’m thrilled to say that we were on Oahu for five days and spent no time in Honolulu. Barb lives on the North Shore near Haleiwa in a charming cottage by the water. From her back porch, we could see the mouth of Waimea Bay with the sea crashing into rocks. Her neighbor was kind enough to let us sit on his porch for an unobstructed view of the sunset. What could be better?

While some may be disappointed in us, we enjoyed doing absolutely nothing – no tours, no sightseeing, no Pearl Harbor, no luau. We explored the North Shore and came to love its casual charm, character and relaxed atmosphere. Kamehameha Highway runs along the coast next to the water. White sand beaches, including famous ones like Sunset and Pipeline, are strung along every half mile or so. Big waves crash to shore while surfers bob in the water waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Each morning, I ran along the bike path between the road and the beach. From the path, I saw life on the North Shore unfold. There were young mothers walking their toddlers in the sand; young men biked to the beaches with their surf boards tucked under their arm; old Volkswagen buses held surf boards and fit, tan young men with sun-bleached hair; teenage girls walked casually to the beach in skimpy bikinis. Along the roadside, hand-painted vans that had seen better days sold shrimp, fresh fish, fruit, smoothies or shaved ice. It was all part of the live-and-let-live lifestyle.

And it rained a little each day – sometimes a light sprinkle and other times a downpour. Neither lasted long. Mike and I learned to continue doing what we were doing rain or shine. With all the rain, rainbows are common and always a treat. One day we saw six rainbows! Another morning, while running (in the rain), I saw a startling rainbow that was completely visible over the ocean. Its colors were vibrant and lively. People pulled their cars over to photograph it or to simply stand and stare.

With all the rain, there are also waterfalls. Barb lives a stone’s throw from Waimea Valley, so we walked over, through the lush gardens and to the falls. It’s odd how one’s perspective changes. We’ve seen so many waterfalls that the Waimea Falls – while lovely – looked quaint after the gushing cascades of New Zealand.

We drove to Kaena Point and watched kite surfers pulled by parachutes over the waves – jumping, twisting and flying along the water. It looked like great fun. I know it’s sacrilegious, but we never got in the water. I know… We were tired from all the travel, and didn’t have the energy to deal with sand and surf. Plus, I could watch the water and waves all day and be happy. The waves are so peaceful. I honestly felt no need to be in the water. All I wanted was to watch the water. One morning, while I was watching the ocean, a whale blew a spout of water, and seemed to stand on its head flapping its tail in the surf. Fun.

Mike and I went for a walk through the woods but the trail led onto the beach. Shoes filled with sand so there was nothing to do but give into it; take off the shoes and step into the warm sand. I sunk up to my ankles. The sand felt wonderful; both gritty and soft. Funny how it can be both at the same time. With a light breeze blowing, and the sound of the surf and waves, it was an ideal walk.

Another day we set off for a 2.5 mile loop trail on the windward side of the island. We found the trail and started climbing up the hillside. After the rain and snow of the Routeburn Track, I thought this would be a piece of cake. Wrong. The recent rain turned the trail into slippery mud. Roots and moss-covered rocks made the walking slow and tricky. But it was beautiful. We walked through a forest of Norfolk pines with their fingers of needles tiered up the tall trunks. My dad was in Hawaii with the Air Force years ago. I remember him talking about the Norfolk pines. He loved them so much that he bought a small one that my mother tried desperately to keep alive in a pot in our den. I understand why he loved them and I also understand why that little tree wasn’t happy in Central Texas. Here, the wind blew through these trees. It was so different from the wind in the pines of Cotignac. This was a deeper, roaring sound as the heavy trees swayed. There was also ironwood or Australian Pines with droopy, eight-inch-long long needles. While we walked, Mike and I were caught in a heavy downpour that made the already slick trail even slicker. Between steps, we tried to appreciate the rain in the forest. Those eight-inch-long needles captured the rain so that a small drop hung on the tip of each needle and sparkled in the light. It was like a pine-tree chandelier. It was lovely until you walked into it and all those drops dumped on head, shoulders or back. He and I were drenched by the time we returned.

