Letter to friends October 1993
Ferried from Kusadasi, Turkey to Samos, Greece and then 2 days later to the island of Ikaria. What a wonderful place, under-touristed and overly affordable. The name comes from the myth of Ikarus and Daedalus who escaped the Labyrinth on the island of Crete by fashioning wings out of bird feathers, wax, and string. As the son Ikarus flew too near the sun, the wax melted and his wings fell apart. He fell to the sea and drowned and there the Island of Ikaria grew, so named in his memory. Well, more or less that’s the story.
While the decision making process of where to stay is always unnerving (I believe everyone that their place really is the best for me!) Ikaria was easier to manage. I was the only tourist and there were only two hawkers both selling the same pension. We bartered, as we’re supposed to (though I was clearly going with them) then walked in slightly uncomfortable silence to the lodge. I was totally alone there. Not another guest in sight and hardly an employee for that matter. At least it was affordable and the food actually was delicious. I felt like an impoverished queen.
On Monday I decided to tour the island local style and rented a moped. I have little to no…wait, actually I have NO experience driving a moped. But, what the hell, it’s what I’m here for! Not the best day for biking I suppose as the day was fairly gloomy and gusty. I drove hesitantly and haltingly up the curving mountain roads, stopping often to peer over the sheer and deadly cliffs. As I rose in altitude and trepidation, the wind screamed louder and my vision of being swept off the edge, plunging to my death became clearer.
Finally, safely, I reached the top and with a wee more confidence, sped down the other side until approaching rain convinced me to head back. Too late, I was caught in a downpour and pulled over to hide from the storm in a deserted, unfinished frame of house. Two hours later it was dark and the bike wouldn’t start. A kindly motorist pulled over to help get the engine going and left me to find my way in the night. It was really dark. And the headlights didn’t work. Then it rained again but this time with the added thrill of lightening. Terrified, I pulled over to wait out the 2nd storm in a small covered bus stop shelter. A local schoolboy thought it was pretty funny to see me cowering there and enjoyed the opportunity to practice English sarcasm by openly mocking me. He did show me how to restart the engine and after assurances I’d be off when the rain slowed, wished me luck and headed home for dinner.
The rain eased up after some time but then I couldn’t get the bike started again. I hunkered down for the night, too weary and annoyed to bother seeking help. Soon, I was very cold and hungry. My cache consisted of 2 granola bars, a roll of toilet paper, a lighter, cigarettes, a wooden flute, my journal and a camera with a dead battery. I burned toilet paper throughout the early night, making miniature bonfires to warm my finger tips. Snacks were quickly consumed and cigarettes slowly savored. It was too dark to write in the journal so I played the only two tunes on the flute I knew till even I was bored of my own sound then did my best to pretend I was there by choice.
Alas, not the most restful of evenings. But worst of all was the obvious embarrassment my little school-chum felt arriving at the bus stop with his friends the next morning to find me still there. Grumbling in Greek, he started the engine with, I think, no more than a flick of a finger and waved me away like a bothersome fly. Off I went in my wet, stinky, hungry shame. Luckily the weather was kinder on the return and the moped dealer returned my deposit though was furious at the state of the bike. There were a few missing parts and maybe a nick or two but could he not see the cartoonish humor of the bouncing front headlight dangling from a wire? I made reference to The Simpsons and he demanded 1/2 my deposit back. Looking forward to more culturally rewarding interactions. Love and all, T
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
heaven and humility
Journal Entry September 26, 1993
I am loving Turkey! Pillow soft delectable bread, endless cups of hot apple tea, unexpected squirts of lemon scented water on buses, happy tourists, friendly locals, and even the pit toilets (which turn out to be more hygienic than you’d think) are suitable. Despite the hordes of tourists, Pammukale was fascinating with a sprawling array of limestone laden thermal water pools cascading over calcium rich, cotton white terraces. Underground cities, enchanting valleys and implausible conical rock formations called Fairy Chimneys are among the captivating sights in the central Turkish region of Cappadocia.
Journal Entry September 27, 1993
Arrived in Seljuk (west Turkey near Ephesus). Like most of the tourist areas in Greece and Turkey, pension owners greet the buses and trains to hawk their lodgings with cheap prices, pretty pictures, and alluring promises. I went with the crowd because I was afraid. But the penetrating eyes of the old Turk whose broken English and traditional clothes could not compete with the modern looking, well spoken youth, will haunt me forever. Though perhaps a creation of my overly dramatic imagination, I felt the soul of a once proud man; strong, respected and confident now reduced to begging from tourists to come to the humble home he’d been forced to rent out to survive. I envisioned him returning to an eager family, insulted and humiliated with no paying guests and no expectation of any to come. As I felt this drama in my heart, I wanted to choose authenticity with time-honored meals and halting conversations about politics, women’s roles, and Turkish perceptions of American culture. I wanted to establish a lifelong bond; to be the single foreigner who changed this man’s perception of us all as greedy, selfish, self-important fools willing to forgo the liquor driven night life for a sincere, genuine experience. It is my greatest shame that I did not.
Journal Entry September 28, 1993
Very sick during the cold night on my rooftop accommodation. There’s some justice in that I suppose…
Must remember to buy sandpaper. According to Australian Jason, this trading tool will be as valuable as money in Africa.
Letter to family September 30, 1993
I’ve just recently arrived on the island of Samos, Greece from Kucadasi, Turkey. Enclosed you should find two undeveloped rolls of film and one developed set of pictures. Some of those will be sent to two Belgian boys I met in Cappadocia, Turkey. They’d been drugged and robbed in Istanbul, a common scam heavily warned about in all the youth hostels. Anyway, they didn’t have a camera and we spent four glorious days together. They were remarkably pleasant travel companions in spite of having little money and no change of clothes (not to mention soap or a toothbrush).