Our last day, we drove around the island, past the volcanoes of Koko, Diamond Head and Punchbowl to our hotel by the airport. Due to our early morning flight to Los Angeles, we chose to stay nearby that night. It was a very good decision. Thankfully, Mike turned on the news after dinner to learn of the huge earthquake that had struck in the waters off the coast of Japan. The footage of the tsunami that hit Japan in the quake’s aftermath was unbelievable. And – the tsunami was making its way through the Pacific Ocean with Hawaii in its path. (Let me just pause to say – I am done with disasters – government overthrows, earthquakes and now a tsunami. Done.) So we sat, powerless, in the hotel room and watched the news for hours. A six-foot, sustained wave of water was predicted for all of the Hawaiian Islands. It was expected to hit at 3 am. In the meantime, the tsunami warning sirens sounded every hour starting at 10 pm until 2:40 am. People in low-lying areas designated as evacuation zones were evacuated immediately for higher ground. Unable to access the evacuation zone maps with the hotel’s slow Internet connection, Mike asked the hotel staff. Thankfully, we were not in an evacuation area, plus we were on the fourth floor. Nonetheless, we were a half-mile from the airport which is directly on the coast.

All was probably fine, but, once again, it was unnerving. Just as I would fall asleep – with our clothes lying at the end of the bed – the siren would go off with a loud wail. The road in front of the hotel was closed, the Governor was on the TV from the emergency management center, and the spokesperson from the Pacific Tsunami Warning Center was giving updates every half-hour. Another sleepless night. At 3 am, we watched the camera for Waikiki Beach that was broadcast from the traffic management center. And, we saw… nothing. There was a bit of water rise but that’s all. There was still danger as the energy from the tsunami was not fully dissipated, but it wasn’t to be the big event as predicted. Thankfully. Barb’s house was in an evacuation area. We were not able to reach her; however, she told us about the previous tsunami-warning last year. She evacuated to high ground then, so we were confident she did the same this time. I talked to her later and she and her house were fine, although she had a stressful night.

The next morning, we flew to Los Angeles for the weekend with Mike’s daughter, Linnea. We had a wonderful time with her, got much needed sleep, ate great food, and – there were no earthquakes!

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Back in the USA

We’re back. I can no long ignore that fact. Technically, we were in the U.S. once we landed in Hawaii. But Hawaii has that delightful otherworldly feel. And so it was that landing in Los Angeles brought our return to my attention with brut force. Tears filled my eyes when we touched down. I’m not quite ready to be back.

Don’t get me wrong, seeing Linnea at the airport was a wonderful sight. Now we’re on our way to Texas to see my mother, George and friends. That’s all good. Plus, I can’t wait to see our dear friends in Annapolis. I missed the people who fill our life but I’m starting to mourn the end of this experience.

Mike and I both noticed little things, common before but now unusual. For example, we keep expecting to go through passport control. At the Los Angeles airport, it seemed odd to just walk off the plane into the city. Didn’t anyone want to check something – anything? Guess not. Linnea whisked us off to our hotel although “whisked” may be a slight overstatement as we traveled a ten-lane freeway for the first time in a year. All around were enormous cars and trucks. They seem gargantuan by the world’s standards. What is it that we have that others don’t have that we must carry around with us? Our car, which seemed large in Europe, now looks like a Mini Cooper, which, until now, seemed like a normal size.

I stood in line at a fast-food restaurant for the first time in months and fumbled with my U.S. bills. How odd that these bills felt strange. Plus, they are the same color and size – not a well-thought-out system. After staring at my money, I handed it to the impatient, fast-food worker who reluctantly answered my questions. I was one of those pesky customers. It’s not like there wasn’t bad service in France, but, honestly, it happened rarely. As my French teacher explained, sometimes it’s less a difference between the U.S. and France but more a difference between city and country living. I think, in many cases, she’s right. In Cotignac, we knew the butcher, the café owner, the family who ran the Spar market and our favorite market vendors. Fast food literally didn’t exist. I’m still adjusting to the timing of meals. Mike keeps reminding me that we no longer need to allot one and half or two hours to eat out for lunch. Right.