The developed roll of film is mostly from Cappadocia (in Central Turkey) and Istanbul. The lovely pictures with lots of trees and a river is a place called the Ilhara Canyon where I enjoyed a group day tour led by a French speaking guide. I don’t believe there’s another place in the world that so completely embodies my image of a storybook valley in a magical realm. I certainly hope not anyway. The area was once a religious sanctuary replete with barely visible churches and over 3,000 dwellings cleverly carved right into the rock walls in the cliffs. Some are still occupied. The habitable formations blend with the surroundings in muted natural hues of tawny yellow, meadow greens, dusty rose and lavender.
In one of the pictures (if you look closely) you’ll see a man in a tree knocking walnuts down with a stick. Another picture shows several women standing knee dip in the cool, running river gathering the walnuts. As we passed, they furiously pelted us with a few that we eagerly ate in thanks. The valley was also filled with blackberry bushes, which I love beyond comprehension and fell behind the group often to devour. This was the highlight of my travels so far.
Most people I’ve met in Turkey are so exceedingly generous it’s almost hard to accept their kindness. Perhaps my Belgian boys feel differently. For two days in Seljuk, Turkey I was miserably sick with a painful cough and runny nose. Eventually, I went to Kucadasi to catch the ferry back to Greece and roamed the harbor streets in ailing delirium. I can only presume how pitiable I must have looked as a restaurant owner invited me in to rest and gave me hot lemon tea. He fed me fish, salad, chicken soup and bread all accompanied by a never ending supply of that soothing liquid. The vendor next door joined the mercy date to sate my apparently needy body with pizza and yogurt. I was stuffed and they wouldn’t accept a dime, not even a lira. Either these people will become bitter or forever remain economically underdeveloped. I can’t know how they ever make a profit. Leaving Turkey is painful.
Meanwhile, I am being safe and usually tell people I’m meeting someone so they don’t think I’m alone and vulnerable. This came in particularly handy after an incident with a Turkish revolutionary and a gun. I was staying in a Reggae Bar Pension in Goreme, Turkey where several tourists had earlier spent hours debating Kurdish independence with a number of Turks who worked in the establishment. On the way from my room to the dining area for dinner, I came upon a group of four men sitting at the outdoor terrace, huddled over a bundle, barely visible in the dusk. Since one of them looked familiar from the afternoon’s gab session and I was actively trying to be less introverted, I slowed down to say hi. At the precise moment I realized these men were not looking for company, the bundle was unfurled to reveal a very large, dark gun. The man I thought I recognized picked it up to examine and noticed me staring in amazement.
“You didn’t see anything” he said, slowly placing the gun in his lap beneath the table top where he was sitting. “Of course not” I replied and rushed off to the bar. Later that night a motorcycle pulled up next to me on the faintly lit street as I sought some friends from the Ilhara Valley excursion. “You come for a ride” the gun toting familiar face said softly “I give you a tour”. “Oh, I can’t” I replied with hysterical desperation thinly veiled in my voice. “I’m going to meet some friends. They’re waiting for me over there. But thanks, really”. Off he roared never to be seen again during the remainder of my stay in the area (two more days). It was one of those moments of supreme clarity; I believed absolutely that if I got on that bike, I would never be seen again.
Anyway, I will rest here in Samos till I’m feeling better and move on to maybe Kos and Naxos before heading back to Athens where my friend Dan from New York will meet me for a couple weeks. That should be interesting. I suppose we’ll visit the romantic island of Santorini. I can’t decide whether I’m eager to see him or not. Daily influences affect my attitude regarding company. Strangers are fine but a compatriot from my real life, my other life, my anxiety ridden home life might be more of an intrusion than a welcome addition. Or maybe I’m just a nit-wit afraid of a little romance.
As far as familiarity, Israel was both comfortable and unnerving. I was there for the momentous peace signing between the PLO and Israel as well as the two big demonstrations before it; one in favor of the agreement and one against. It was, of course, the topic of all conversations and ambiguity permeated the atmosphere. I encountered bomb scares in bus stations and the proverbial gruff veneer of a people whose lives have been defined by a constant infiltration of their inherent sense of security. Israel is overwhelming as much as it is enchanting and leaving is mixed with guilt and relief.
In that state of perplexity I left Haifa, Israel for Rhodes, Greece. The ferry itself was fun and I began to relax again and feel the rhythm of movement through time and place. The ship docked for a day and a ½ in Limassol (yuck), Cypress then finally arrived to Rhodes at three in the morning September 17th or was it the 16th? Naturally everything was closed and I was extremely tired. After wandering around the lifeless town for a bit, I finally crashed on the ledge of the castle wall surrounding the old city. Camping was forbidden so I couldn’t open the tent. Fatigue made my rocky bed more appealing and I actually managed a short snooze till sunrise.
Rhodes was just the connection dock for the ferry to Turkey so I didn’t have more than half a day there. The entry into the natural bay inlet of Marmaris, Turkey bounded by gorgeous tall mountains was the beginning of my love affair with the country. I spent the first night in a youth hostel off the main port street bustling with bazaars and cafes and enjoyed a peaceful night of sleep in a heavenly soft bed. The next morning I had my first experience with Turkish hospitality in the manner of two cups of yummy rich coffee and pleasant conversation achieved primarily by pantomime. So, I guess I should say I think it was a pleasant conversation.
It has become apparent that the common American experience of learning few to no foreign languages is not as advantageous as we might think. The Belgian boys I mentioned earlier were the best travel companions for a number of reasons including their ability to speak French as well as English and could translate during the Ilhara Valley tour. I shared detergent and toothpaste and they taught me Flemish. I can say with nary an accent “I don’t speak Flemish”.
As I’m feeling crappy, I’ll rest in this nice soft bed in this nice walled room with a weatherproof roof, all by myself. More later and much love, T
I am loving Turkey! Pillow soft delectable bread, endless cups of hot apple tea, unexpected squirts of lemon scented water on buses, happy tourists, friendly locals, and even the pit toilets (which turn out to be more hygienic than you’d think) are suitable. Despite the hordes of tourists, Pammukale was fascinating with a sprawling array of limestone laden thermal water pools cascading over calcium rich, cotton white terraces. Underground cities, enchanting valleys and implausible conical rock formations called Fairy Chimneys are among the captivating sights in the central Turkish region of Cappadocia.
Journal Entry September 27, 1993
Arrived in Seljuk (west Turkey near Ephesus). Like most of the tourist areas in Greece and Turkey, pension owners greet the buses and trains to hawk their lodgings with cheap prices, pretty pictures, and alluring promises. I went with the crowd because I was afraid. But the penetrating eyes of the old Turk whose broken English and traditional clothes could not compete with the modern looking, well spoken youth, will haunt me forever. Though perhaps a creation of my overly dramatic imagination, I felt the soul of a once proud man; strong, respected and confident now reduced to begging from tourists to come to the humble home he’d been forced to rent out to survive. I envisioned him returning to an eager family, insulted and humiliated with no paying guests and no expectation of any to come. As I felt this drama in my heart, I wanted to choose authenticity with time-honored meals and halting conversations about politics, women’s roles, and Turkish perceptions of American culture. I wanted to establish a lifelong bond; to be the single foreigner who changed this man’s perception of us all as greedy, selfish, self-important fools willing to forgo the liquor driven night life for a sincere, genuine experience. It is my greatest shame that I did not.
Journal Entry September 28, 1993
Very sick during the cold night on my rooftop accommodation. There’s some justice in that I suppose…
Must remember to buy sandpaper. According to Australian Jason, this trading tool will be as valuable as money in Africa.
Letter to family September 30, 1993
I’ve just recently arrived on the island of Samos, Greece from Kucadasi, Turkey. Enclosed you should find two undeveloped rolls of film and one developed set of pictures. Some of those will be sent to two Belgian boys I met in Cappadocia, Turkey. They’d been drugged and robbed in Istanbul, a common scam heavily warned about in all the youth hostels. Anyway, they didn’t have a camera and we spent four glorious days together. They were remarkably pleasant travel companions in spite of having little money and no change of clothes (not to mention soap or a toothbrush).
The developed roll of film is mostly from Cappadocia (in Central Turkey) and Istanbul. The lovely pictures with lots of trees and a river is a place called the Ilhara Canyon where I enjoyed a group day tour led by a French speaking guide. I don’t believe there’s another place in the world that so completely embodies my image of a storybook valley in a magical realm. I certainly hope not anyway. The area was once a religious sanctuary replete with barely visible churches and over 3,000 dwellings cleverly carved right into the rock walls in the cliffs. Some are still occupied. The habitable formations blend with the surroundings in muted natural hues of tawny yellow, meadow greens, dusty rose and lavender.
In one of the pictures (if you look closely) you’ll see a man in a tree knocking walnuts down with a stick. Another picture shows several women standing knee dip in the cool, running river gathering the walnuts. As we passed, they furiously pelted us with a few that we eagerly ate in thanks. The valley was also filled with blackberry bushes, which I love beyond comprehension and fell behind the group often to devour. This was the highlight of my travels so far.
Most people I’ve met in Turkey are so exceedingly generous it’s almost hard to accept their kindness. Perhaps my Belgian boys feel differently. For two days in Seljuk, Turkey I was miserably sick with a painful cough and runny nose. Eventually, I went to Kucadasi to catch the ferry back to Greece and roamed the harbor streets in ailing delirium. I can only presume how pitiable I must have looked as a restaurant owner invited me in to rest and gave me hot lemon tea. He fed me fish, salad, chicken soup and bread all accompanied by a never ending supply of that soothing liquid. The vendor next door joined the mercy date to sate my apparently needy body with pizza and yogurt. I was stuffed and they wouldn’t accept a dime, not even a lira. Either these people will become bitter or forever remain economically underdeveloped. I can’t know how they ever make a profit. Leaving Turkey is painful.
Meanwhile, I am being safe and usually tell people I’m meeting someone so they don’t think I’m alone and vulnerable. This came in particularly handy after an incident with a Turkish revolutionary and a gun. I was staying in a Reggae Bar Pension in Goreme, Turkey where several tourists had earlier spent hours debating Kurdish independence with a number of Turks who worked in the establishment. On the way from my room to the dining area for dinner, I came upon a group of four men sitting at the outdoor terrace, huddled over a bundle, barely visible in the dusk. Since one of them looked familiar from the afternoon’s gab session and I was actively trying to be less introverted, I slowed down to say hi. At the precise moment I realized these men were not looking for company, the bundle was unfurled to reveal a very large, dark gun. The man I thought I recognized picked it up to examine and noticed me staring in amazement.
“You didn’t see anything” he said, slowly placing the gun in his lap beneath the table top where he was sitting. “Of course not” I replied and rushed off to the bar. Later that night a motorcycle pulled up next to me on the faintly lit street as I sought some friends from the Ilhara Valley excursion. “You come for a ride” the gun toting familiar face said softly “I give you a tour”. “Oh, I can’t” I replied with hysterical desperation thinly veiled in my voice. “I’m going to meet some friends. They’re waiting for me over there. But thanks, really”. Off he roared never to be seen again during the remainder of my stay in the area (two more days). It was one of those moments of supreme clarity; I believed absolutely that if I got on that bike, I would never be seen again.
Anyway, I will rest here in Samos till I’m feeling better and move on to maybe Kos and Naxos before heading back to Athens where my friend Dan from New York will meet me for a couple weeks. That should be interesting. I suppose we’ll visit the romantic island of Santorini. I can’t decide whether I’m eager to see him or not. Daily influences affect my attitude regarding company. Strangers are fine but a compatriot from my real life, my other life, my anxiety ridden home life might be more of an intrusion than a welcome addition. Or maybe I’m just a nit-wit afraid of a little romance.