We stayed at a charming hotel in Santa Monica facing the ocean. It was beautiful. In the mornings, we looked out over the beach and ocean. I watched groups of twenty to thirty runners jogging on the path. In France, I was the lone runner. Here, I had company!

Our hotel, The Georgian, reminded us of our hotel facing the Mediterranean in Nice where we stayed on our last night in France. However, as we went from one fabulous restaurant to another over the weekend, I noticed that I felt distracted by conversations at adjacent tables. Everyone was speaking the same language and I understood what they said! That, too, was new and different. Then there was the constant presence of Blackberries. Everyone was spinning that little ball, punching on teeny keyboards, or talking (sometimes far too loudly) into little microphones dangling from their ear. It’s not like we didn’t see cell phones in France but it didn’t seem so pervasive. And you would never interrupt something as sacred as a meal with a Blackberry.

There are also more processed foods here. They were overseas as well but not as prevalent. I had to laugh at the “healthy” snack bar we were given on the plane. The wrapper, covered with photos of fruit, read, “Natural flavors with other natural flavors.” Mike finished reading the sports pages to discover that they were filled with basketball and baseball news. Soccer was relegated to a portion of the last page and rugby and cricket had been thoughtlessly omitted all together. Imagine!

I’ll adjust and it’ll seem normal again, although I’m not sure that I want some of this to be “normal.” We have flown over the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the coast of Australia and New Zealand, and the Pacific Ocean. Now, from the plane, I look below as Arizona and New Mexico pass by and Texas looms ahead. I know I’m home. I know I’ll be glad. I know I’ll love being with friends again. It will just take a little time to adjust to this familiar but now foreign country. For now, I look forward to iced tea, TexMex and barbeque. I just hope our passports work in Texas.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Boogie Back to Texas

We walked off the plane in Austin to feelings of surprise and familiarity. There, across from our arrival gate, was Salt Lick Barbecue. A neon sign read, “Asleep at the Wheel” (my favorite Texas music group) and the shop next door sold tee-shirts in UT orange that blared, “Don’t Mess with Texas” (for those who don’t know, this slogan was part of a litter campaign slogan started by the Texas Department of Transportation decades ago). All this made my head spin. Downstairs, waiting for our luggage, I felt like a stranger in my homeland. My yoga top and pants – my standard travel uniform – seemed out of place among the jeans and boots. Outside gigantor pick-up trucks claimed happy travelers.

Our own gigantor pick-up truck claimed us. George was waiting outside in his new Dodge Ram pick-up with the extended cab and full-sized bed. It was huge! We saw him approaching with my mother’s tiny head just visible above the dash. We stowed the luggage in the bed of the truck and scrambled into the cab. Off we went for the familiar drive home to Smithville. But first, I had a very important date.

We stopped for lunch in Bastrop at the Guadalajara restaurant. As we sat, chips and salsa appeared before us. Perfect. Next was a Texas-sized glass of iced tea. Perfect. A long-awaited lunch of TexMex followed. Even more perfect. Over the course of five days, my dear husband humored me. He ate tacos at four different Mexican restaurants, sometimes having Mexican food for both lunch and dinner. (He was lucky to be spared breakfast.) I had enchiladas, tacos, tamales, rice and refried beans (cooked in bacon fat). Yuuuuum! And, of course, we had barbecue beef and sausage, too, from Zimmerhanzel’s. Also, my mother hadn’t felt well and lost too much weight so I sacrificed myself by accompanying her to Dairy Queen where we split milkshakes or ice cream.