As far as familiarity, Israel was both comfortable and unnerving. I was there for the momentous peace signing between the PLO and Israel as well as the two big demonstrations before it; one in favor of the agreement and one against. It was, of course, the topic of all conversations and ambiguity permeated the atmosphere. I encountered bomb scares in bus stations and the proverbial gruff veneer of a people whose lives have been defined by a constant infiltration of their inherent sense of security. Israel is overwhelming as much as it is enchanting and leaving is mixed with guilt and relief.
In that state of perplexity I left Haifa, Israel for Rhodes, Greece. The ferry itself was fun and I began to relax again and feel the rhythm of movement through time and place. The ship docked for a day and a ½ in Limassol (yuck), Cypress then finally arrived to Rhodes at three in the morning September 17th or was it the 16th? Naturally everything was closed and I was extremely tired. After wandering around the lifeless town for a bit, I finally crashed on the ledge of the castle wall surrounding the old city. Camping was forbidden so I couldn’t open the tent. Fatigue made my rocky bed more appealing and I actually managed a short snooze till sunrise.
Rhodes was just the connection dock for the ferry to Turkey so I didn’t have more than half a day there. The entry into the natural bay inlet of Marmaris, Turkey bounded by gorgeous tall mountains was the beginning of my love affair with the country. I spent the first night in a youth hostel off the main port street bustling with bazaars and cafes and enjoyed a peaceful night of sleep in a heavenly soft bed. The next morning I had my first experience with Turkish hospitality in the manner of two cups of yummy rich coffee and pleasant conversation achieved primarily by pantomime. So, I guess I should say I think it was a pleasant conversation.
It has become apparent that the common American experience of learning few to no foreign languages is not as advantageous as we might think. The Belgian boys I mentioned earlier were the best travel companions for a number of reasons including their ability to speak French as well as English and could translate during the Ilhara Valley tour. I shared detergent and toothpaste and they taught me Flemish. I can say with nary an accent “I don’t speak Flemish”.
As I’m feeling crappy, I’ll rest in this nice soft bed in this nice walled room with a weatherproof roof, all by myself. More later and much love, T
Friday, February 20, 2009
backing up a bit
Journal Entry August 11, 1993
Walk, walk, walk! I am mighty woman in these boots.
Thanks for the perfect gift Tia. First stop Turismo office, then bookstore for a phrasebook, discount towel shop (brother was right after all), supermarket for food supplies and the Museu de Setubal for edification.
Journal Entry August 14, 1993
Up early and out to bus to bus to airport for the five hour flight to Athens, Greece. Not nearly enough time for the valium to take effect and wear off again. Found the Pagration Youth Hostel at 75 Damareos st. Pangrati, Athens filled to capacity. Tomorrow I’ll learn Greek, tonight I sleep.
Journal Entry August 16, 1993
Bought lovely deck accommodations on the Sea Harmony 2 for my journey through the Greek islands to Israel. A popular spot that budget deck space!
Journal Entry August 19, 1993
Arrived early to the port of Haifa, Israel. Customs was hell but my limited Hebrew helped. Walked from the port to the Egged Bus station just in time to join the throngs being cleared from the lower platform in response to a bomb scare. The bored exasperation on the faces here suggest this is a fairly common occurrence. That is a familiarity I do not desire and can not comprehend. Took bus 184 to Kibbutz, my once upon a time home exactly ten years ago. Discovered my former (albeit brief) flame E. is now volunteer work manager, a curious position of power on kibbutz establishing what menial or meaningful task the visiting stranger will endure or enjoy. Made straight for the home of my adopted family and enjoyed a warm, happy welcome. Ahhh...Thank you.
Journal Entry August 20, 1993
Tonight I work Polygol (the dreaded open all night, dismally mind-numbing plastics factory). Clearly E. bears no hidden hostility!
Journal Entry August 23, 1993
Worked the dining room in the morning and Polygol (again) in the afternoon! Pleasant day but awful work in Polygol. It’s so tedious and sedative it can’t possibly be healthy.
Journal Entry August 26, 1993
Worked the Polygol morning shift. Bored to tears, sliced my finger badly. There may have been some daydreaming involved. Lots of blood and pain. Oddly enough, a welcome change of activity.
Letter to friends September, 1993
Greetings and Salutations, I’m on Kibbutz R H in Israel. I’d bought a round trip ferry ticket that sailed three nights from Athens, Greece to Haifa, Israel with stops in Patmos, Rhodes and Cypress. More on those stops later. The boat trip itself was visually rewarding with a nice view of the sea and sky. That is because my berth was the deck; spacious, airy and cheap. Sleeping bag was handy. Except when it rained, then sleeping bag was soggy.
I camped a bit in Portugal and especially enjoyed my spot in a city called Setubal. The site was on the beach with an incredible view of Castelo de Sao Filipe way up on the hill (a 17th century castle fortress complete with dungeons and dark corridors, now a modern hotel with a ritzy Pousada). When I trekked up to the castle, there was an equally fabulous view of a shiny new, tiny, blue tent way down on the beach below. For several hours, all felt right with the world as I gazed down on my temporary home from the heights of a time long past. I'm hoping for deafening revelations but find comfort in an insignificant incident and quiet observation.
Meeting other travelers at youth hostels, airports, campsites, train stations and boat docks is encouraging. I presume they have fewer expectations of me (my own are so high). My ignorance of a place makes me stupidly shy rather than gregariously curious and so I haven't figured out yet how to pull my head out of the guidebook and reach out to those whose homes I'm living in. Meanwhile, of the travelers, some become instant, easy companions and those moments are precious and fleeting, perfect in intoxicating brevity; like a happy little dream. Though I think I’m seeking solitude, I spend little time alone. And keen to hear my inner thoughts I usually hear my own voice, uncomfortable as I am with silence. Oye, it’s hard being a free spirit.