With all this food, I looked forward to running through town. Smithville is small (about 3,500), and it’s laid out in a grid, making it easy to run up and down the tree-shaded streets. I refreshed my memory of the houses, yards and, well, life. The wood-frame houses with big porches and rocking chairs are painted in sherbet colors or deep mossy greens. Many have tin roofs that make comforting sounds in the rain. Pecan trees were budding and red-bud trees were just showing their pink blooms. Bluebonnets were beginning to blanket the roadsides. As I ran, glimpses of life poked out. There were two little boys in their pajamas throwing paper airplanes in the yard. A woman’s voice behind a picket fence called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” Birds chirped and chortled outside our window at my mother’s house. Trying to be helpful, I decided it was time to remove the Christmas wreath from her front porch. Its red bows and festive bird nest seemed a bit out of place in March. But when I reached to grab it, a tiny, brown bird moved! The nest, it seems, was not part of the decoration but had been carefully built inside the wreath as a new home. The wreath will stay on the wall a little longer.

One of the best things about being home in Smithville is seeing friends and bumping into the people I know. It’s like – well – coming home. The day we arrived, I saw Lynn Doty at the grocery store. As usually happens to me, there is an instant recognition but delay while my brain catches up trying to come up with name, context and history. In Smithville, the context is always about where this person was in relation to me in school. In Lynn’s case, she was several years older and Lynn reminded me that she babysat me and my sister. I barely remember that but I do remember Lynn from when she was in high school and I was a grader schooler looking with envy at the grown-up high school kids. Some seemed aloof and untouchable, but not Lynn. I remember her as pretty, friendly and always smiling. She still is like that. While we were in Smithville, I ran into familiar faces at the post office, the liquor store, the barbecue place, the Mexican restaurant and shopping in Bastrop. The world keeps getting smaller but Smithville is smaller still.

A trip to Smithville wouldn’t be complete without visiting Bobbie and Robert. After our wonderful time together in France enjoying French food, Robert wanted to cook for us – Texas style. It was wonderful! As we admired their recently renovated home, we munched on two types of venison sausage, as well as javelina sausage from game shot by their son, Derek. There were kabobs with veggies, shrimp and venison (that Bobbie shot) – and those were only the appetizers! Dinner was homemade mashed potatoes, broccoli casserole, pinto beans, and salad. Then Robert grilled T-bone steaks and more venison sausage. All washed down with Bobbie’s famous margaritas, and finished off with her homemade lemon meringue pie. They outdid themselves!

It’s funny – being in Smithville again with lifelong friends after a year away brings up confused feelings. With no effort, I drop back into life here. It’s like there’s a slot in my soul where Texas just fits – or maybe, I just fit into Texas’s soul. Either way, there’s deep-seated comfort being in a place that is so familiar and with people who know me, know my family, and with whom I share a history. I open my mouth and am astonished to hear myself say, “How’r yu?” I can walk along any street and know something about someone who lives or lived there. Layers of memories flood back when I’m with my mother’s friends like Joyce, Jeannette or Silky. There’s never been a time that I didn’t know them. I become that little girl from Smithville again – for better or worse – in her jeans and tee-shirt. But at the same time, I’m that woman in the little black dress and pearls enjoying the opera at La Scala in Milan, Italy – and here’s the miracle, it doesn’t feel like pretending. Sometimes, I relish this diversity that lives inside me. Other times, it feels schizophrenic. Which life is the real one? Wouldn’t life be simpler to be one or the other? There’s never an answer. I’ll continue to live with one foot in boots and the other in high heels.

The main event was a joint eightieth birthday party for my mother and George. Mother and George have known each other every day for those eighty years. I love listening to their stories of growing up on farms during the Depression. After raising their separate families and suffering through the death of spouses, they have shared the last several years together. George is the best thing that’s happened to all of us, even though our families are very different. George’s family is large – both in number and in size. He had five kids, all of whom I’ve known forever, and his extended family seems to encompass most of Smithville. While they are many, we are few. And then there’s scale. All of George’s kids are tall – and that’s putting it mildly. I barely come up to Bubba, Andy or Stewart’s chest. I have to look up to talk to their arm pit! They may all be tall, but they and their families have swept my teeny, tiny mother into their family. George’s great grandchildren – Ryan and Will – run to her and crawl into her lap when she walks in the room.