Be well, I love you.
Journal Entry September 10, 1993
Historic day! Israel and the PLO sign a Peace Agreement. Remarkable!
Journal Entry September 16, 1993
Ferry out of Israel onward.Deck sleep is not all that restful though I did enjoy the starry nights. While gathering supplies in Limassol, Cypress I read the amazing story of Ffyona Campbell, a twenty six year old Australian girl who walked the continent of Africa. That is inspiring! My trip feels sheltered and uneventful in comparison. I’d like to expect more of myself but footing the continent of Africa probably won’t happen for me. I think I’ll focus on not expecting zombies to eat my head during the night as an immediate goal instead.
Walk, walk, walk! I am mighty woman in these boots.
Thanks for the perfect gift Tia. First stop Turismo office, then bookstore for a phrasebook, discount towel shop (brother was right after all), supermarket for food supplies and the Museu de Setubal for edification.
Journal Entry August 14, 1993
Up early and out to bus to bus to airport for the five hour flight to Athens, Greece. Not nearly enough time for the valium to take effect and wear off again. Found the Pagration Youth Hostel at 75 Damareos st. Pangrati, Athens filled to capacity. Tomorrow I’ll learn Greek, tonight I sleep.
Journal Entry August 16, 1993
Bought lovely deck accommodations on the Sea Harmony 2 for my journey through the Greek islands to Israel. A popular spot that budget deck space!
Journal Entry August 19, 1993
Arrived early to the port of Haifa, Israel. Customs was hell but my limited Hebrew helped. Walked from the port to the Egged Bus station just in time to join the throngs being cleared from the lower platform in response to a bomb scare. The bored exasperation on the faces here suggest this is a fairly common occurrence. That is a familiarity I do not desire and can not comprehend. Took bus 184 to Kibbutz, my once upon a time home exactly ten years ago. Discovered my former (albeit brief) flame E. is now volunteer work manager, a curious position of power on kibbutz establishing what menial or meaningful task the visiting stranger will endure or enjoy. Made straight for the home of my adopted family and enjoyed a warm, happy welcome. Ahhh...Thank you.
Journal Entry August 20, 1993
Tonight I work Polygol (the dreaded open all night, dismally mind-numbing plastics factory). Clearly E. bears no hidden hostility!
Journal Entry August 23, 1993
Worked the dining room in the morning and Polygol (again) in the afternoon! Pleasant day but awful work in Polygol. It’s so tedious and sedative it can’t possibly be healthy.
Journal Entry August 26, 1993
Worked the Polygol morning shift. Bored to tears, sliced my finger badly. There may have been some daydreaming involved. Lots of blood and pain. Oddly enough, a welcome change of activity.
Letter to friends September, 1993
Greetings and Salutations, I’m on Kibbutz R H in Israel. I’d bought a round trip ferry ticket that sailed three nights from Athens, Greece to Haifa, Israel with stops in Patmos, Rhodes and Cypress. More on those stops later. The boat trip itself was visually rewarding with a nice view of the sea and sky. That is because my berth was the deck; spacious, airy and cheap. Sleeping bag was handy. Except when it rained, then sleeping bag was soggy.
I camped a bit in Portugal and especially enjoyed my spot in a city called Setubal. The site was on the beach with an incredible view of Castelo de Sao Filipe way up on the hill (a 17th century castle fortress complete with dungeons and dark corridors, now a modern hotel with a ritzy Pousada). When I trekked up to the castle, there was an equally fabulous view of a shiny new, tiny, blue tent way down on the beach below. For several hours, all felt right with the world as I gazed down on my temporary home from the heights of a time long past. I'm hoping for deafening revelations but find comfort in an insignificant incident and quiet observation.
Meeting other travelers at youth hostels, airports, campsites, train stations and boat docks is encouraging. I presume they have fewer expectations of me (my own are so high). My ignorance of a place makes me stupidly shy rather than gregariously curious and so I haven't figured out yet how to pull my head out of the guidebook and reach out to those whose homes I'm living in. Meanwhile, of the travelers, some become instant, easy companions and those moments are precious and fleeting, perfect in intoxicating brevity; like a happy little dream. Though I think I’m seeking solitude, I spend little time alone. And keen to hear my inner thoughts I usually hear my own voice, uncomfortable as I am with silence. Oye, it’s hard being a free spirit.
Be well, I love you.
Journal Entry September 10, 1993
Historic day! Israel and the PLO sign a Peace Agreement. Remarkable!
Journal Entry September 16, 1993
Ferry out of Israel onward.Deck sleep is not all that restful though I did enjoy the starry nights. While gathering supplies in Limassol, Cypress I read the amazing story of Ffyona Campbell, a twenty six year old Australian girl who walked the continent of Africa. That is inspiring! My trip feels sheltered and uneventful in comparison. I’d like to expect more of myself but footing the continent of Africa probably won’t happen for me. I think I’ll focus on not expecting zombies to eat my head during the night as an immediate goal instead.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
snippets of significance
Postcard to brother October 29, 1993
Greetings brother dear!
Israel was bizarre and delightful in that unique way Israel often is. There were the usual bomb scares in bus stops and chaos in Tel Aviv. The big excitement of course was the signing of the Peace Treaty between the P.L.O. and Israel. Hopeful caution would best describe the mood. Right, I’m out of room so hope you’re having fun slaving away behind a flat, barren desk. Ah, the choices we make….
Love and such.
Greetings brother dear!
Israel was bizarre and delightful in that unique way Israel often is. There were the usual bomb scares in bus stops and chaos in Tel Aviv. The big excitement of course was the signing of the Peace Treaty between the P.L.O. and Israel. Hopeful caution would best describe the mood. Right, I’m out of room so hope you’re having fun slaving away behind a flat, barren desk. Ah, the choices we make….