The birthday party was held at George’s granddaughter’s house. Kristin, Allison and Katelyn made all the arrangements; Stewart, Shawn and friends cooked. This was another feast – fried fish, fried onion rings, fried fritters, fired poppers, fried mozzarella sticks, and fried potatoes (and there was grilled fish, salsa and pinto beans, too). We opted not to fry the birthday cake! Mother and George received lots of nice gifts but the best gift was to be surrounded by family and close friends who represent a lifetime of togetherness. When the time came to go home, we all laughed as Mother, Jeannette and George’s sister, Irene, grabbed their walking canes and were individually escorted to the car and carefully loaded inside. It was quite a procession! Smiling and laughing, Jeannette said, “That’s okay! Y’all be old someday, too.” I sure hope so.

By the way, as we were leaving for the birthday party, Bobbie called to say, “There’s a huge forest fire between Smithville and Bastrop, and it’s all your fault!” Our reputation for mayhem and destruction was following us!

All too quickly, George’s truck unloaded us and our mountain of luggage at the Austin airport. With reluctance and a few tears, I said good-bye to my mother and promised that I’d be back in a couple of months. In the words of Asleep at the Wheel, I’ll “Boogie back to Texas; Back to my hometown.” I can’t wait, y’all.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Gratitude

We’re home. Everyone asks, “How does it feel to be home?” Good question. How does it feel to be home? I’ve been trying to sort that out since we returned. In one moment it feels like Mike and I never left as we drop easily into old routines. The next minute finds me staring at a wall. What’s with that? While I puzzle over my feelings, there is one thing of which I’m sure. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. No matter which way I look or the direction my thoughts run, I come back to gratitude. The list could run to pages but here’s the Top Ten.

- We made it home safely. There were times when Mike and I weren’t sure as we left a trail of pestilence in our wake.

- We’re healthy. After a year without seeing doctors, our many checkups show that we’re in wonderful health. Most importantly, Mike’s cancer checkup was better than ever.

- Skeeter is alive and well. Our little, furry kitty almost didn’t make it. But with loving care from Wil and Siena, he is now curled up on the sofa doing what he does best – sleeping.

- Our home was beautifully kept. Thanks to the hard work by Denise and Ron, our home was spotless when we walked in the door. They made sure it was ready for our return.

- Sleeping in our very own bed. Enough said.

- My job is waiting for me. Due to the efforts of my boss, I am able to return to my job at U.S. DOT. And thanks to the hard work by the staff, my deputy and my bosses, the program has moved forward without a hitch.

- I’m running regularly again. After almost a year of mostly walking, I’m back running with my girlfriends – the RunHers.

- Spring is coming. It’s been a little chilly since we arrived, but spring is on its way. The yellow, spiky branches of forsythia are in bloom, perky daffodils look like little suns, and our purple plum tree is in full bloom perfuming the yard. Robins are hopping along the freshly tended flower beds.

- Our friends. Everyone was so wonderful. They have made us feel welcome and loved. I have more to say about that.

Here’s what our first few hours were like. I was a bundle of nerves as we walked off the plane. Mike sat by the window as we flew into Baltimore because I couldn’t bear to look. Still, from the plane, I could see the ruddy, red trees about to leaf out. After fourteen flights within six weeks, it was surreal to step into the BWI airport. Like many things to come, it was at once familiar and strange. And my tears started. Why the tears? I still don’t know – happy, sad.

Maggie and Enser and John and Raleigh were waiting for us. As we walked down the aisle of the plane, Mike said, “I see John waving!” Sure enough, there they were, waving and smiling – and John with his video camera. I collapsed into the arms of our friends and sobbed. Bless John – he sobbed with me.