Love and such.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Gothibaroquessance
Journal Entry, Portugal August 8, 1993
Up around 9:00 a.m. and out to adventure. Took the ferry over to Barreiro then train to Evora, a UNESCO World Heritage site and once the second most important city in Portugal. It even had a Jewish quarter (all the really once the second most important cities did you know). Met a few German travelers on their way to the same campground and attempted communication with minimal but humorous success. At least everyone smokes here. It’s a great conversation starter: “excuse me, do you have a light? Yes, I speak English. Is that legal here? Where are you from?”
With less humiliation then expected, the tent went up. Hurray.
Tonight I camp.
Journal Entry August 9th, 1993
I did it!
I survived my first night alone in my terrifically tethered tent. I am amazing.
Hello charming Evora. Stowed my pack at the train station locker and trekked around town. Once ruled by Celts, Moors and Romans, Evora is an architectural adventure. It’s all really impressive if you know what the heck you’re looking at. But, I’m just not very clear how Gothic, Baroque, Romanesque and Renaissance architecture differs in construct and all I hear is Mel Brooks movie music when I close my eyes to imagine it. Nevertheless, followed recommendations to stop at the Chapel of Bones in the Igreja De Sao Francisco where 16th-century monks festooned the Capela with 5000 skeletons. Now that was COOL! The bones are methodically arranged, sometimes in arches and crosses covering nearly every inch of space on the walls and ceiling. Wandered dutifully among historic landmarks then train to Odemira. Arrived too late to camp or at least too tired to bother so paid the 2000 Escudos for a room.
Slept oddly well in resource remorse.
Journal Entry August 10, 1993
From Odemira to Zambujeira (what a rhythm); beach side town with beautiful views of the sea and sand but literally mobbed with people. Not yet ready for the masses, I grabbed the next bus out to Setubal (third largest port in Portugal). Arrived around 7:30 pm and walked a couple miles to the camp site. Not what I expected. It was packed with European vacationers in, what seemed to me, luxury tents and campers complete with televisions and antennas, outdoor lighting, floor mats, pets and even potted plants!
Set up my mini house on a mini hill and crosswords to sleep.
Up around 9:00 a.m. and out to adventure. Took the ferry over to Barreiro then train to Evora, a UNESCO World Heritage site and once the second most important city in Portugal. It even had a Jewish quarter (all the really once the second most important cities did you know). Met a few German travelers on their way to the same campground and attempted communication with minimal but humorous success. At least everyone smokes here. It’s a great conversation starter: “excuse me, do you have a light? Yes, I speak English. Is that legal here? Where are you from?”
With less humiliation then expected, the tent went up. Hurray.
Tonight I camp.
Journal Entry August 9th, 1993
I did it!
I survived my first night alone in my terrifically tethered tent. I am amazing.
Hello charming Evora. Stowed my pack at the train station locker and trekked around town. Once ruled by Celts, Moors and Romans, Evora is an architectural adventure. It’s all really impressive if you know what the heck you’re looking at. But, I’m just not very clear how Gothic, Baroque, Romanesque and Renaissance architecture differs in construct and all I hear is Mel Brooks movie music when I close my eyes to imagine it. Nevertheless, followed recommendations to stop at the Chapel of Bones in the Igreja De Sao Francisco where 16th-century monks festooned the Capela with 5000 skeletons. Now that was COOL! The bones are methodically arranged, sometimes in arches and crosses covering nearly every inch of space on the walls and ceiling. Wandered dutifully among historic landmarks then train to Odemira. Arrived too late to camp or at least too tired to bother so paid the 2000 Escudos for a room.
Slept oddly well in resource remorse.
Journal Entry August 10, 1993
From Odemira to Zambujeira (what a rhythm); beach side town with beautiful views of the sea and sand but literally mobbed with people. Not yet ready for the masses, I grabbed the next bus out to Setubal (third largest port in Portugal). Arrived around 7:30 pm and walked a couple miles to the camp site. Not what I expected. It was packed with European vacationers in, what seemed to me, luxury tents and campers complete with televisions and antennas, outdoor lighting, floor mats, pets and even potted plants!
Set up my mini house on a mini hill and crosswords to sleep.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Portugalala
Journal Entry August 5, 1993
Using the incomprehensible map from the airport information desk (accidentally took the Portuguese version) I wandered a wide, circular, mostly confused walk around the city center, bought a much needed “Let’s Go Portugal” in English and spent my first night at the Hotel V.I.P. The anticipation is delicious, adventure looms. But first, a little late night T.V.
Tomorrow I’ll camp.
Journal Entry August 6, 1993
Found the Pousada Da Juventude de Lisboa Youth Hostel at R. Andrade Corvo 46. Stashed my gear and headed down Ave de Libertad exploring squares, statues, shops, and narrow roads along the way. Visited the Castelo de Sao Jorge and the Cathedral of Lisbon. A radiantly sunny day and my superb walking boots are perfect for this leisure pleasure. Back at the hostel, I tried to sit quietly, observe interactions and pick up survival tips. But, the Youth Hostel night life is pretty active with backpackers from all over the world eager to establish contacts for future travels. Josie from Australia, Rob from South Africa, French Natalie, and Belgian Sophia eagerly dragged me (novice) to the nearest disco. We laughed, and drank and danced all night.
Tomorrow I’ll camp.
Journal Entry August 7, 1993
Josie led me to Sintra. We hiked up the long and windy lush mountain road to the Nacional Da Pena, the 14th century National Palace presented to Portugal’s Queen Maria II by her German husband in what the guidebooks called a romantic (I’d say loud) gesture. It is a massive mix of European and Middle Eastern design with an incredible view of the village below. Perched upon a mountain top, high above the sea, the Palace glowed as clouds swirled down in cinematic, misty visions. Back to the hostel where S. African Rob and German Martin argued through the night about racism and anti-semitism; whether apartheid was on par with nazism and who had it worse, the European Jews or black South Africans. I kept quiet.
Tomorrow I’ll camp.
Using the incomprehensible map from the airport information desk (accidentally took the Portuguese version) I wandered a wide, circular, mostly confused walk around the city center, bought a much needed “Let’s Go Portugal” in English and spent my first night at the Hotel V.I.P. The anticipation is delicious, adventure looms. But first, a little late night T.V.
Tomorrow I’ll camp.
Journal Entry August 6, 1993
Found the Pousada Da Juventude de Lisboa Youth Hostel at R. Andrade Corvo 46. Stashed my gear and headed down Ave de Libertad exploring squares, statues, shops, and narrow roads along the way. Visited the Castelo de Sao Jorge and the Cathedral of Lisbon. A radiantly sunny day and my superb walking boots are perfect for this leisure pleasure. Back at the hostel, I tried to sit quietly, observe interactions and pick up survival tips. But, the Youth Hostel night life is pretty active with backpackers from all over the world eager to establish contacts for future travels. Josie from Australia, Rob from South Africa, French Natalie, and Belgian Sophia eagerly dragged me (novice) to the nearest disco. We laughed, and drank and danced all night.
Tomorrow I’ll camp.
Journal Entry August 7, 1993
Josie led me to Sintra. We hiked up the long and windy lush mountain road to the Nacional Da Pena, the 14th century National Palace presented to Portugal’s Queen Maria II by her German husband in what the guidebooks called a romantic (I’d say loud) gesture. It is a massive mix of European and Middle Eastern design with an incredible view of the village below. Perched upon a mountain top, high above the sea, the Palace glowed as clouds swirled down in cinematic, misty visions. Back to the hostel where S. African Rob and German Martin argued through the night about racism and anti-semitism; whether apartheid was on par with nazism and who had it worse, the European Jews or black South Africans. I kept quiet.
Tomorrow I’ll camp.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The journey begins
April 1993
It’s true I took valium to fly, but few knew that. I only slept with the light on alone and managed uncomfortable silences by never shutting up. I suffered aviaphobia and believed firmly in ghosts. I was also afraid of heights, bars, spiders, crocodiles, zombies, drowning, strangers, a fiery death, and of course surviving a plane crash into the ocean only to be eaten by sharks. If self doubt and ceaseless anxiety weren't enough, there was always insomnia.
However, like some, I meandered my way through life looking convincingly confident and in control.
Then, a friend died in a plane crash and Hurricane Andrew blew into town. People I knew suffered tragic, horrendous circumstances. Unimaginable disasters changed my world and made it unrecognizable. Given my preconceived notions about the dangers that surrounded me, this just confirmed what I already suspected: the world wasn’t safe after all.
My approach to sleeplessness and grief was immersion in late night television. In that eerie place of night where sirens and shadows haunted my imagination, I found comfort in other people’s lives. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, my neuroses were powerless to foil dream journeys rich in intrigue, danger, passion, and self-confidence. So, perhaps no surprise that in the deepest hours of the morning, after endless hours watching Heat and Dust, The Gods Must be Crazy, Shirley Valentine and Out of Africa, my path became clear. I had to go. I would make my own destiny, conquer my fears, meet new people, have grand adventures and romance, conceive an illegitimate child and marry a Sultan, a Jewish Sultan!
I studied travel magazines and guidebooks, spoke with travel agents and airlines, and heroically booked and paid for a year long, around the world ticket. After many late night hours finally spent in more constructive endeavors, I created an expansive itinerary for the least amount of money (all that I had). Everything seemed reasonably affordable if I carried just a backpack, slept in a one person tent, used public transportation, and maintained a twenty dollar a day allowance. Budget backpacking - how exciting!
May 1993
Backpackers travel lightly and good shoes are important. My younger brother insisted that a good towel was imperative (this he’d learned from Douglas Adams’ Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series). For my mother it was clean underwear. My father felt I needed a knife (a gun was his first suggestion). I felt strongly that rope was invaluable. Other items that topped my list were batteries, matches, a lighter, soft toilet paper, my wooden flute from the Renaissance fair (on which I could play the first twelve notes of three songs) and a good leave-in hair conditioner (it really is a necessity!).
Family and friends requested I keep a journal but all those empty pages just added to my anxiety. Instead, I found an 8”x 6” Academic Assignment calendar book with 2 inch spaces per day for data entry. It also contained the following: international weights and measures, conversion tables, national holidays, religious festivals, country names and capitals, monetary units and national airlines, notable dates (such as Boxing Day and Yom Kippur) vintage wine charts for European and California wines, and a carbohydrate grams and calorie chart. What more could I possibly need?
Journal Entry July 31, 1993
I arrived in the evening at JFK airport where friends collected me and headed straight for Atlantic City. I promptly gambled away thirty-five precious dollars of my budgeted twenty dollar a day savings. This does not bode well.
Journal Entry August 4, 1993
I’m off now to Lisbon, Portugal (western most capital city on mainland Europe).
The journey begins. Wheeeeeeeeeee!
I may throw up.
It’s true I took valium to fly, but few knew that. I only slept with the light on alone and managed uncomfortable silences by never shutting up. I suffered aviaphobia and believed firmly in ghosts. I was also afraid of heights, bars, spiders, crocodiles, zombies, drowning, strangers, a fiery death, and of course surviving a plane crash into the ocean only to be eaten by sharks. If self doubt and ceaseless anxiety weren't enough, there was always insomnia.
However, like some, I meandered my way through life looking convincingly confident and in control.
Then, a friend died in a plane crash and Hurricane Andrew blew into town. People I knew suffered tragic, horrendous circumstances. Unimaginable disasters changed my world and made it unrecognizable. Given my preconceived notions about the dangers that surrounded me, this just confirmed what I already suspected: the world wasn’t safe after all.