They drove us home – in separate cars with our six bags and two backpacks. Maggie took the route through downtown Annapolis. It looked the same – as though we’d never left. Odd. How could it look the same? And that was only the beginning. Even after two weeks, I don’t know what I felt driving into the driveway of our house. Numb. We walked inside and there we were. Home, but not home. Everything was immaculate. I inched through the rooms with a deer-in-the headlights stare. Our understanding friends left us to our thoughts along with a bag of goodies – wine, Mike’s favorite sparkling water, cheeses, homemade gluten-free bread and more. How very thoughtful. They went to a restaurant to wait for us.

Mike was amazing. He was instantly a man on a mission. He raced through the rooms, already busy with hot water heaters and thermostats. He is great with caring for the house and he was back in his element. He hasn’t slowed down yet! I, on the other hand, was dazed and confused. Our home is filled with travel posters from our various trips – many of which were in France. There on our walls were images of Nice, Avignon and Antibes. I found myself standing in front of the poster of Antibes in the dining room. We bought it several years ago during a vacation in France…back when Antibes was a vacation destination. I saw it now with new eyes. Antibes is part of a different “home.” I know the streets, the restaurants where we ate with Linnea, Bobbie and Robert, the market day, and my favorite wine shop. The poster is the same but I’m different. I see with different eyes and feel new things in my heart.

Thankfully, my phone jangled and brought me back into this home. It was a text from Sharyn welcoming us home. The text was filled with “XOXOXOXO!” How great is that? And on the back porch was a festive pink flower with a welcome-home note from our neighbors down the street, the Slawsons. They would bring dinner for us the next night. So very thoughtful. As Mike and I stepped out of the house to walk up to Carroll’s Creek, a car pulled up. It was Sharyn, Teddy and Mindi! When they received my response text, Sharyn and Teddy jumped in the car, picked up Mindi and rushed over for, as they said, a drive-by hug. There were more tears. All of this was within the first four hours of landing. Since then, we had wonderful dinners with the Baldwins and the Scotts, and ran into friends and neighbors all over town. Yes… this is home.

Mike and I talk about the differences that stand out, like the impatient customers at Starbucks, horns honking at the precise minute that the light turns green, the wide roads, really big coffees, iced tea, garbage disposal, lightning-fast restaurant meals with no one lingering over coffee or tea. Portion sizes are bigger, too. Mike took home a doggie bag – something that is unknown in France. A request for le doggie bag would bring perplexed stares. We already left behind our habit of walking everywhere. Oh well.

My dazed feelings diminished over the last two weeks as a dozen boxes were unpacked. But there’s something still unsettled. I can’t seem to reconcile my feelings. As I drive around town running countless errands (how did we live in France without a full day of errands?), I am sometimes comatose. I drive along familiar streets and feel that I never left. France is a distant memory. Other times, it hits me. I imagine my morning walk down the hill into town, where Marie would be sweeping outside the brasserie. The young men running the Spar would be pushing their vegetable carts outside, Mr. and Mrs. Frank (of the hardware store) would be walking to work, and my little man would amble by with his cane and black cocker spaniel. I can smell the buttery croissants baking at the Pouillard Boulangerie. It’s enough to make me ache all over. I miss it so. Or maybe I miss “the me” I was there.

I try to focus on feeling grateful that France is a part of me now but the ache is still there. Without thinking, I find myself buying little things that seem to be a salve to my heart – a lavender-scented candle, French cheese or wine – or I listen to French music, just to hear the cadence of the language. In my first visit to our gourmet cheese shop, I nearly tackled the woman behind the counter in excitement. There – before my eyes – were some of our favorite French cheeses. Yippee! Without thinking, I snapped up little slivers of Comtè and Beaufort, the kind we bought at the Cotignac market. Proudly, I showed them to Mike. After an appropriately enthusiastic response, he said, “Shelley, did you notice how much these cost?” Well… no… in my excitement I hadn’t looked. One was $4.50 and the other was $9 – for a sliver – and they weren’t as good (shipping changes the flavors). The French cheeses will stay in France. Having learned my lesson about checking prices before purchasing, most of my favorite French wines will also stay in France. That’s how it should be, I suppose – at least for cheese and wine – but I don’t want it to be that way for me.