My approach to sleeplessness and grief was immersion in late night television. In that eerie place of night where sirens and shadows haunted my imagination, I found comfort in other people’s lives. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, my neuroses were powerless to foil dream journeys rich in intrigue, danger, passion, and self-confidence. So, perhaps no surprise that in the deepest hours of the morning, after endless hours watching Heat and Dust, The Gods Must be Crazy, Shirley Valentine and Out of Africa, my path became clear. I had to go. I would make my own destiny, conquer my fears, meet new people, have grand adventures and romance, conceive an illegitimate child and marry a Sultan, a Jewish Sultan!
I studied travel magazines and guidebooks, spoke with travel agents and airlines, and heroically booked and paid for a year long, around the world ticket. After many late night hours finally spent in more constructive endeavors, I created an expansive itinerary for the least amount of money (all that I had). Everything seemed reasonably affordable if I carried just a backpack, slept in a one person tent, used public transportation, and maintained a twenty dollar a day allowance. Budget backpacking - how exciting!
May 1993
Backpackers travel lightly and good shoes are important. My younger brother insisted that a good towel was imperative (this he’d learned from Douglas Adams’ Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series). For my mother it was clean underwear. My father felt I needed a knife (a gun was his first suggestion). I felt strongly that rope was invaluable. Other items that topped my list were batteries, matches, a lighter, soft toilet paper, my wooden flute from the Renaissance fair (on which I could play the first twelve notes of three songs) and a good leave-in hair conditioner (it really is a necessity!).
Family and friends requested I keep a journal but all those empty pages just added to my anxiety. Instead, I found an 8”x 6” Academic Assignment calendar book with 2 inch spaces per day for data entry. It also contained the following: international weights and measures, conversion tables, national holidays, religious festivals, country names and capitals, monetary units and national airlines, notable dates (such as Boxing Day and Yom Kippur) vintage wine charts for European and California wines, and a carbohydrate grams and calorie chart. What more could I possibly need?
Journal Entry July 31, 1993
I arrived in the evening at JFK airport where friends collected me and headed straight for Atlantic City. I promptly gambled away thirty-five precious dollars of my budgeted twenty dollar a day savings. This does not bode well.
Journal Entry August 4, 1993
I’m off now to Lisbon, Portugal (western most capital city on mainland Europe).
The journey begins. Wheeeeeeeeeee!
I may throw up.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The conversation and God
When mom is a fly on the wall:
sib 1 "Is God in the clouds"?
sib 2 "all the clouds"?
sib 1 "no, that cloud there"
sib 2 "Does that mean kids in Florida don't have God because they can't see that cloud"?
sib 1 "No, God is everywhere"
sib 2 "In all the clouds"?
sib 1 "well...yes, in all the clouds"
sib 2 "What about when the cloud rains"
sib 1 "God is in the rain"
sib 2 "God IS the rain"
sib 1 "No, God is IN the rain because God is everywhere so God can't just BE the rain"
sib 2 "If God is everywhere, then God is in everything and everything is God so God IS the rain"
sib 1 "Ok, God IS the rain and IN the rain"
sib 2 "If God is in everything then he is in us"
sib 1 "Is God a he"?
sib 2 "no, but God isn't a she either"
sib 1 "he can't be a her if he's in boys"
sib 2 "he can't be a he if he's in girls"
sib 1 "then God isn't he or her"
sib 2 "can God be both?"
sib 1 "Yeah, yeah, God is both but we can't see God"
sib 2 "but God is in all of us so we are God and when we talk we're God's voice"
sib 1 "hmmm....well, yeah...so we have to do lots of mitzvahs because that's what God wants"
sib 2 "how do you know?"
sib 1 "my teacher told me".
sib 1 "Is God in the clouds"?
sib 2 "all the clouds"?
sib 1 "no, that cloud there"
sib 2 "Does that mean kids in Florida don't have God because they can't see that cloud"?
sib 1 "No, God is everywhere"
sib 2 "In all the clouds"?
sib 1 "well...yes, in all the clouds"
sib 2 "What about when the cloud rains"
sib 1 "God is in the rain"
sib 2 "God IS the rain"
sib 1 "No, God is IN the rain because God is everywhere so God can't just BE the rain"
sib 2 "If God is everywhere, then God is in everything and everything is God so God IS the rain"
sib 1 "Ok, God IS the rain and IN the rain"
sib 2 "If God is in everything then he is in us"
sib 1 "Is God a he"?
sib 2 "no, but God isn't a she either"
sib 1 "he can't be a her if he's in boys"
sib 2 "he can't be a he if he's in girls"
sib 1 "then God isn't he or her"
sib 2 "can God be both?"
sib 1 "Yeah, yeah, God is both but we can't see God"
sib 2 "but God is in all of us so we are God and when we talk we're God's voice"
sib 1 "hmmm....well, yeah...so we have to do lots of mitzvahs because that's what God wants"
sib 2 "how do you know?"
sib 1 "my teacher told me".
Monday, January 19, 2009
Not exactly the beginning but nevertheless
One winter:
The visual input from my daily experience was fairly reliable and almost always predictable. I am on earth, it is snowing, there is ice, the car is moving, the sky is up. So, for several seconds I politely pondered the horizontal aspect of the distant grove of Aspen trees before realizing what a unique perspective this was. Not one to waste an existential moment, I asked myself how did I get here and how do I like it so far”?
The visual input from my daily experience was fairly reliable and almost always predictable. I am on earth, it is snowing, there is ice, the car is moving, the sky is up. So, for several seconds I politely pondered the horizontal aspect of the distant grove of Aspen trees before realizing what a unique perspective this was. Not one to waste an existential moment, I asked myself how did I get here and how do I like it so far”?
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