When we left France, I promised myself that I would do what was necessary to preserve my newfound balance. My ideas, in the quiet of our French lifestyle, were grandiose. I’d change my lifestyle. I’d prioritize my time for the important things. I’d exchange the Annapolis Shelley for the French Shelley. Guess what – it’s harder than I imagined. Still, my goal is to maintain the important new aspects of my life – learning French, writing, creativity and meditating. I have not been terribly successful at it so far. Sometimes, they become just new additions to the “to do” list. As my first day of work looms, I can’t imagine how I’ll do it while working full time. I guess that’s the crux of it for all of us. How do we make our way in life, raise families, make money, and still hold and develop the fullness of who we are? It sounds like a journey of growth and self-discovery. That’s what I said about moving to France. But now, thanks to France, I have a sense of who I can be. To quote Marcel Proust, “The real journey of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in seeing with new eyes.”

Some would say that our journey has ended. However, for me, the effects of the last journey linger and the new one can only be glimpsed. And that is the top thing I’m grateful for – the excitement of the journey continues.

About the Author

Shelley Row has been a successful transportation engineer for more than two decades. As a woman engineer in a male environment, she is no stranger to tackling challenges. Over her career, she rose through the ranks to become part of the Senior Executive Service for the U.S. Department of Transportation. She is an award-winning leader, sought-after speaker and author of numerous professional articles.

At the peak of her career, she took a year off and moved to France. From there, she and her husband lived and traveled fulfilling a long-held dream. Achieving their life goal required determination and courage to overcome obstacles like her husband’s bout with cancer.

Today, Shelley is a speaker, writer and coach. She works with organizations and individuals to assist them engineer their success. Shelley shares her expertise in achieving professional and personal goals and developing leadership skills through self-knowledge. Shelley also coaches on how to effectively communicate technical information to non-technical audiences. Shelley has designed and delivered presentations for audiences from twenty to 1000 across the U.S. and abroad. Her presentations and workshops are filled with practical tips and are peppered with stories from her travels.

Shelley is a native Texan but she now lives with her husband, Mike, in Annapolis, Maryland. She has run three marathons, served as president of her neighborhood association, and was asked by two mayors to provide expertise on transportation plans for the city. Shelley holds degrees in architecture, civil engineering and a masters degree in business administration.

Shelley owns and is the founder of Shelley Row and Associates, LLC. Find out more from her website (www.shelleyrow.com) or contact her directly at shelley@shelleyrow.com.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

Istanbul – A Different World

Unexpected Cairo

Bangkok Sights and Massages

Here a Monk, There a Monk

Magic Carpet Ride

Aladdin’s Garden

Rocking Along on the Orient Express

Singapore: Like Another Country

What a Difference a Day Makes

A “Wee” Mob of Sheep

Blue Skies – Undoubtedly!

Tramping Through Gales, Mountains and Mud

Rainbows and a Tsunami

Back in the USA

Boogie Back to Texas

Gratitude

About the Author

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

Istanbul – A Different World

Unexpected Cairo

Bangkok Sights and Massages

Here a Monk, There a Monk

Magic Carpet Ride

Aladdin’s Garden

Rocking Along on the Orient Express

Singapore: Like Another Country

What a Difference a Day Makes

A “Wee” Mob of Sheep

Blue Skies – Undoubtedly!

Tramping Through Gales, Mountains and Mud

Rainbows and a Tsunami

Back in the USA

Boogie Back to Texas

Gratitude

About the Author